Chapter II: The Somme

Sixty had not to wait long for its first taste of serious fighting. The “aerial offensive,” which always precedes any “push,” was already well developed when the squadron commenced war flying. Casualties were heavy, and on July 3, two days after the official commencement of the Somme battle, Ferdy Waldron was shot down and killed on the “other side.” He considered it his duty to try and do one job per day over the line, and on this particular morning he led “A” Flight’s 80 h.p. “bullets” over at 4 a.m. in perfect weather. The other members of the patrol were Smith-Barry, Armstrong, Simpson, and Balfour. The last-named thus describes the fight: “Both Armstrong and Simpson fell out, through engine trouble, before we reached Arras. Armstrong landed by a kite balloon section and breakfasted with Radford (Basil Hallam, the actor), whose kite balloon was attacked a few days later, and who met his death through the failure of his parachute. Waldron led the remaining two along the Arras-Cambrai road. We crossed at about 8,000 feet, and just before reaching Cambrai we were about 9,000, when I suddenly saw a large formation of machines about our height coming from the sun towards us. There must have been at least twelve. They were two-seaters led by one Fokker (monoplane) and followed by two others. I am sure they were not contemplating ‘war’ at all, but Ferdy pointed us towards them and led us straight in.

“My next impressions were rather mixed. I seemed to be surrounded by Huns in two-seaters. I remember diving on one, pulling out of the dive, and then swerving as another came for me. I can recollect also looking down and seeing a Morane about 800 feet below me going down in a slow spiral, with a Fokker hovering above it following every turn. I dived on the Fokker, who swallowed the bait and came after me, but unsuccessfully, as I had taken care to pull out of my dive while still above him. The Morane I watched gliding down under control, doing perfect turns, to about 2,000 feet, when I lost sight of it. I thought he must have been hit in the engine. After an indecisive combat with the Fokker I turned home, the two-seaters having disappeared. Smith-Barry I never saw from start to finish of the fight. I landed at Vert Galant and reported that Ferdy had ‘gone down under control.’ We all thought he was a prisoner, but heard soon afterwards that he had landed safely but died of wounds that night, having been hit during the scrap.

“About twenty minutes after I had landed, Smith-Barry came back. He had not seen us, but had been fighting the back two Fokkers, which he drove east, but not before he had been shot about by them, one bullet entering the tail and passing up the fuselage straight for his back until it hit the last cross-member, which deflected the course of the missile sufficiently to save him.”

This was the end of a first-class squadron commander, and, coming so early in our fighting career, was a heavy blow. If he had lived, Waldron must have made a great name for himself in the R.F.C.

Smith-Barry now took over the squadron. He was a great “character”--an Irishman with all an Irishman’s charm. A trifle eccentric, he was a fine pilot. He had crashed badly near Amiens in the retreat from Mons, the first Flying Corps casualty, breaking both his legs, which left him permanently lame. Although beloved by his squadron, his superiors sometimes found him a little trying officially. It is often said, half admiringly, of a man by his friends that “he doesn’t care a damn for anyone.” I believe this to have been almost literally true of Smith-Barry. He could do anything with an aeroplane, and delighted in frightening his friends with incredible aerial antics. He was a fine, if original, squadron commander, almost too original, in fact, even for the R.F.C., where, if anywhere in the fighting services, originality was encouraged. At a later stage (in 1917) in Smith-Barry’s career he rendered a very great service to the Corps and to the country by bringing his contempt for precedent and genius for instruction to bear on the question of teaching pilots to fly. It is no exaggeration to say that he revolutionised instruction in aviation, and, having been given almost a free hand by General J. Salmond, he organised his Gosport School of Special Flying, which afterwards developed into a station where all flying instructors were trained.

He has been seen to walk down the Strand in full uniform with an umbrella.

When promoted in 1918 to the command of a brigade, he, having come into conflict with authority, dispatched the following telegrams on the same day to his immediate superior: (1) “Am returning to Gosport. Smith-Barry, Brig.-Gen.” (2) “Have arrived at Gosport. Smith-Barry, Lieut.-Col.”

