Chapter XXI: Introduction: Bravery (15)

“I discovered soon that this precaution was not necessary, for the Hun kept spinning down to the ground. He landed with a crash.

“A few minutes later I landed two fields away from the wreck and ran over to see the kill I had made.

“I had hit the Hun about fifty times and had nearly cut off both his legs at the hips.

“There was nothing left in the line of souvenirs, as the Tommies had gotten to the wreck before I did. I carried off a piece of his props and had a stick made of it. That night we had a celebration over the first Hun I had brought down behind our own line since I became a pilot.

“Next day I went out to get another Hun to add to my collection. I was in the act of crossing the Hun lines when, bang! to the right of me came a thud, and my engine stopped. Revenge, I thought. I volplaned to the ground, made a good landing in a field just behind our lines, and, ’phoning up the squad, I then had another engine brought out to replace mine.

AVIATOR PRICE DOWNS THREE PLANES

“On my way to the squadron I witnessed one of the greatest air fights I have ever seen. It took place above the cemetery of P——.

“Three Huns were aloft behind their own lines, and back of them was one of our patrolling scouts.

“The Hun does not believe in coming over our lines if he can possibly help it, and generally he will maneuver so that any engagement will have to be waged over German territory.

“One of our men named Price, who was coming in from patrol, was pilot of the scout, which was flying at the same height as the Hun aircraft, about 12,000 feet. Price was well behind the Hun lines when they saw him, and all three of them made for him at once. I happened to be at an artillery observation post, which I had to pass on my way home, and so was able to get a good view of the combat.

“The foremost of the Huns made straight for Price, and for a minute it looked as though he intended ramming him. The combatants separated again and began to fire upon one another, as the tut-tut-tut of the machine guns told me. Of a sudden one Hun volplaned, while another made straight for Price. I wondered what Price would do, but saw the next moment that he had ‘zoomed’ over the second Hun machine, which just then swooped down upon him. While Price was ‘zooming’ I noticed that the first Hun was falling to the ground, having either been disabled or killed by Price’s machine gun.

“Yet within a few moments the second Hun also crashed to earth, and the third was now making for home as fast as his motor would carry him; but Price chased and quickly caught up with him. It was an exciting race. Price was working his machine gun for all the thing was worth, and before long the third Hun went down.

“Just five minutes had been required for the fight. When I met Price later I congratulated him. I remember wishing him all the good luck a fellow could have. But that did not help, for within a month he, too, came down in a heap.”

Roberts won his lieutenant’s commission and achieved the distinction of Ace before he returned home. He was four times wounded in mid-air.

In April, 1918, the American forces just going into active sectors had three squadrons, two for observation and one for pursuit. Their strength totaled 35 planes. In May, 1918, the squadrons were increased to nine. The most rapid growth occurred after July, 1918, when American De Haviland planes were becoming available in quantity for observation and day bombing service, and by November, 1918, the number of squadrons increased to 45, with a total of 740 planes in action.

“THE RED BATTLE FLYER”

Von Richthofen’s Brilliant Career in the Air an Offset to His Failure as a Uhlan

The cheery egotism of a man fully assured within himself that he merits his own good opinion is the dominant note of Captain Baron Manfred Freiherr von Richthofen’s account of his experiences as a flyer. It is not an offensive egotism; you do not resent it; though you may smile, wondering that a spirit so entirely valiant could so lock arms with that quality of juvenile vanity commonly described as “cockiness.” Von Richthofen was a remarkable fellow, the most debonair as well as the most redoubtable of the German aviators and really entitled to exemption from the opprobrious terms of “Hun” and “Boche.” Though a resolute foe he did not forget that he was a gentleman, an aristocrat, and he played the game on that level. He was easily the foremost of aviators—as far as official recognition can determine priority—at the time of his death, April 21, 1918. He then had a record of 80 downs—70 aeroplanes and 10 observation balloons. His nearest rival at that time was Major Raymond Collishaw, the British Ace, with a record of 77.

Von Richthofen was shot down on the Amiens front, over the Somme, April 21st, and his machine, a new and elaborate triplane of the Fokker type, recently presented to him—its speed was 140 miles an hour and it could climb 15,000 feet in 17 minutes—fell in the British lines. The esteem in which he was held by those who had so often sought to shoot him down was attested in his burial with full military honors and the tributes of genuine admiration heaped on his grave. In the fifteen months of his active flying he became the favorite of the Kaiser and the idol of the Germany Army. Some one has said, perhaps not too extravagantly, that the fall of Amiens, then besieged, would not have compensated Germany for the loss she sustained in the death of the greatest and most beloved of her heroes of the air.

