Chapter III: Arras

With the beginning of March 1917, the Boche became very active in the air. The D3 V-strut Albatros appeared in numbers on the 3rd Army front, and about the same time a squadron of red-painted machines of this type, known to the R.F.C. as “the Circus,” did a good deal of damage to British machines and annoyed us very much. One aeroplane in particular, called the “Pink Lady” on account of an absurd story that it was flown by a woman--the machine itself was coloured bright red--was often seen between Arras and Albert. It is thought that the pilot was Freiherr von Richthofen the elder. This machine it was that, venturing well over our side of the line on March 6, 1917, crashed an F.E. and went on and engaged and shot down Evelyn Graves, whose machine caught fire. When picked up, he was found to have been shot through the head, so that he was spared the pain of death by burning.

After Evelyn Graves’s death, A. J. L. Scott, of the Sussex Yeomanry, was appointed to succeed him. He was a flight commander in 43--a Sopwith two-seater squadron--and was also lame as the result of a crash during the early part of the war, being the third lame squadron commander in succession appointed to 60.

Scott took up his appointment on March 10, 1917, about the time that the aerial offensive precedent to the Arras battle began to develop.

There had been, on the 3rd Army front, a lull during January and February, and by a lull is meant that pilots were doing one job a day instead of the two that they were almost certain to be called upon for when business was good. The casualties lists show this clearly, as, though E. O. Grenfell and Gilchrist were wounded in December, there were only two more casualties until Evelyn Graves’s death in March--R. Hopper, killed on January 11; and E. G. Herbert, wounded on the 28th. February passed without the loss of a single officer. This was due mainly to the month of hard frost referred to above, which kept the Hun machines on the ground. Even when machines did meet in the air at this time, it was very difficult to get the guns to fire, so that on several occasions the pilots, after manœuvring round one another for a while, waved hands and went home. A non-freezing gun-oil was brought out before the next winter, which put an end to these not altogether unwelcome interludes to the sterner business. Mention of Grenfell’s wound calls to mind the occasion on which he received it. An O.P. (offensive patrol) led by him, and consisting of Caldwell, Daly, Whitehead, Weedon, and Meintjies, met a two-seater Albatros over Dainville on our side of the line. All our machines opened fire, and the Hun hurriedly landed. Grenfell, anxious to get down and claim him, crashed and broke his leg, while all the other five machines landed, and three of these also crashed, not so seriously as to injure the pilots, but enough to prevent them taking off again. Thus the Hun in one field was flanked by a crashed Nieuport in every adjoining enclosure, while, to make matters worse, the Boche observer--who, unlike the pilot, was not wounded--set fire to his machine to prevent it falling into our hands. The machine shortly exploded, seriously injuring the observer and several of our own infantry who by that time were standing by. If these had grasped the situation a little more quickly they could easily have prevented the destruction of the machine, which it was important to preserve.

The battle of Arras, as it came to be called, was now imminent, and would probably have commenced before April 10 but for an unexpected move on the part of the enemy. On March 30, the first clear day after a spell of bad weather, the first patrol to land reported thirty or forty fires in the tract of country east of the Arras-Albert sector. Every village for ten or fifteen miles back was alight. At first we could not understand what it meant--for although an R.F.C. squadron knew a good deal more of what was happening than a battalion in the line, still we did not always fully comprehend the meanings of the incidents we reported, which the G.H.Q. Intelligence Staff could, no doubt, interpret with the help of reports from their numerous other sources of information.

The German retreat of March 14 came, therefore, as a complete surprise to us. For, even at this stage of the war, we had become so used to hearing that the enemy’s _morale_ was undermined, and that their troops were unwilling to fight, etc., that we had ceased to take much notice of these stories, the truth of which--for they were true--only became manifest nineteen months later.

The next two days, the 14th and 15th, were days of stormy weather, in spite of which patrols were continually sent out to try and ascertain the depth of the withdrawal and to locate the new German positions. The rough-and-ready way in which this was done was to fly low until we came under fire from anti-aircraft guns or rifles and machine guns on the ground. Molesworth, in a letter, gives quite a graphic account of this retreat as follows:

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

“No luck for me in the Hun line yet, although the beggars seem to
be running on the ground all right.