Smith-Barry’s batman was a French boy named Doby, a refugee from Lille, whom Nicolson, sometime private secretary to General Seely and one of the early pilots of the R.F.C., had picked up during the retreat from Mons and taken back to England with him. When Nicolson was killed at Gosport, Smith-Barry appointed Doby as his batman and, in order to take him to France, dressed him in R.F.C. uniform and called him Air Mechanic Doby. This boy was most useful, being competent to bargain with his compatriots for the goods which the mess required. When a year had gone by and there had been several changes in command, nobody knew his history, and he was regarded as a genuine member of the Corps. History does not relate how he was eventually “demobilised.”

This, then, was the kind of man who took over the squadron on Waldron’s death--at a critical point in its career.

Those who were most conspicuous during the battles of the Somme were: Ball (who joined from 11 Squadron in August), Summers and Tower (two of the original flight commanders), Gilchrist, Latta, Grenfell, Meintjies, A. D. Bell Irving, Phillippi, Hill, Foot, Vincent, Armstrong, and Walters. Foot, as one of the most skilful pilots, was given a “Spad,” on which he did great execution during the autumn.

The fighting was mainly over places like Bapaume, Courcelette, Martinpuich, Busigny, St. Quentin, Cambrai, Havrincourt, etc.

Ball began to show very prominently about this time, several times destroying two or more hostile aeroplanes, and hardly a day passed without at least one Hun being added to his bag. Much has been written about Albert Ball, so much that at this date it is difficult to add anything of interest to the accounts which are already so widely known; but this at least can confidently be said, that never during the war has any single officer made a more striking contribution to the art of war in the air than he, who was the first to make what may be called a business of killing Huns. He allowed nothing to interfere with what he conceived to be the reason of his presence in an aeroplane in France--the destruction of the enemy wherever and whenever he could be found. He was a man--a boy in truth--of a kindly nature, possessed by a high sense of duty and patriotism. These months (August and September 1916) saw Ball at his best, and though it is true that he was awarded the Victoria Cross after his death in an heroic fight in the spring of 1917, when he was a flight commander in 56 Squadron, yet it was in the summer and autumn of 1916 in 11 and 60 Squadrons that he began to show the Flying Corps what fighting in the air really meant. The copy of a report rendered to R.F.C. H.Q. is given below:

“Lieut. Ball has had more than twenty-five combats since May 16 in
a single-seater scout.

“Of these thirteen have been against more than one hostile machine.

“In particular, on August 22, he attacked in succession formations
of 7 and 5 machines in the same flight; on August 28, 4 and 10 in
succession; on August 31, 12.

“He has forced 20 German machines to land, of which 8 have been
destroyed--1 seen to be descending vertically with flames coming
out of the fuselage, and 7 seen to be wrecked on the ground.

“During this period he has forced two hostile balloons down and
destroyed one.

“(_Sgd._) J. F. A. HIGGINS,
“_Brigadier-General,_
“_Commanding 3rd Brigade R.F.C._

“IN THE FIELD,
“_Sept. 1, 1916_.”

Of the others, Latta became a wonderful pilot; Gilchrist, a gallant South African, commanded 56 at the end of the war and became one of the very best instructors under Smith-Barry at Gosport; Roderick Hill, a fine pilot, is also an artist of no small reputation; A. D. Bell Irving worthily upheld the traditions of an heroic Canadian family whose name will always appear prominently in any history of the Air Force; while Meintjies, also a South African, though young, himself displayed an infinite patience, together with a wisdom far beyond his years, in the introduction of new pilots to the hazardous game of aerial fighting as practised on the Western Front, of which he himself was a first-class exponent.

As for D. V. Armstrong, a South African, who was killed in a crash just as the war had ended, and who after leaving 60 became a brilliant night-flying pilot, the following letter from Col. Small will give some slight idea of the work done by him in 151 Night Fighting Squadron.

“At 10.40 on the night of September 17/18, whilst on patrol east
of Bapaume, Capt. Armstrong observed a Gotha biplane caught in a
concentration of searchlight at 8,500 feet, with a Camel machine
behind it.

“Seeing the Camel was not engaging the E.A. (enemy aeroplane) from
a sufficiently close range, this officer dived down, coming in on
the E.A.’s right. He closed right up under its tail and fired 100
rounds into it. The E.A. then burst into flames and dived to the
ground, where it burst into pieces just east of Bapaume.