Von Richthofen belonged to the country gentry, of noble family. He entered the Cadet Corps when he was eleven years old. In 1911 he entered the Army. At the outbreak of the war he was a lieutenant of Uhlans. He went to the Western front with his regiment. His first experience with whistling bullets was when he and his company of Uhlans, out to ascertain the strength of the enemy in the forest near Virton, were caught in a trap. They fled in wild disorder, not without casualties. He was in the trenches before Verdun and found it “boresome.” When off duty he sought amusement shooting game in the forest of La Chaussée. So passed several months. Then one day he rebelled against inactivity. It was not the thing for which he went to war. He made his plea to the higher powers. With much grumbling his prayer was granted. He joined the Flying Service in May, 1915. He made his first flight the next day as an observer. Of that experience he wrote in his book:

HIS FIRST FLIGHT

“The draft from the propeller was a beastly nuisance. I found it quite impossible to make myself understood by the pilot. Everything was carried away by the wind. If I took up a piece of paper it disappeared. My safety helmet slid off. My muffler dropped off. My jacket was not sufficiently buttoned. In short, I felt very uncomfortable. Before I knew what was happening, the pilot went ahead at full speed and the machine started rolling. We went faster and faster. I clutched the sides of the car. Suddenly, the shaking was over, the machine was in the air and the earth dropped away from under me.

“I had been told the name of the place to which we were to fly. I was to direct my pilot. At first we flew right ahead, then my pilot turned to the right, then to the left, but I had lost all sense of direction above our own aerodrome. I had not the slightest notion where I was!”

He continued—with steadily increasing knowledge of aircraft—to serve as an observer until October 10, 1915, when, having passed his examination and been accepted as a pilot, he had the ecstasy of his first solo-flight. In his book (_The Red Battle Flyer_, translated by T. Ellis Barker, published by Robert M. McBride & Company), he describes that flight:

“I started the machine. The aeroplane went at the prescribed speed and I could not help noticing that I was actually flying. After all I did not feel timorous but rather elated. I did not care for anything. I should not have been frightened no matter what happened. With contempt of death I made a large curve to the left, stopped the machine near a tree, exactly where I had been ordered to, and looked forward to see what would happen. Now came the most difficult thing, the landing. I remembered exactly what movements I had to make. I acted mechanically and the machine moved quite differently from what I had expected. I lost my balance, made some wrong movements, stood on my head and I succeeded in converting my aeroplane into a battered school ’bus. I was very sad, looked at the damage which I had done to the machine, which after all was not very great, and had to suffer from other people’s jokes.

“Two days later I went with passion at the flying and suddenly I could handle the apparatus.”

THE BOELCKE CIRCUS

It was not, however, until September 17, 1915, when he was a member of the newly organized Boelcke flying squadron that came to be known as the Circus, that he scored his “first English victim.” It was “a gloriously fine day, and therefore only to be expected that the English would be very active,” so under the leadership of Boelcke the squadron took the air. As they approached the front, Boelcke discovered an Allied squadron going in the direction of Cambrai. There were seven of the Allies to five of the Germans. They came within range. Here is a sample of that “cockiness” with which von Richthofen described his various and manifold encounters:

“The Englishman nearest to me was traveling in a large boat painted with dark colors. I did not reflect very long but took my aim and shot. He also fired and so did I, and both of us missed our aim. A struggle began and the great point for me was to get to the rear of the fellow because I could only shoot forward with my gun. He was differently placed, for his machine gun was movable. It could fire in all directions.

“Apparently he was no beginner, for he knew exactly that his last hour had arrived at the moment when I get at the back of him. At that time I had not yet the conviction ‘He must fall!’ which I have now on such occasions, but, on the contrary, I was curious to see whether he would fall. There is a great difference between the two feelings. When one has shot down one’s first, second or third opponent, then one begins to find out how the trick is done.

“My Englishman twisted and turned, going criss-cross. I did not think for a moment that the hostile squadron contained other Englishmen who conceivably might come to the aid of their comrade. I was animated by a single thought: ‘The man in front of me must come down, whatever happens.’ At last a favorable moment arrived. My opponent had apparently lost sight of me. Instead of twisting and turning he flew straight along. In a fraction of a second I was at his back with my excellent machine. I gave a short series of shots with my machine gun. I had gone so close that I was afraid I might dash into the Englishman. Suddenly, I nearly yelled with joy, for the propeller of the enemy machine had stopped turning. I had shot his engine to pieces; the enemy was compelled to land, for it was impossible for him to reach his own lines. The English machine was curiously swinging to and fro. Probably something had happened to the pilot. The observer was no longer visible. His machine gun was apparently deserted. Obviously I had hit the observer and he had fallen from his seat.

HIS FIRST VICTIMS

“The Englishman landed close to the flying ground of one of our squadrons. I was so excited that I landed also and my eagerness was so great that I nearly smashed up my machine. The English flying machine and my own stood close together. I rushed to the English machine and saw that a lot of soldiers were running towards my enemy. When I arrived I discovered that my assumption had been correct. I had shot the engine to pieces and both the pilot and observer were severely wounded. The observer died at once and the pilot while being transported to the nearest dressing station. I honored the fallen enemy by placing a stone on his beautiful grave.

Painting by Joseph Cummings Chase.

Sergeant Herman Korth

_32nd Division, 121st Machine Gun Battalion, Company D_

Under heavy fire from machine guns and artillery. Sergeant Korth crawled to the crest of a hill, near Juvigny, north of Soissons, August 31, 1918, setting stakes to line the American artillery on enemy machine-gun emplacements. He remained in observation in this perilous position for half an hour, signaling back when American troops were endangered by the fire of the batteries.]