“Three of us went out the other day, and had the most hectic time.
The clouds were about 3,000 feet and very dense, with gaps here
and there. We crossed the lines and expected to get it pretty hot
from Archie,[7] but, strangely enough, nothing happened. Heading
towards Croisille, we came out of a thick cloud and saw a most
extraordinary sight. For miles around every village was a blazing
mass with smoke columns, like great water-spouts, ascending upwards
to the clouds. Along the roads one could see lines of retreating
men making for the Hindenburg defences, which we could plainly
distinguish owing to the amount of barbed wire entanglements
round them. Suddenly we were met by a perfect tornado of bursting
‘archies,’ and so were forced to turn into a cloud. This cloud was
so thick that we all promptly proceeded to lose ourselves. I looked
at my compass[8] and saw that it was pointing west, so carried on.
At last, after about half an hour’s flying, I found myself alone
in an opening in the clouds. Below me were dozens of shell-holes
filled with water; round about, black clouds and sheets of driving
rain. I knew I was somewhere near the lines, and yet could not
decide in which direction to turn. Trusting to the compass I still
pushed on west, and at last the shell-holes disappeared. Just as
my petrol was giving out I spotted some hangars. There was nothing
for it, so I decided to land. Coming down to about 200 feet I did
a half-circle to get into the wind, and to my utter disgust saw a
large party of Germans on the ground. I therefore made up my mind
that it must be a Hun aerodrome. No machines were out, owing to the
‘dud’ weather, so I landed, jumped out of the machine, seized the
Very pistol, and was just going to fire it into the grid when I
saw, to my amazement, two mechanics in khaki coming across to give
me a hand. I tell you, I have never been so bucked to see anyone in
khaki before. Evidently the party I had seen were German prisoners.
When the old kite had been filled up I pushed off again, and got
home after about an hour’s run. On arrival I heard that the other
two had lost themselves as well, but had managed to get back. In
future I shall take jolly good care to get to know the country
better before playing about in clouds.”

On the 17th and 18th the weather became too bad to fly, and an “excursion” was organised in tenders to the nearest points of the old front line, Ransart and Monchy-au-Bois, near Adinfer Wood; this last-named had been the home of a peculiarly accurate enemy “archie” gun for many months past. At the latter place skeletons of French soldiers still hung in the wire, where they had been since September 1915 at least.

The systematic and deliberate devastation of the evacuated country made a great impression on all our pilots, who were also thrilled to see the very trenches which the enemy’s troops had occupied only a few days earlier. It seemed wonderful to see the marks in the muddy sides of the trenches made by German feet and elbows, and the clips of rifle cartridges laid on the fire steps by their sentries less than a week before. Absorbingly interesting, too, to explore their dugouts, and to trace the routes by which their troops came up into the line from the rest billets behind. All the roads had been blown up, and every house in each abandoned village was most efficiently destroyed, except in a few cases, like Bapaume town hall, where delay action mines had been prepared.

One of the most impressive sights was the German cemetery, which was to be found in almost every hamlet, carefully laid out and extremely carefully tended, with monuments, cement steps, and ornamental shrubs symmetrically disposed amid the ruins of the houses among which it stood.

There were souvenirs enough for an army, let alone a squadron, and we were fortunate when collecting them not to fall into a single “booby trap,” such as a helmet which exploded when picked up. This expedition is also described by Molesworth in another letter:

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

“The rumour about leave is true, so my turn ought to come in a few
days as my name is next on the list. The weather has been hopeless
lately for aviation. Yesterday some of us decided to go and have a
look at the old Boche trenches. We chose the ones west of Adinfer
Wood, as they were less likely to be mined than those further north.

“Having seized a tender, we pushed off after breakfast towards the
line. We got to our front trenches at about ten o’clock, and left
the tender here, as the road was still in pretty bad repair. No
Man’s Land was dotted about with shell-holes. A few broken stumps
of trees lined the road--war-worn veterans that had stood the
test of battle. (Amongst other souvenirs, I am bringing you back
a walking-stick made from a branch of one of these.) There was a
wood, or what remained of it, to our right front, as this part of
the line had been very quiet, and was nothing compared to the utter
desolation of the Somme or ‘Arras’ battle-fields.

“The German system of trenches consisted of thick belts of barbed
wire, behind which was a trench about 10 feet deep, with platforms
and machine-gun emplacements to shoot from. About every 50 yards
or so square openings led down to the underground dugouts. The old
Hun seems to have lived fairly comfortably, as there were beds and
tables here and there, with store-rooms and passages connecting
each dugout.

“We went about collecting souvenirs very gingerly, as warnings of
booby traps were posted up everywhere we went. But luckily no one
was caught out. We managed to collect some tin hats, bombs, Very
pistols, and a few other odds and ends, which we loaded into the
tender.

“I am bringing some of these home.

“Orders have just come through for us to go on another balloon
strafe, so I will finish this when we come back if old Fritz
doesn’t stop me.

* * * * *

“(_Two hours later_)

“Here I am back again, with a Hun and a ‘sausage’[9] added to my
bag. I am fearfully bucked with life, as the Major has just told me
that I have been made a ‘flight commander.’ No time for any more,
as I am just off to have a cheery time with the other lads, who
seem to have done pretty well too.”