“On the night of September 10/11, 1918, on receipt of a report that
E.A. was over the 4th Army front, Capt. Armstrong volunteered to go
up, although the weather was practically impossible for flying, the
wind blowing at about fifty miles an hour, accompanied by driving
rain storms. In spite of this, Capt. Armstrong remained on his
patrol 1 hour 5 minutes, although his machine was practically out
of control on several occasions. On landing, his machine had to be
held down to prevent it being blown over.

“On the night of August 6/7, 1918, Capt. Armstrong attacked
Estrées-en-Chaussée aerodrome. After dropping three Cooper bombs on
the hangars from 600 feet, he observed an E.A. coming in to land.
Capt. Armstrong then closed under the E.A.’s tail and opened fire
from fifteen yards’ range when at 700 feet. The E.A.’s observer
answered the fire, and then suddenly ceased altogether. Capt.
Armstrong continued firing until the E.A. suddenly turned to the
right with nose down and crashed on its aerodrome, bursting
into flames as it struck the ground. This officer then dropped
his fourth bomb on the wreck and fired a further burst into it,
returning to his aerodrome with all ammunition expended.

“On the night of August 8/9, 1918, although the clouds were at
about 500 feet, this officer flew to the same hostile aerodrome,
but finding no activity there and seeing no lights whatever, he
flew to Cizancourt Bridge, dropping his four bombs upon it from 500
feet.

“On this night he was unable at any period to fly at over 800 feet,
owing to low driving clouds and a very strong wind.

“Capt. Armstrong attacked aerodromes as follows on the dates shown:

“MOISLANS, 3.15 a.m. to 3.30 a.m. on August 21/22, 1918, dropping
two incendiary and two Cooper bombs from 400 feet on hutments
and tents, although subjected to the most accurate and fierce
machine-gun fire from the ground and his machine being brightly
illuminated in the glare of the incendiary bombs.

“ESTRÉES-EN-CHAUSSÉE, on the night of July 31--August 1, 1918,
dropping four bombs on landing lights from 500 feet.

“Capt. Armstrong took part in the defence of London against all but
three raids by E.A. between September 1917 and June 1918.

“This officer has been the right hand of his squadron commander
since the formation of his squadron, and has, by his wonderful
flying, taught the pilots of 151 Squadron more than any other
instructor could possibly have done. He has demonstrated to all
pilots daily the only successful method of attack at night against
E.A. by personal supervision of their flying.

“As a flight commander I cannot speak too highly of him and his
wonderful spirit at all times. His bravery as a pilot at all times
and in all weather conditions cannot be surpassed, and I am unable
to recommend him too strongly for this decoration.

“B. C. D. SMALL,
“_Lieut.-Colonel,
“Commanding 54 Wing R.A.F._

“_Sept. 19, 1918_.”

It was about this time that “balloon strafing” was invented by Headquarters. Three Le Prieur rockets of the ordinary type were attached to the interplane struts on each wing; these were fired by means of an electric bell-push in the nacelle (or pilot’s seat), and if they hit the hostile kite balloon, were guaranteed to send it down in flames. The effect of this extra load was to make the machine singularly unhandy when fighting, but it must be admitted that they did effectually set hostile kite balloons alight if the pilot was sufficiently resolute to restrain himself from pressing the button until he was within 150 yards of the object balloon. This sounds much easier than, in fact, it was, as hostile balloons were usually found as low as 2,500 feet, and the wretched pilot had to contend with heavy gunfire from the ground, while always remembering that he was some considerable distance over the line and had sacrificed his height in order to approach the balloon. The aeroplane of those days would glide about one mile per 1,000 feet in still air, and, remembering that the balloons were usually at least two miles behind the line and that the wind was almost always from the west, it will be obvious that, if the engine was hit, there was very little chance of gliding back over the trenches. Hence it will be readily understood that balloon strafing was not enormously popular among junior flying officers.

Nevertheless, Gilchrist, Bell Irving, Summers, Phillippi, and Hill all successfully brought down hostile kite balloons during the Somme battles (September 1916).

Later, in 1917, Buckingham incendiary ammunition was used for destroying balloons. This change was greatly appreciated by the R.F.C., because the handiness of the machine was not impaired, as was the case when the Le Prieur rockets were carried.