“When I came home Boelcke and my other comrades were already at breakfast. They were surprised that I had not turned up. I reported proudly that I had shot down an Englishman. All were full of joy, for I was not the only victor. As usual, Boelcke had shot down an opponent for breakfast and every one of the other men also had downed an enemy for the first time.

“I would mention that since that time no English squadron ventured as far as Cambrai as long as Boelcke’s squadron was there.”

“Still,” said von Richthofen, in his airily patronizing way, “the Englishman is a smart fellow. That we must allow. Sometimes the English came down to the very low altitude and visited Boelcke in his quarters upon which they threw bombs. They absolutely challenged us to battle and never refused fighting.”

BOELCKE’S FINISH

But October 28, 1916 (when the squadron had 40 downs to its credit), Boelcke, von Richthofen and four others flying in formation saw at a distance “two impertinent Englishmen in the air who actually seemed to be enjoying the terrible weather.” The struggle began. “Boelcke tackled one, I the other. I had to let go because one of the German machines got in my way.” All that seems to have interested him further in the fight was the fact that Boelcke’s machine suffered a sort of collision with one of the other German machines, a part of his planes was broken off, his machine was no longer steerable and it fell. Boelcke was killed.

Some little time after he had brought down his sixteenth victim von Richthofen was given the _Ordre pour le Mérite_ and appointed commander of the Eleventh Chasing Squadron. It was then that the idea seized him to paint his machine a flaming red, which became afterward the personal identification of the Captain, who became famous through the adventures and success he had with his machine—_Le Petit Rouge_, as “everyone got to know my red bird.”

French, English, and American airmen who gained wisdom at the front may find an amusing flavor in a sage remark of von Richthofen about the time he became captain of the squadron. “In my opinion, the aggressive spirit is everything and that spirit is very strong in us Germans. Hence we shall always retain the domination of the air.” Events did not altogether sustain the boast.

But it is not necessary to object strongly to the complacency of a man who fought with undiminished valor throughout his flying career, accounted for 80 enemy machines, and died at last, shot down over the enemy’s lines. If he was self-confident to the degree of vanity, his audacity was truly admirable. He lacked just ten days of attaining his twenty-sixth birthday when he fell. The English grudged him no honors.

THE WORLD’S GREATEST LAUNCHING

American shipbuilders established a world’s record on July 4, 1918, by launching 92 ships of 450,000 deadweight tonnage—one third more than the tonnage produced during the fiscal year, 1915-16. The previous year’s record of total tonnage was 398,000 tons in 1901. American Labor’s answer to Germany’s unrestricted warfare was the launching on one day of 54,000 tons more shipping than had been constructed in any previous year.

_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._

Lieutenant Pat O’Brien

An American youth who, in the early part of the war, joined the Canadian Royal Flying Corps. Shot down from a height of 8,000 feet, he was captured by the Germans. Afterwards making his escape, he passed through 72 days of harrowing ordeal leading finally to safety.]

PAT O’BRIEN OUTWITS THE HUN

The Remarkable Story of an American Boy in a Seventy-two Days’ Ordeal of Escape from the Germans

The publishers of his book, _Outwitting the Hun_, were not extravagant when they advertised Lieut. Pat O’Brien’s story as “one of the strangest and most thrilling since the outbreak of the war.” No one else had quite such an experience, and that he lived to tell of it was due to indomitable Irish pluck rather than to any favor of circumstances. You get the flavor of the capital book he wrote and the tone of the man from the name he transferred to the title page. There is no Lieut. Patricius, or even Lieut. Patrick O’Brien; but straightforward character-delivery in plain “Lieut. Pat. O’Brien.” and you get from it an odd sort of subconscious assurance that the very extraordinary story he tells of his escape from the Germans is every whit true. Yet, between his being shot down from a height of 8,000 feet and the last item of his seventy-two days of anguish and adventure in escaping the Huns there is many a challenge to credulity. There can be but little of his story reproduced here.

AS A FIGHTING SCOUT

Pat started flying, in Chicago, in 1912. “I was then eighteen years old,” he says, “but I had had a hankering for the air ever since I can remember....

“In the early part of 1916, when trouble was brewing in Mexico, I joined the American Flying Corps. I was sent to San Diego, where the Army flying school is located, and spent about eight months there, but as I was anxious to get into active service and there didn’t seem much chance of America ever getting into the war, I resigned and, crossing over to Canada, joined the Royal Flying Corps at Victoria, B. C.

“I was sent to Camp Borden, Toronto, first to receive instruction and later to instruct. While a cadet I made the first loop ever made by a cadet in Canada, and after I had performed the stunt I half expected to be kicked out of the service for it. Apparently, however, they considered the source and let it go at that. Later on I had the satisfaction of introducing the loop as part of the regular course of instruction for cadets in the R. F. C., and I want to say right here that Camp Borden has turned out some of the best fliers that have ever gone to France.

“In May, 1917, I and seventeen other Canadian fliers left for England on the _Megantic_, where we were to qualify for service in France....

“Within a few weeks after our arrival in England all of us had won our ‘wings’—the insignia worn on the left breast by every pilot on the western front.