That the enemy knew that the British intended to attack was evident, because the numbers of the aforementioned V-strut Albatros scouts had obviously increased on this front. The performance of these machines was considerably better than the Nieuport, and they had two Spandau guns firing through the propeller; and, moreover, the circus of red machines led, so they said, by Richthofen, was functioning freely throughout the month of March 1917. It is perhaps unnecessary to repeat that the offensive in the air commences always before the push on the ground, and though the latter was timed to commence on April 10, 60 had a hard month to go through before this date arrived. We were short of scout squadrons at this time, and though 48, the first Bristol fighter squadron, and 56, another new squadron equipped with the S.E.5s, had arrived from England, these were to be kept as a surprise for the Boche, and were not to cross the line until “zero day,” as the day fixed for the first assault was called. With 56 Ball had come out again from England, and it was during this battle that he was killed, on May 7, 1917, after a severe engagement in which Meintjies, who also had been posted to 56 after a period of rest at home, was badly wounded; the latter is one of the best pilots, and almost the most popular officer, 60 ever had.

The flight commanders at this time, mid-March 1917, were: K. L. Caldwell, who when on leave fell sick and did not return till June. He was a New Zealander, a great friend of Meintjies, and was beloved by everyone. He was a curious instance of a fine and fearless fighter, but a bad shot at this time, who in consequence did not get many Huns; he afterwards remedied this defect and made a great reputation both in 60 and when commanding 74 in 1918. The other two were Alan Binnie, an Australian who had fought with the 9th Division in Gallipoli, and Black, who went sick and was subsequently posted away.

At the beginning of this month (on the day before Graves’s death, to be exact) W. A. Bishop joined. The son of a well-known family in Montreal, he had passed through the Royal Military College and had joined the Canadian Cavalry, coming over with his regiment with the first Canadian contingent. On arrival in England he very soon applied to join the Flying Corps, and was posted as an observer to No. 7 Squadron. After a tour of duty in France in this capacity he went home to learn to fly, and was posted to us almost as soon as he had got his wings.

It was curious to notice how quick the mechanics of the squadron were to recognise Bishop’s quality. Only a few days after his arrival at the squadron the sergeants gave a musical evening to which the officers were invited, and it was observed that one of the very few toasts which were proposed by them was that of Bishop’s health, although at this time he had only destroyed one enemy machine, and none of his fellow-officers had, as yet, any idea of the brilliant career that was in store for him. This occasion, on which he got his first Hun, was remarkable for the fact that his engine failed, and forced him to land very near the front-line trenches. He only, in fact, just succeeded in scraping over. The failure of the engine was due to his inexperience in allowing it to choke while diving. Having landed in a very unhealthy spot, he got rapidly into a dugout occupied by some field gunners, and, with their help, moved his machine every half-hour to prevent the German artillery shelling it. During the night he borrowed a toothbrush from the gunner officer, and with this contrived to clean the sparking plugs of his engine. Having heard nothing of him, the squadron had already reported him missing, when he succeeded in getting a telephone message through to say that he was safe.

Our Corps machines, the eyes of the artillery, were being shot down every day in the valley of the Scarpe, despite our efforts and those of 29 (also with Nieuports) and 11, an F.E.2B. squadron. The ground on both sides of the river was littered with B.E.s. The scouts, whose losses were much heavier, fell usually far over the lines in hostile territory.

The work at this time still consisted mainly of offensive patrols (whose business it was to operate east of the artillery machines and to keep the air clear of hostile scouts), reconnaissances, and sometimes escorts to bombing and photographic patrols. On April 7 M. B. Knowles, C. S. Hall, and G. O. Smart--the latter was originally an N.C.O. pilot who had but lately been commissioned for gallantry in the Field--all failed to return after an engagement with a much superior force of the enemy. At this time it was very hard to get all the photographs wanted by the army owing to the enemy’s activity in the air, and when special information about some point was required, 60 was sometimes given the job of taking the photographs. It was thought that the Huns would not expect a scout to be doing photography, and they were not over-keen, even at that time, on attacking a scout formation. It was no easy task this, to fly a sensitive single-seater, look out for Huns, and expose plates at the same time, but it was done with some measure of success. Here follows Molesworth’s description of a fight:

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

“A Hun at last!

“We started out this morning, led by our new squadron commander,
who seems one of the best. Our late C.O. was brought down in
flames, this side of the lines, in a scrap. He was a very great
loss to the squadron, and we buried him, with full military
honours, in a little village cemetery near-by.