From Vert Galant the squadron moved to St. André on August 3, 1916, to refit, having only five pilots left. There the first flight of Nieuport scouts was received and, after a fortnight, another move was ordered to Izel le Hameau on August 16. This was an aerodrome we were destined to occupy again during the Arras battle. We here became a homogeneous unit completely equipped with Nieuport scouts, and moved three miles away to Savy, midway between Arras and St. Pol, early in September. Here, during November, little flying was possible owing to continual rain and fog, and the squadron settled down, almost in the Roman manner, into winter-quarters. Savy Aerodrome stood just above the village of that name, and while “C” Flight were accommodated in huts on the aerodrome so as to be near their machines in order to deal quickly with any Huns who were bold enough to cross the line, the remainder of the squadron were billeted in the Mayor’s château in the village itself, some half a mile away. Here pigs and turkeys were kept, out of which the mess made a good profit, and which, in addition, provided both an excellent Christmas dinner for the men and the material for the farewell banquet to Smith-Barry, who was posted to Home Establishment early in December. This dinner was somewhat memorable. The guests included General Higgins (the brigade commander), Pretyman (the wing commander), Col. Lewis and Barnaby of the “archie” gunners, Robert Loraine and several other squadron commanders. The squadron band, organised by Vincent, performed during dinner with great vigour. Led by Sergt. Nicod at the piano and conducted by Vincent himself, it helped to enliven the evening very considerably.

In addition to the band, the squadron ran at this period both a Rugby and an Association football team. The Rugby side was for a time invincible, the leading players being Middlemas, the wing machine-gun officer, an old Cambridge Blue and a fine three-quarter; D. Bell Irving and Giles, a first-class pair of halves; and Meintjies, a tower of strength at full back. The Soccer team also won many matches, captained by the “Great Man,” Sergt.-Maj. Aspinall; while the stores sergeant, a league player, was the star performer at centre-forward. Matches were very difficult to arrange, as they had to be postponed if the weather was fine, and could only take place, therefore, on thoroughly “dud” days, to use the inevitable R.F.C. expression.

Smith-Barry was succeeded by Major E. P. Graves, a regular gunner, young in years, who had crashed a Gnome Martinsyde scout at Netheravon early in 1915 and spent many months in hospital, emerging towards the end of that year permanently lame but quite fit to fly. He had been staff captain and brigade major to General Higgins at home when recovering from his injuries, but as soon as he became fit gave his General no peace until he was allowed to go to France in a fighting unit. He got posted to 20 Squadron as a flight commander early in 1916, and had been sent home again on promotion to command a training squadron after six months of very good work in France. Soon after he had taken over, the squadron was moved from Savy back to Izel le Hameau, the correct name of the station being Filescamp Farm. Here, with the aid of the local R.E. and thanks to Graves’s tireless efforts, an almost ideal little station was created in the orchard adjoining the great grey walls of M. Tetus’s demesne. This was a very old and picturesque house, half farm and half château, and was removed some two miles from a main road or railway line, a circumstance which prevented the aerodrome being bombed at night for a very long time, as it was hard to see from the air. An admirable mess, with a large brick fireplace, corrugated-iron hangars, together with Nissen huts for the officers and N.C.O.s and good accommodation for the men, were all built by the sappers. At this station in M. Tetus’s orchard the squadron found a quiet retreat when not actually engaged with the enemy. It is, perhaps, appropriate here to observe that every pilot at this time did, on the average, three patrols in two days over the line, and seldom returned to the aerodrome without a brush of some kind with the Boche. The contrast between our quarters and those occupied by the infantry and gunners in the line was striking. We had cream at every meal, and a hot bath--made by digging an oblong hole in the turf and lining it with a waterproof sheet--whenever we felt inclined. That the mess was good was largely due to Dobson, a 19th Hussar, partly paralysed as the result of a fall when riding in a steeplechase before the war, who was the recording officer at this time, having vainly tried to qualify as an observer in spite of his disability.

_Front row_: Bell Irving, Reid, and Meintjies.]

During the early months of 1917 there was a very hard frost, which made it difficult for the Germans to start their engines, most of which were water-cooled stationaries, but did not affect 60’s air-cooled rotaries, though both sides found that their machine guns were almost useless owing to the extreme cold. This frost lasted till mid-February.