“We were all sent to a place in France known as the Pool Pilots’ Mess. Here men gather from all the training squadrons in Canada and England and await assignments to the particular squadron of which they are to become members.”

He was soon “called” to a squadron stationed about eighteen miles back of the Ypres Line. There were eighteen pilots. The routine was two flights a day, each of two hours’ duration. He presently found that his squadron “was some hot squadron,” the fliers being assigned to special-duty work, “such as shooting up trenches at a height of fifty feet from the ground.”

CAPTURED BY THE HUN

Pat holds August 17, 1917, as a day he will “not easily forget.” He has fairly good reason for thinking the day a fixity in his memory, for, as he says:

“I killed two Huns in a double-seated machine in the morning, another in the evening, and then I was captured myself. I may have spent more eventful days in my life, but I can’t recall any just now.”

Considering the fact that he had been shot down from a height of 8,000 feet the miracle is that he became “a prisoner of war.” His fellows of the squadron who had seen the fight took it as a matter of fact that he had been killed outright. One realizes that a chap who could come through that sort of juggle with death was quite equal to his later adventures.

Convalescent, after some time spent in a hospital, O’Brien was sent to the officers’ prison camp at Courtrai, preparatory to transfer to a prison in the interior of Germany. He remained there nearly three weeks, to which he devotes an interesting chapter. He had many fellow prisoners, and, of course, one frequent topic of conversation was “what were the chances of escape?” There were many ingenious plans but O’Brien did not remain to attempt to carry out any of them. September 9th he and six other officers were marked off for transfer into Germany, and later were marched to the train that was to convey them. They were objects of derision to the crowd gathered at the station. There were twelve coaches, eleven of them containing troops going home on leave, the twelfth, fourth class, filthy, being reserved for the prisoners, eight of them under four guards.

He proposed to the other officers that if the eight of them would at a given signal jump on the four guards and overpower them, they could, when the train slowed down on approaching a village, leap to the ground and take to flight. But the others turned the plan down on the ground that if they did get free they would be recaptured speedily. O’Brien therefore resolved to make a try on his own account by a leap from a window when the train was in motion. After long self-debate, as they were getting nearer and nearer to their destination he successfully put his resolution into effect.

MAKING HIS ESCAPE

Then began one of the most remarkable series of perils, hardships, struggles and curious adventures that fell to the lot of any individual in the course of the war. With the aid of a map, which he had stolen from a guard’s room at Courtrai, he set out with the distant Holland frontier as his objective. It is a narrative that loses by condensation, for there is hardly an adventure or experience that has not novel interest as O’Brien relates it. To avoid detection and capture he had to secrete himself by day, all his travel being by night. His guide was the Pole Star. “But for it I wouldn’t be here to-day.”

About the ninth night he crossed into Luxemburg, but though the principality was officially neutral it offered no safer haven than Belgium would. Discovery would have been followed by the same consequences as capture in Germany proper. In the nine nights he had traveled perhaps seventy-five miles.

He was nine or ten days getting across Luxemburg, a task that could have been accomplished in two days of normal travel, but swollen feet and knees, aching body and a hunger-griping stomach together with the necessity of stealth to avoid discovery, German guards, workmen and others often having to be widely circled are not conducive to speed. About the eighteenth day after his leap from the train he entered Belgium, and some days later brought up at the Meuse between Namur and Huy, where it was at least half a mile wide. There he came nearest of all to giving up the struggle. But he must get across. There was nothing to do but swim.

There were adventures in Belgium, some amusing, some harrowing, all of them perilous to an English officer escaped from captivity. When, after narrow escapes not a few he reached the Holland frontier, one of the greatest of his herculean tasks presented itself. He had to pass the triple barbed-wire barrier with its electrically charged nine-foot-high fence. With hands and sticks he resolutely set to work to dig under the deadly barrier—hard work and most dangerous. He was forced to stop from time to time to escape detection. At last, on November 19, 1917, the hole was finished. He writhed through and into Holland territory.

A few more difficulties to surmount, then on board train for Rotterdam, a run to London, a presentation to the King, some banquet pleasures in London and, crowning all, home again, “in the little town of Momence, Illinois, on the Kankakee River.”

A TRACK AND TRACKLESS WINNER

Eddie Rickenbacker, Who Won Popularity as an Auto Racer, Snatched Lasting Glory from the Void.