“There were five of us on the patrol, my position being the rear
one on the left. We got to the lines at about 10,000 feet, and
crossed them, making towards Douai. Soon we sighted a small patrol
of Sopwith[10] two-seaters, north-east of Arras, flying towards the
lines as hard as they could go, with a large pack of Huns chasing
them. The latter managed to get the last machine in flames, the
poor devils going down burning like a furnace.

“The Major immediately dived for the Huns, and I knew that I was in
for my first real big scrap. The leader saw us coming, and turned
east with his nose well down; however, we soon caught him up and
started scrapping. Then ensued the usual dog-fight.[11] I managed
to get well behind a Hun two-seater which was a little way out of
the scrap. He didn’t seem to mind me plugging him a bit, and went
calmly on. In my excitement I lost my head, and started spinning
madly to the ground. Coming out, I saw an Albatros scout[12] about
50 yards ahead, so loosed off at him and saw him spin[13] and crash
on the ground, much to my delight.

“Having lost the rest of the formation[14] I headed for home,
and found out, on landing, that we had accounted for three Huns.
The two-seater which I had been trying to worry was known as the
‘Flying Pig,’ owing to the likeness of the observer to that rotund
animal.

“Talking about casualties, we have had a pretty hot time the last
few days. However, twenty Huns have been accounted for during this
time, and many more sent down out of control,[15] so we hope to put
up a record in the R.F.C.”

From the last week in March to the last week in May our losses were very severe (see Appendix II); in fact, counting those who went sick and those injured in crashes on our side of the line, we lost thirty-five officers during these eight weeks, almost twice the strength of the squadron, which consisted of eighteen pilots and the squadron commander. One week-end in April, the 14th, 15th, and 16th, was especially unlucky, as on Saturday “A” Flight went out six machines strong (full strength) and only one returned. Binnie was leading, and was hit in the shoulder when trying to extricate two of his patrol from a cloud of enemies. The blood from his wound spurted all over the nacelle, obscuring the instruments, and in addition his machine caught fire. He extinguished the flames and then fainted when gliding homeward. The machine must have turned west after this, for he woke up in a little park in Lens, having hit the ground while still unconscious, without further serious injuries. He lost his arm at the shoulder, and was a prisoner till the spring of 1918, when he was repatriated, and immediately commenced flying again. He was a very great loss to the squadron, as he was a first-class flight commander, who had already destroyed several Huns and would have got a lot more. On the next day, Sunday, “B” Flight, five strong, lost two pilots: one, Milot, a French-Canadian Major, who was killed; the other, Hervey, who had already gained two Military Crosses as an observer and promised very well, was forced to land on the other side by anti-aircraft fire. On this patrol Bishop, who had just been promoted captain, got two Huns and a balloon, having had five or six combats. On Monday “C” Flight (Bishop’s) went out without the flight commander, and only one, Young, returned; this meant that in three days ten out of eighteen pilots were lost, and had to be replaced from England by officers who had never flown this particular type of machine, because there were none in England. Our new machines were collected from Paris, and the chance of a trip to fly one back was eagerly looked forward to by every pilot. Some of these new machines were not well built, and began--to add to our troubles--to break up in the air. Lieut. Grandin’s fell to bits while diving on a hostile two-seater, though this may have been due to injury from machine-gun fire. Caffyn’s and Brackenbury’s collapsed when practising firing at ground targets on the aerodrome, and the former was killed; while Ross’s wings folded upwards when pulling out of a dive after firing a burst; he was badly injured, but has since recovered. A good show was that put up by Penny, who, when his left lower plane came off while diving on a Hun, contrived to fly the machine back and to land at one of our aerodromes, and quietly reported to the squadron commander as follows: “My lower plane came off, so I thought I had better land. Sorry I left the patrol, sir.” The reason for these accidents was that badly seasoned wood was being used by the French manufacturers, who also allowed a lot of little screws to be inserted in the main spars, thus weakening them considerably. H.Q. were informed and the matter was put right.

During this battle the R.F.C. began to take a hand in the ground operations by machine-gunning support troops during an attack. “C” Flight led by Fry, who was given an M.C. for this, did well on May 11, by shooting up the enemy in a cutting east of the chemical works at Roeux, in the valley of the Scarpe. These pilots came back, having exhausted their ammunition, refilled with petrol and 300 rounds, and dashed off again to the chemical works without waiting for orders. One of them, E. S. Howard, who was killed seven days later on an escort to machines doing photography, thus described this adventure:

“_May 13, 1917._

“On Friday night the infantry made an attack east of Fampoux and we
were told off to assist them. When they went over the top, we dived
down and emptied our machine guns into the Hun trenches. Our people
put up a wonderful barrage; it was good to see, but not at all
nice to fly over, as the bursts from the shells threw the machines
about. We have just come back from a show, chased four Huns away
over their lines, and then flew round keeping our eye on them so
they could not come back.”