Below will be found the first of a series of letters written by Molesworth, who joined the squadron at this time. They have been inserted as far as possible whenever the narrative reaches the events which they describe.

“60 SQUADRON R.F.C.,
“B.E.F., FRANCE.
“_March 1917._

“It has been snowing hard all day, so at last I have a chance of
sending you a scrawl.

“Well! old bean, I had my first trip with my flight commander over
the lines on the 2nd. My word! it was some trip too, I can tell
you. I was posted to ‘A’ Flight and allotted a machine. Having
interviewed my C.O. with much fear and trembling, I was told that
he would take me up to the lines to have a look round. My job was
to watch and follow my leader, look out for any Huns and get a good
idea of the ground. By this time I had got well acquainted with my
machine, or ‘grid,’[3] as it was generally called by one of our
Colonial flight commanders, and felt quite confident that, if we
met any Huns, I could give them a pretty hot time.

“We started off late in the afternoon, climbing to about 8,000
feet. The view was wonderful--the ground covered with a thin
coating of snow, while far away one could see the incessant
flashing of the guns near the battered old town of Arras. White
clouds floated in the ground mist over the eastern horizon like
great icebergs, their tops tinged with a wonderful pink which one
only sees in the air.

“I shall never forget that first impression of the battle-field
from an aeroplane; it was so different to the sights of war on the
ground. No Huns were on view, but a few of our artillery machines
were still working. We turned home and landed in the dusk.

“I don’t think I told you about a Boche we brought down last week.
We got him quite near the aerodrome--apparently he had lost his way
in the clouds. He appeared out of them at about 3,000 feet over our
heads. Of course, every available machine dashed off in pursuit,
and caught him up in a few minutes, as he was forced to turn from
the lines by some old F.E. Birds.[4] They all went for him, and he
had to land in a ploughed field near-by. He put the machine down
quite well, without crashing anything, but one of his pursuers,
who belonged to the squadron next to us, turned upside down in his
excitement when landing. However, he did not hurt himself, and
managed to prevent the Hun from setting his machine on fire, by
holding a Very pistol[5] at his head.

“Afterwards I had a chat with the prisoner in French, and found out
that he was a star pilot, having a number of our machines to his
credit and the inevitable Iron Cross.

“I am all out for getting a Hun now, and hope to be able to tell
you, when I next write, that my name has appeared in _Comic
Cuts_.”[6]

The Nieuport scout deserves a short description, as it was on the successive types of this aeroplane that nearly a year’s work was done, from September 1916 to July 1917. This single-seater fighter was a French machine, and one of the most successful in its day which our allies ever produced. The various types of this make with which the squadron was at different times equipped--15, 16, 17, 21, 24, and 29--showed a continuous improvement in performance, though all had the same engine, 110 h.p. Le Rhone, which itself was modified slightly and converted into a 120 h.p. engine by the substitution of aluminium for cast-iron pistons. Through all the modifications introduced in each successive type the machine preserved its essential characteristics. It was a biplane, but its lower planes were non-lifting and only operated to stabilise the machine to some extent in flight; the top planes were streamlined with the pilot’s eyes, giving him the free view which is essential in a fighting scout. It may be said that it was mainly this characteristic, that it was good to see out of, that made the Nieuport, in 1916, the best fighting machine on either side. Strong in construction and very handy, it could turn inside any German aeroplane we ever encountered. It was not very fast, but, with an exceptionally good climb to 10,000 feet, it was no bad “grid” on which to go Hun-hunting between the sea and the Somme. It was armed with a single Lewis gun carrying a double drum with ninety rounds of .303 ammunition and two spare drums. The gun was mounted on the top plane and fired over the propeller at an angle slightly above the horizontal. The earlier Nieuports were all treated with a bright silver-coloured “dope”--the substance used to tighten the fabric--and when properly turned out had a very smart appearance.

Hindenburg and the German Crown Prince figure in the group on the left.]

Another characteristic of all types was the V-shaped interplane strut, which, although the Germans also used them in their D3 Albatros, made the machines easy to recognise in the air.

In conclusion, the Silver Nieuport was a good machine to fight in, but a bad one either for running away or for catching a faint-hearted enemy, as its best air speed, even near the ground, rarely exceeded ninety-six or ninety-seven miles per hour.