The spirit of adventure had won for Eddie Rickenbacker a wide popularity long before he began plucking laurels from the skies. His performances as an automobile racer had made him the idol of lovers of that perilous sport and taught him the cool judgment and generalship in dealing with velocities which served him to such good purpose when he exchanged automobiles for aeroplanes. When America entered the war Rickenbacker was in England on automobile business, but hastened back to America with the intention of organizing a flying squadron of motor drivers for service in France. His plan was not possible at the time from the government point of view, and Rickenbacker accepted the position of chauffeur to General Pershing and sailed with that officer. It was not long after, however, that the loftier ambition found its channel and at Villeneuve, March 4, 1918, he became a member of Squadron 94, the so-called “Hat-in-the-Ring” squadron of which Major Lufbery was the commander. Lufbery was then America’s top ace, his service of more than three years in the French Air Service and with the Lafayette Escadrille having netted him seventeen Huns, omitting those not officially recorded. A little over two months later, May 19, 1918, Major Lufbery was killed by a leap from his flaming machine. The title of American Ace of Aces passed from Lufbery to Lieutenant Paul Baer, who, with a record of nine victories, had not gotten over his repugnance to shooting down an enemy aviator. Two days later Baer was shot down and captured. Lieutenant Frank Baylies succeeded to the title. He was killed June 12th with 13 victories to his credit. Then David Putnam, with 12 victories, took the lead. He was shot down in flames. Rickenbacker, who in the period between March and July had accounted for seven enemy machines, next was ace of aces for a brief time, but Frank Luke took the title from him in a single day’s stunning exploit, as told in the special story of that amazing young man. In due course, however, the Rickenbacker record grew becomingly and in addition to attaining the highest score on downs he conspicuously distinguished himself in the service as Squadron Commander. Some of his eulogists do not hesitate to give him preëminence as a commander because of the judgment he exercised in protecting himself and guarding the safety of less competent pilots.

Not a few aviators have written books descriptive of their experiences and there is quite a library of these high adventure stories; but it is probable that the uncommonly voluminous book Rickenbacker has contributed to the long list is one of the most valuable because of the great variety of interesting matter it comprises. Indeed _Fighting the Flying Circus_ has historic importance as well as storied interest and is not by any means a glorification of its author. That fact makes it rather difficult to take from the book the material wanted for a personal sketch without including attractive matter that would speedily exceed our limits of space—for example, the complete narrative of the exploit with “Rumpler Number 16”; or the story of Douglas Campbell, America’s first ace; or the story of Jimmy Meissner, who piloted his machine with the canvas gone; and others.

CHAGRIN A SAVING GRACE

Before Rickenbacker scored a victory he suffered many disappointments, and felt the chagrin of seeing his expected quarry escape. There was serviceable virtue in it all nevertheless, as he admits in his account of downing his first Hun. He says:

© _Underwood and Underwood._

Captain “Eddie” Rickenbacker with His Mother and Sister]

“My preparation for combat fighting in the air was a gradual one. As I look back upon it now, it seems that I had the rare good fortune to experience almost every variety of danger that can beset the war pilot before I ever fired a shot at an enemy from an aeroplane.

“This good fortune is rare, it appears to me. Many a better man than myself has leaped into his stride and begun accumulating victories from his very first flight over the lines. It was a brilliant start for him and his successes brought him instant renown. But he had been living on the cream at the start and was unused to the skim-milk of aviation. One day the cream gave out and the first dose of skim-milk terminated his career.

“So despite the weeks and weeks of disappointment that attended my early fighting career, I appreciated even then the enormous benefit that I would reap later from these experiences. I can now most solemnly affirm that had I won my first victory during my first trips over the lines I believe I would never have survived a dozen combats. Every disappointment that came to me brought with it an enduring lesson that repaid me eventually tenfold. If any one of my antagonists had been through the same school of disappointments that had so annoyed me it is probable that he, instead of me, would now be telling his friends back home about his series of victories over the enemy.”

It was April 29, 1918, that he had his turn of luck. He was in the air with Captain James Norman Hall following a course towards Pont-à-Mousson, as that experienced flyer led the way.

“Whether or not he knew all along that a German craft was in that region I could not tell. But when he began to change his direction and curve up into the sun I followed close behind him knowing that there was a good reason for this maneuver. I looked earnestly about me in every direction.

“Yes! There was a scout coming towards us from north of Pont-à-Mousson. It was at about our altitude. I knew it was a Hun the moment I saw it, for it had the familiar lines of their new Pfalz. Moreover, my confidence in James Norman Hall was such that I knew he couldn’t make a mistake. And he was still climbing into the sun, carefully keeping his position between its glare and the oncoming fighting plane. I clung as closely to Hall as I could. The Hun was steadily approaching us, unconscious of his danger, for we were full in the sun.

“With the first downward dive of Jimmy’s machine I was by his side. We had at least a thousand feet advantage over the enemy and we were two to one numerically. He might outdive our machines, for the Pfalz is a famous diver, while our faster climbing Nieuports had a droll little habit of shedding their fabric when plunged too furiously through the air. The Boche hadn’t a chance to outfly us. His only salvation would be in a dive towards his own lines.

“These thoughts passed through my mind in a flash and I instantly determined upon my tactics. While Hall went in for his attack I would keep my altitude and get a position the other side of the Pfalz, to cut off his retreat.

“No sooner had I altered my line of flight than the German pilot saw me leave the sun’s rays. Hall was already half-way to him when he stuck up his nose and began furiously climbing to the upper ceiling. I let him pass me and found myself on the other side just as Hall began firing. I doubt if the Boche had seen Hall’s Nieuport at all.

“Surprised by discovering this new antagonist, Hall, ahead of him, the Pfalz immediately abandoned all idea of a battle and banking around to the right started for home, just as I had expected him to do. In a trice I was on his tail. Down, down we sped with throttles both full open. Hall was coming on somewhere in my rear. The Boche had no heart for evolutions or maneuvers. He was running like a scared rabbit, as I had run from Campbell. I was gaining upon him every instant and had my sights trained dead upon his seat before I fired my first shot.