This “low flying,” as it was called, became more popular with the higher command, though not with the pilots, as the war went on, and in fact, during the German offensive of March 1918, it was said to have very materially helped to stop the Boche advance on the 5th and 3rd Army fronts.

Hostile balloons also were constantly attacked during April and May, and Bishop, Ross, Molesworth, and Penny did considerable execution. Others who were doing well at this time were Langwill, Hall, J. Elliott, Smart, and F. Bower; the last-named on April 2 pursued, with his patrol, six hostile scouts a long way east of Douai in a very strong westerly wind, and though shot through the stomach and with his intestines hanging out, he flew west and landed his machine near Chipilly, completely undamaged except from enemy bullets. He died next day, and his machine was flown back to the squadron without having had to be repaired by another pilot. A fight as a result of which R. B. Clark, an Australian, was killed on April 30 is well described below:

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

“We are all feeling rather down in our luck to-day, as news has
come through that one of our chaps has ‘gone west’ in hospital. He
put up an awfully ‘stout’ show against the Hun.

“It was on one of our big balloon shows. He was attacked by three
Hun scouts just after firing at the ‘gas-bag.’ He scrapped them all
the way back to the lines, crashing one of them, and holding the
other two off. As he crossed the trenches, one of them plugged him
in the petrol tank, and his grid caught on fire. As he was only
about 50 feet up, he managed to get her down in the shell-holes,
or rather a strip of ground between them, without burning himself
badly. Luck was all against him, however, as he just tippled over
into a trench at the end of his run. A few men who were in an
advanced dressing-station near-by quickly came to his rescue, and
hauled him clear of the burning wreckage, but the poor devil was by
this time badly singed about the legs. He insisted on giving his
report before allowing the doctor to attend to his burns, and the
men told me afterwards that he was extremely plucky.

“The day after this occurred, I was detailed to find the machine
and see if it could be salved. The weather was absolutely vile. We
started for Arras with a tender and trailer,[16] got there about
noon, and commenced making inquiries as to where the machine had
crashed. One place was pointed out to us where there was an old
‘quirk,’[17] which had obviously been brought down doing artillery
work. Then we were sent off in another direction, only to find the
remains of an old Boche two-seater. At last, after an hour’s wading
in trenches with mud up to our knees and shells bursting near us,
we arrived at the advanced dressing-station. Here we were given a
full description of the fine way in which our pilot had fought.

“The machine, needless to say, was a total wreck, and so, after
a cup of tea with a drop of gin in it to warm us up, we pushed
off home, followed by some heavy shells which we knew meant the
commencement of the ‘evening hate.’”[18]

Hardly a day passed during April and May without Bishop destroying at least one Hun machine, and on June 2, 1917, he visited an enemy aerodrome near Cambrai--a long way over--by himself at dawn and found seven machines on the ground with their engines running. They began to take off and he destroyed four, returning safely with his machine considerably shot about by machine-gun fire from the ground. For this exploit, after three months of remarkably fine work, he was awarded the Victoria Cross. Others who were prominent during the battles of Arras and Vimy Ridge were: Pidcock, “Red” Lloyd and “Black” Lloyd (the latter, a fine officer, was unfortunately shot down and killed), and Fry (who drove down a Hun on our side and found in the pilot’s pocket a ticket for a box in Cambrai theatre dated the day before). Molesworth also was doing well; he afterwards went to 29 on a second tour of duty with the R.F.C. in France (he had already seen service overseas with the infantry), where he did most brilliantly during the winter of 1917-18. His account of a successful balloon attack is given here in full:

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

“Still more excitement! I tackled my first balloon yesterday, and
consider it even more difficult than going for a Hun; at least, I
think one gets a hotter time. We had received orders a week ago
that all balloons _had_ be to driven down or destroyed, as they
were worrying our infantry and gunners during the advance.

“We had been practising firing the Le Prieur rockets[19] for some
time--a most weird performance. One dives at a target on the
ground, and when within about fifty yards of it presses a button
on the instrument boards Immediately there is a most awful hissing
noise, which can be heard above the roar of the engine, and six
huge rockets shoot forward from the struts each side towards the
target.

“We did not think these were much of a success, owing to the
difficulty of hitting anything, so decided to use tracer[20] and
Buckingham bullets instead. These are filled with a compound of
phosphorus and leave a long trail of smoke behind them.