WITHOUT A RETURN SHOT

“At 150 yards I pressed my triggers. The tracer bullets cut a streak of living fire into the rear of the Pfalz tail. Raising the nose of my aeroplane slightly the fiery streak lifted itself like a stream of water pouring from a garden hose. Gradually it settled into the pilot’s seat. The swerving of the Pfalz course indicated that its rudder no longer was held by a directing hand. At 2,000 feet above the enemy’s lines I pulled up my headlong dive and watched the enemy machine continuing on its course. Curving slightly to the left the Pfalz circled a little to the south and the next minute crashed onto the ground just at the edge of the woods a mile inside their own lines. I had brought down my first enemy aeroplane and had not been subjected to a single shot!”

So capital a beginning had an appropriate sequence of performances and honors to match, among them, as early as May 15th, the Croix de Guerre. That day, too, Lieutenant Jimmy Meissner, the merriest, most reckless member of the squadron, took to his breast the Croix de Guerre, and much ado the two had to keep their elation within the limits of decorum, which stunt flying for the entertainment of the French officials did not diminish. Rickenbacker says:

“Suddenly Jimmy Meissner stood by my side, grinning his most winsome grin. ‘Rick,’ said he, ‘I feel that “Hate-the-Hun” feeling creeping over me. What do you say to going up and getting a Boche?’

“‘Right!’ I called back over my shoulder. ‘Come along. We’ll take a real ride.’

“As luck would have it, we had hardly left the ground when we saw a Hun two-seater, probably a Rumpler machine, very high above us. The Rumpler has the highest ceiling of any of the German two-seaters and frequently they sail along above us at an elevation quite impossible for the Nieuport to reach. It is maddening to attain one’s maximum height and see the enemy still sailing imperturbably along, taking his photographs and scorning even to fire an occasional burst at one. We climbed at our fastest to overtake this fellow before he could reach his safety spot. Evidently he got ‘wind up,’ for after a few minutes climbing he sheered off towards Germany and disappeared from our view. We completed our patrol of the lines without finding another enemy in the sky and returned to our field, where we landed with the mutual vow that on the morrow we would begin seriously our palm collecting shows until we might dangle our new Croix de Guerre well down below our knees.

“Jimmy looked contemplatively down at my long legs.

“‘Have a heart, Rick!’ he said softly, ‘think of the cost of the red tape!’”

As combats in the air, however varied in the performance, have a great similarity in narrative, it were bootless to follow the captain through the many experiences that earned his distinction. The earlier incidents were when the squadron was confined to the use of Nieuports because more satisfactory machines were not available. He dwells with some pride of possession on the later equipment of Spads. Soon after getting them he had become Flight Commander, and relates an unusual experience to illustrate the extent to which the Flight Leader of a squadron feels himself morally bound to go.

“Six of my Spads were following me in a morning’s patrol over the enemy’s lines in the vicinity of Rheims. We were well along towards the front when we discovered a number of aeroplanes far above us and somewhat behind our side of the lines. While we made a circle or two, all the while steadily climbing for higher altitude, we observed the darting machines above us exchanging shots at one another. Suddenly the fracas developed into a regular free-for-all.

“Reaching a slightly higher altitude at a distance of a mile or two to the east of the mêlée, I collected my formation and headed about for the attack. Just then I noticed that one side had evidently been victorious. Seven aeroplanes remained together in compact formation. The others had streaked it away, each man for himself.

SEVEN TO SEVEN

“As we drew nearer we saw that the seven conquerors were in fact enemy machines. There was no doubt about it. They were Fokkers. Their opponents, whether American, French or British, had been scattered and had fled. The Fokkers had undoubtedly seen our approach and had very wisely decided to keep their formation together rather than separate to pursue their former antagonists. They were climbing to keep my squad ever a little below them, while they decided upon their next move.

“We were seven and they were seven. It was a lovely morning with clear visibility, and all my pilots, I knew, were keen for a fight. I looked over the skies and discovered no reason why we shouldn’t take them on at any terms they might require. Accordingly I set our course a little steeper and continued straight on towards them.

“The Spad is a better climber than the Fokker. Evidently the Boche pilots opposite us knew this fact. Suddenly the last four in their formation left their line of flight and began to draw away in the direction of Soissons—still climbing. The three Fokkers in front continued towards us for another minute or two. When we were separated by less than a quarter of a mile the three Heinies decided that they had done enough for their country, and putting down their noses, they began a steep dive for their lines.

“To follow them was so obvious a thing to do that I began at once to speculate upon what this maneuver meant to them. The four rear Fokkers were well away by now, but the moment we began to dive after the three ahead of us they would doubtless be prompt to turn and select a choice position behind our tails. Very well! We would bank upon this expectation of theirs and make our plans accordingly!

“We were at about 17,000 feet altitude. The lines were almost directly under us. Following the three retreating Fokkers at our original level, we soon saw them disappear well back into Germany. Now for the wily four that were probably still climbing for altitude!

“Arriving over Fismes I altered our course and pointed it towards Soissons, and as we flew we gained an additional thousand feet. Exactly upon the scheduled time we perceived approaching us the four Fokkers who were now satisfied that they had us at a disadvantage and might either attack or escape, as they desired. They were, however, at precisely the same altitude at which we were now flying.

“Wigwagging my wings as a signal for the attack, I sheered slightly to the north of them to cut off their retreat. They either did not see my maneuver or else they thought we were friendly aeroplanes, for they came on dead ahead like a flock of silly geese. At two hundred yards I began firing.

“Not until we were within fifty yards of each other did the Huns show any signs of breaking. I had singled out the flight leader and had him nicely within my sights, when he suddenly piqued downwards, the rest of his formation immediately following him. At the same instant one of my guns—the one having a double feed—hopelessly jammed. And after a burst of twenty shots or so from the other gun it likewise failed me! There was no time to pull away for repairs!

“Both my guns were useless. For an instant I considered the advisability of withdrawing while I tried to free the jam. But the opportunity was too good to lose. The pilots behind me would be thrown into some confusion when I signaled them to carry on without me. And moreover the enemy pilots would quickly discover my trouble and would realize that the flight leader was out of the fight. I made up my mind to go through with the fracas without guns and trust to luck to see the finish. The next instant we were ahead of the quartet and were engaged in a furious dog-fight.

“Every man was for himself. The Huns were excellent pilots and seemed to be experienced fighters. Time and again I darted into a good position behind or below a tempting target, with the sole result of compelling the Fritz to alter his course and get out of his position of supposed danger. If he had known I was unarmed he would have had me at his mercy. As it was I would no sooner get into a favorable position behind him than he would double about and the next moment I found myself compelled to look sharp to my own safety.

“In this manner the whole revolving circus went tumbling across the heavens—always dropping lower and steadily traveling deeper into the German lines. Two of my pilots had abandoned the scrap and turned homewards. Engines or guns had failed them. When at last we had fought down to 3,000 feet and were some four miles behind their lines, I observed two flights of enemy machines coming up from the rear to their rescue. We had none of us secured a single victory—but neither had the Huns. Personally I began to feel a great longing for home. I dashed out ahead of the foremost Spad and frantically wigwagging him to attention I turned my little ’bus towards our lines. With a feeling of great relief I saw that all four were following me and that the enemy reënforcements were not in any position to dispute our progress.

“On the way homeward I struggled with my jammed guns—but to no result. Despite every precaution these weapons will fail a pilot when most needed. I had gone through with a nerve-racking scrap, piquing upon deadly opponents with a harmless machine. My whole safety had depended upon their not knowing it.”

AS SQUADRON COMMANDER

The night of September 24th Rickenbacker received the order promoting him to the command of the 94 Squadron, his pride and pleasure being greater than he could find words to express. He had been with the squadron since the first day at the front; but three of the original members were left—Reed Chambers, Thorn Taylor, and himself. He took counsel for himself that night and formulated rules for himself. He would never ask a pilot to go on a mission he would not undertake himself. He would lead by example as well as by precept. He would accompany the new pilots to watch their errors and give them more confidence by showing their dangers. He would work harder than ever he did as a pilot. Full of enthusiasm to carry out his purpose he started out the next morning on a lone, voluntary patrol and within half an hour returned to the aerodrome with two more victories to his credit—“the first double-header I had so far won.” He discovered a pair of L. V. G. two-seater machines, above which was a formation of five Fokkers. From a position well up in the sun Rickenbacker drove down at the nearest Fokker and sent it crashing with the first volley. The Huns were so surprised by the suddenness of the attack and the drop of one of them that their only thought was of escape. Before they recovered their wits and renewed their formation, one of the L. V. G. two-seaters was shot down in flames, and quite content with his morning’s work Rickenbacker put on gas and piqued for home.

October 30th Rickenbacker won his 25th and 26th victories, the last that were added to his score. But on November 9th Major Kirby, who had just joined the 94 Squadron for a little air fighting experience, was one of a party of four who flew off for a try at the retreating Huns, and shot down an enemy plane across the Meuse. This was the last plane shot down in the war. Rather exultingly, pardonably so, Captain Rickenbacker says:

“Our old 94 Squadron had won the first American victory over enemy aeroplanes when Alan Winslow and Douglas Campbell had dropped two biplane machines on the Toul aerodrome. 94 Squadron had been first to fly over the lines and had completed more hours flying at the front than any other American organization. It had won more victories than any other—and now, for the last word, it had the credit of bringing down the last enemy aeroplane of the war!”

And this word from Laurence Driggs:

“After having visited some sixty-odd British flying squadrons at the front, many of the French escadrilles and all of the American squadrons, I was given the pleasure of entering Germany, after the armistice was signed, as the guest of the Hat-in-the-Ring Squadron, of which Captain Rickenbacker was and is the commanding officer. In no other organization in France did I find so great a loyalty to a leader, such true squadron fraternalism, such subordination of the individual to the organization. In other words, the commander of 94 Squadron had perfected the finest flying corps I have ever seen.”

THE GUNBOAT

_By_

Dana Burnet

Out in the good, clean water where it’s blue and wide and deep,
The pride of Britain’s navy lies with thunders all asleep,
And the men they fling their British songs along the open sky,
But the little modest gunboat, she’s a-creepin’ in to die!