“On the morning we were detailed to attack the balloons the weather
was so ‘dud’ that none of them were up, although we went across
twice to have a look. We got a pretty hot time from Archie, as
we had to fly below the clouds, which were about 2,000 feet, and
dodge about all over the shop. Next day the weather cleared and we
decided to carry out our strafe.

“We all went off individually to the various balloons which had
been allotted us. I am glad to say most of us managed to do them
down. I personally crossed the trenches at about 10,000 feet,
dropping all the time towards my sausage, which was five or six
miles away. It was floating in company with another at about 3,000
feet, and reminded me of that little song, ‘Two Little Sausages.’

“I started a straight dive towards them, and then the fun began.
Archie got quite annoyed, following me down to about 5,000 feet,
where I was met by two or three strings of flaming onions,[21]
luckily too far off to do any damage. Then came thousands of
machine-gun bullets from the ground--evidently I was not going
to get them without some trouble. I zigzagged about a bit, still
heading for the balloons, and when within two hundred yards opened
fire. The old Huns in the basket got wind up and jumped out in
their parachute. Not bothering about them, I kept my sight on one
of the balloons and saw the tracer going right into it and causing
it to smoke.

“As our armament consists of a Lewis gun,[22] I had to now change
drums. This is a pretty ticklish job when you have about ten
machine guns loosing off at you, not to mention all the other
small trifles! However, I managed to do it without getting more
than half a dozen or so bullet-holes in my grid.

“By this time the second balloon was almost on the floor. I gave it
a burst, which I don’t think did any damage. The first sausage was
in flames, so I buzzed off home without meeting any Huns. On the
way back a good shot from Archie exploded very near my tail, and
carried away part of the elevator.[23] Don’t you think this is the
limit for anyone who wants excitement? I must say I prefer it to
the infantry, as one gets decent food and a comfortable bed every
night, if you are lucky enough to get back.

“I am afraid these letters are awfully full of my own ‘shows,’
but none of the other chaps will tell me about theirs, so I can’t
describe them to you; however, it’s much the same for all of us.
Please forgive me, and don’t think it’s swank!

“There are rumours that leave is going to start again soon, so I
hope to see you in a few weeks.”

One day in early June General Allenby, then commanding the 3rd Army, was to inspect the squadron at nine o’clock in the morning. The squadron commander had gone out by himself in his Nieuport at dawn, unshaved, in pyjamas, a Burberry, bedroom slippers and snowboots, a costume which many of us used to affect on the dawn patrol. The line was unusually quiet that morning, so he ventured almost to Douai, and on turning west saw a formation of eight or nine machines over Vis-en-Artois, near the front line, well below him at about 8,000 feet. They turned, and the sun glinting on the fuselage showed a bright flash of red. This meant that they were Huns, and not only Huns but “the Circus.” Having the advantage of height, and as the formation was very near the line, he determined to try and do a little damage. He flew towards them from the east and from the sun, and diving on the top machine, fired a burst and pulled sharply up, being careful to retain his height. After a few dives of this kind without doing much apparent damage, an S.E.5 patrol of 56, which had seen the scrap, bustled up, and a very pretty “dog-fight” ensued, in the course of which one of the Huns detached himself from the mêlée and appeared to be going home. This was the Nieuport’s opportunity, so, hardening his heart, he dived right in, making good shooting. The Albatros appeared to take no notice, but flew straight on. (In parenthesis it may be observed that this is a good sign, as it usually means the pilot is dead, for if the opposing machine begins to perform frantic evolutions, the pilot is as a rule very much alive, and not in the least “out of control.”) Flushed with excitement, the Nieuport man put the stick (control column) between his knees, and going down on the tail of the Albatros, began to put a fresh drum of ammunition on to his Lewis gun, with which alone this type of machine was armed. While thus busily engaged something made him turn his head to see about twenty yards behind him the white nose of a grim-looking Albatros. Swifter than thought the Nieuport was wrenched to the right, and even as she turned the Albatros’s Spandau guns spat out a burst, which riddled the engine and cut the bottom out of the petrol tank, allowing all the remaining petrol to pour on to the pilot’s feet. The height of both machines at this moment was about 5,000 feet, the locality just east of Monchy-le-Preux, and but for the attentions of the Boche machine it would have been comparatively easy for the Nieuport to glide back to Arras and perch on one of our advanced landing grounds, or on the race-course; but with a bloodthirsty Hun on one’s tail and a dead engine, the problem, however, was not such a simple one. Twisting and turning like a snipe, the Nieuport began to descend, taking care to make his turns as much as possible towards our side of the line. Mercifully the wind was from the east. Close behind followed the Albatros, firing short bursts at frequent intervals, but always wide, because it is not easy to hit a machine whose pilot knows you are there. It was a stout Hun, however, who would not be denied, but continued the chase down to 300 feet, a few hundred yards west of Monchy-le-Preux, when he suddenly turned and flew home to report, no doubt, a British machine destroyed. With a gasp of relief the Nieuport pilot turned his attention to the ground, and, seeing nothing but shell-holes beneath him, made up his mind that a crash was inevitable. Suddenly a strip of ground about a hundred yards long and very narrow, but free from shell-holes, caught his eye, and, putting in a couple of “S” turns, he made a good slow landing. The machine ran on and had almost stopped when a shell-hole appeared, and she ran very gently into it without doing any damage whatever.

A couple of dusty gunners walked up and before speaking produced a packet of Woodbines, one of which the Nieuport pilot greedily took and lit. Inquiries showed that an advanced anti-aircraft section was near-by, where the officer-in-charge gave the airman breakfast and, better still, produced a telephone, with the help of which he got into communication with his squadron, and ordered a car to come straight through Arras and up the Cambrai road. It was getting late, and an Army Commander’s inspection was not a thing to be treated lightly. Further inquiries disclosed an Artillery Ammunition Column in a little valley who lent him a horse and an orderly. There was no saddle, but the pilot climbed gratefully on to the animal, which had very rough paces and a hard mouth, and set out towards the road. In a short time he met the car and drove furiously through Arras and back to Le Hameau, only to see Allenby, the R.F.C. Brigade Commander (General J. R. Higgins), and George Pretyman arriving at the station. His costume being hardly that prescribed for inspections, the wretched officer dived into his hut, did the quickest shave on record, and timidly approached the glittering cortège.

Everyone was furious with him except General Allenby, who was rather amused and very kind. He got, however, a well-deserved and proper “telling-off” from the Brigadier and Wing Commander, and saw the troupe depart with a feeling of profound relief.

The account of this scrap has been given at some length, but it should not be assumed that it was in any way exceptional. It should be remembered that during the squadron’s history there have been about 1,500 distinct combats in the air, all of which deserve a detailed description. Within the limits of a book of this kind, however, it cannot be done.

We made a hard tennis-court in Tetus’s orchard with red _pierre de fosse_ from the Bruay mines, and discovered that Caldwell, Molesworth, Horn, and both Lloyds were all good tennis players. With the beginning of June things quietened down on the 3rd Army front. Colonel Pretyman, O.C. 13th Wing, put the squadron on to wireless interception. This term needs, perhaps, a little explanation. Everyone knows, of course, that both German and British artillery observation machines were fitted with wireless sets, by means of which the pilots corrected the shooting of the gunners for whom they were observing.

These wireless messages were “tapped” by our compass stations, and it was discovered that two of these stations could get a cross-bearing on any machines registering for the enemy artillery. By linking up the compass station with an aerodrome by telephone, it was possible to send off a patrol of scouts to chase off or destroy the artillery machine as soon as he began to send down fire signals, i.e. as soon as he was actually directing the fire of the enemy batteries. This was useful, though exhausting work for pilots; for the Hun, who did his registration chiefly in the morning, when the sun was behind him in the east, usually saw the scouts coming before they saw him, and turned and dived three or four miles back behind his own lines, where it was very difficult to attack him, even if he was visible, which usually he was not, as our scouts were looking for a machine at five or six thousand feet in a certain place, whereas it was probably at that moment at a height of 1,500 feet some five miles east of the bearing given. As soon, therefore, as the scouts, seeing nothing, turned back to return to the aerodrome, the Hun swung up again and resumed his registration. The British pilots, on returning to their aerodrome, would find an irate squadron commander who had just got a telephone message from the compass station to say that V.K., or whatever the call sign used by that particular machine might be, was working again quite happily, and, “What the devil was 60’s patrol doing, anyhow?” Off the wretched patrol had to go again, only to go through the same performance. It is only fair to say, however, that they did get a good many two-seaters in this way, though the main result was, perhaps, seen rather in the enormously decreased amount of artillery observation the Germans were enabled to do, than in hostile artillery machines shot down by us.

This work, however, was genuinely exhausting, as in order efficiently to answer the compass calls, as they were termed, three or four pilots always had to be standing by to leap into their machines and be off the ground, in formation, inside of two minutes. Nevertheless, they became extraordinarily smart at this manœuvre, and answered to the hunting horn--doubled blasts of which were the signal at that time--as keenly as a fashionable pack of foxhounds. Only those who know how irritating a thing an aero engine can be when you are in a hurry to start can appreciate the high standard of efficiency attained by 60’s mechanics, which made it almost a certainty that the 120 seconds limit would not be exceeded.