The First Line’s swingin’ lazy on the purple outer ring,
The proudest ships that ever kept the honor of a King!
But nosin’ down the roadway past the bones of other wrecks
Goes the doughty little gunboat with her manhood on her decks!

Oh, the First Line’s in the offing, with its shotted lightnings pent,
The proudest fleet that ever kept the King in his sacrament!
But down the death-sown harbor where a ship may find her grave,
The plucky little gunboat is a-sinkin’ ’neath the wave!

Then sing your British chanteys to the ends of all the seas,
And fling your British banners to the Seven Oceans’ breeze—
But when you tell the gallant tale beneath the open sky
Give honor to the gunboat that was not too small to die!

CAPTAIN FRYATT’S MURDER

A Court-Martial in Which Vengeful Malice Mocked Justice and the Rules of Naval War In the Lust of Blood

Brutal blundering was a German characteristic throughout the war. Indeed it has been declared more than once that her abandonment of moral restraints and obligations, imposed by international codes and the laws of humanity, is responsible for Germany’s overthrow. Without entering into that question it is admitted that two of the German blunders—both of which were subjects of diplomatic efforts at prevention—which incensed the world and roused the United States from its dream of neutrality were the murders of Edith Cavell and Capt. Charles Fryatt. We have told the story of Miss Cavell; that of Capt. Fryatt is no less a testimony to German turpitude if less revolting to sentiment in that the first was a nurse, a ministering angel to the sick and wounded (German soldiers included) whose offense was due to her compassion for the helpless and hunted.

Capt. Fryatt, an Englishman, was master of the Great Eastern Railway Company’s steamer _Brussels_, a merchant vessel. June 23, 1916, the _Brussels_ was captured by German warships. (The circumstances of the capture are presented in the report of First Officer Hartwell, which follows later.) The steamer, its officers and the crew were taken to Zeebrugge and searched. On Capt. Fryatt was found a gold watch that had been presented to him by the Mayor of Harwich at a public demonstration in his honor, the inscription commemorating an incident of March 20, 1915, when Capt. Fryatt attempted to ram the German submarine _U-33_, to avoid capture or destruction. After a brief imprisonment at Zeebrugge he was transferred to Bruges, where, July 27th, he was tried by court-martial, was condemned to be shot as a _franc-tireur_ and was executed that same afternoon.

June 28th the English Government first learned of the Germans’ intention to try Fryatt by court-martial, and immediately undertook to arrange for his proper defense. Sir Edward Grey telegraphed to the American Ambassador at Berlin requesting his efforts in this behalf and that he would convey to the German authorities the contention of the English Government that “in committing the act impugned Capt. Fryatt acted legitimately and in self-defense for the purpose of evading capture or destruction, and that the act of a merchant ship in steering for an enemy submarine and forcing her to dive is essentially defensive and precisely on the same footing as the use by a defensively armed vessel of her defensive armament in order to resist capture, which both the United States and His Majesty’s Government hold to be the exercise of an undoubted right.”

In spite of possible influence and efforts, Ambassador Gerard’s intervention was unavailing, and on July 27th, the very day of the execution, he telegraphed to London that his efforts to secure a postponement of the trial were futile because the German Government insisted that “the German submarine witnesses could not be further detained.” In other words, the men whose business it was to conduct a sea campaign of lawlessness and “frightfulness” could not be delayed from their destructive work by anything so paltry as a consideration of justice and honor in the trial of a prisoner.

GERMAN EXULTATION

Neither Sir Edward Grey and Ambassador Gerard, nor others interested in securing a fair trial for the accused, imagined that his trial and execution would be the hurried work of an afternoon, and there was consternation when a Reuter despatch of July 28th gave the first news of the shooting and made public the German _communiqué_ as follows:

“The accused was condemned to death because although he was not a member of a combatant force, he made an attempt on the afternoon of March 20, 1915, to ram the German submarine _U-33_ near the Maas Lighthouse. The accused as well as the first officer and the chief engineer of the steamer received at the time from the British Admiralty a gold watch as a reward of his brave conduct on that occasion, and his action was mentioned with praise in the House of Commons.

“On the occasion in question, disregarding the U-boat’s signal to stop and show his national flag, he turned at a critical moment at high speed on the submarine, which escaped the steamer by a few meters only by immediately diving. He confessed that in so doing he had acted in accordance with instructions from the Admiralty.

“One of the many nefarious _franc-tireur_ proceedings of the British Merchant Marine against our war vessels has thus found a belated but merited expiation.”

This report aroused intense indignation in England, and hardly less resentful feelings in neutral countries, especially in the United States, whose Ambassador in Berlin was the intermediary of the English protest against the basis of the court-martial. At once the British Foreign Office addressed a note to Ambassador Page in London in which was the statement:

“His Majesty’s Government finds it difficult to believe that a master of a merchant ship who, after German submarines adopted the practice of sinking merchant vessels without warning and without regard to the lives of passengers or crew, took the only means at his disposal of saving not only the vessel but the lives of all on board can have been deliberately shot in cold blood for that action”; and the request was made that urgent inquiry be made by the United States Embassy at Berlin.