The next few paragraphs will show how this manœuvre struck one of the pilots at this time:

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

“The tennis-court we made three months ago is now in topping
condition, so we decided to get up a tournament amongst ourselves.
Yesterday we drew lots for partners. The unlucky lad who drew me
is a ‘coloured troop,’ that is he hails from South Africa. He is
quite good at the ‘Willies,’[24] and so I think we have got a fair
chance. I expect you wonder where all these weird names come from.
They are invented by one of our flight commanders, who is also a
‘coloured troop’ and one of the leading lights of the squadron. All
jobs are washed out to-day as the weather is ‘dud,’ so two of us
are going over this afternoon to the village near-by to purchase
articles of furniture for the ‘Hôtel de Commerce.’

“You will be pleased to hear that we are getting a new kind of
grid. It is supposed to be a good deal faster than the Hun, and
can dive to 300 miles an hour, so I’m told. We shall probably have
a quiet time while we are getting used to them, and only do ‘line
patrols’ for the first fortnight or so. A French ‘Ace’[25] landed
here to-day; he says the Huns are getting a pretty bad time down
south. Jolly glad I’m not a Hun airman these days, with men up
against me like some of our chaps. Most of them are fairly old
hands at the game now, and we are really beginning to properly
annoy our friends across the way. The work has been fairly hard
lately: two patrols in the morning, one generally at dawn and the
other about noon, with ‘wireless interruption’ in the afternoon.
The latter is rather a strenuous job. This is how we work it: When
a Hun two-seater begins to register on any part of our front, a
telephone message, giving his height and locality, is immediately
sent through to the wireless squadron. Each scout squadron in
the wing takes it in turn. As soon as the Recording Officer[26]
receives the message, he sounds a horn. Three of us who are
standing by in readiness immediately jump into our machines, and
the leader gets hold of the position and height of the Hun. Then
we push off as quickly as possible to the lines, and a sort of
‘hide-and-seek’ begins. We try if possible to hide in the clouds
and approach the Hun when he is off his guard. He, on the other
hand, departs hurriedly into Hunland when he spots us, and as soon
as we go he comes back to carry on his job. We then turn on him
again, but he is off like a flash, and so it goes on until the next
three machines relieve us. It is really quite amusing at times,
and, although we do not often bring our man down, we give him
such a devil of a time that he hasn’t much of it to spare for his
companions on the ground. Our ‘stunt merchant’[27] is good at this
game, and continues to add to his score, seldom coming back without
firing his red light. He works by himself a lot now, preferring to
surprise the Hun by hiding rather than by trying to get him in a
scrap. Wish I could do the same. I always feel so fagged after a
patrol, that I haven’t got the energy or the patience to sit up in
the clouds waiting for a chance to bag a ‘lone Hun.’

“You remember the petrol tank which was so shot up the time I was
brought down? Well, I am having it made into a topping inkstand.
The souvenirs are coming in in fine style, and I hope to have quite
a good collection by the time I see dear old ‘Blighty’ again.”

After the battle had died down the sorely tried pilots were given, whenever possible, one day’s rest in three, and the following letter shows that the device was appreciated:

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

“It is funny hearing the war again after being on leave so long. We
had quite a good crossing, although I had a deuce of a time getting
on to the boat at Folkestone. The silly ass of a porter had carted
all my baggage on board, including the leave warrant, which was
in my British-warm pocket. I had to persuade the A.M.L.O.[28] I
wasn’t a Hun spy, and, after a long discussion, he let me on.

“The Major seemed pleased to have me back, and they all had great
stories to tell about our ‘stunt merchant,’[29] who had been
putting up a jolly good show by bringing down umpteen[30] Huns. His
star turn was the shooting up of an aerodrome. He started off at
dawn by himself and arrived over the aerodrome he had planned to
attack. Finding that there was nothing doing here, he pushed off to
look for trouble elsewhere. Suddenly he saw the hangars of another
aerodrome. He attacked these with much gusto, and when the Huns
came up to do him down, he crashed two of them and drove another
into the trees. He also managed to flatten out a large number of
mechanics and put pukka wind up the rest. You can imagine how the
fat old Huns ran, as nothing like this had ever happened to them
before. I believe his name has been put in for something big in the
decoration line.

“It has been arranged that we get one day off in every three,
which gives us a bit of spare time. We had ours off to-day. Four
of us aviated over to Paris-Plage, near Etaples, this afternoon
and tested our grids by firing into the sea. Afterwards we landed
opposite the Hôtel Continental and left our machines there under a
guard. We wandered about the village for a bit, and then started
for home, stunting[31] about to amuse the populace, which had
collected on the front to see us off. We all got home safely just
as it was getting dark.”