Walking through the gate at Bertincourt aerodrome, I was surprised at how rustic everything looked. A simple field with a few hangars at the back, and an administration building with workshops off to the side. In the corner of the field, the English Union Jack flag waved dejectedly in the slight breeze. We were so close to the front lines of the Western Front I could hear the constant deep booming of the artillery not far away. Did that shelling continue day and night? A shiver ran up my spine at the thought.
It is October, 1916. France has been torn in two by the Great War. Germany and the nations under her treaties have made an all-out effort to capture Paris and bend Europe to their will. France has checked them, with the help of the British and Belgians, along a line of trenches that stretches from the mountains of Switzerland all the way to the North Sea. Every day soldiers endure the mud, disease and misery of the trenches looking for a way to push the enemy back, and finding none.
Not me though. They can keep their trenches and squalor. From the moment I saw my first flying machine I knew that was my calling- soaring above the Lines, drifting among the heavens with the chaos left far below. If I had to come and fight this war, then this was the war for me.
I'd been posted as a pilot to the Western Front with No. 3 squadron. Being assigned to a British squadron, I had high hopes of being given a Sopwith Pup to fly, as it was a joy to control and more than a match for Germany's latest scouts and antiquated Eindeckers. Imagine my surprise to find the whole squadron outfitted with Nieuports instead- a diminutive but nevertheless gutsy French biplane scout.
Someone notices me staring dumfounded at the aircraft and saunters over to say hello. 'I'm Mulberry,' he offers a hand. 'Leader of B flight. You must be the new chap. Come and meet the C.O. and we'll get you a bunk sorted.' He leads me to the office of the Commanding Officer, filling me in on the particulars of the squadron. Apparently they've gained something of a reputation for 'balloon busting,' a tricky task to accomplish, Mulberry assures me. I tell him I'm looking forward to getting my hands dirty, and his brow darkens. 'It's good to be keen, but no heroics, understand? We lose more pilots to heroics than you can imagine.'
My meeting with the C.O. went quickly enough, and after a quick circuit of the field in a Nieuport I was lying on my bunk contemplating how different this was to what I expected. British airmen in French planes, a base right at the Front made out of a repurposed farm, and that shelling! It would get on my nerves before too long, I thought. Then I remembered there were soldiers sitting in dugouts underneath that shelling, day in, day out. Suddenly my troubles didn't seem so bad.
Mulberry pops his head in the doorway and asks how I'm getting on. When he learns I'm properly settled in, he tells me he's got a show to run over the lines shortly, and wonders if I'd like to come along. 'A good opportunity to get your bearings and see a few landmarks' he says. I accept.
With me included, there's four of us on this mission. Mulberry insists I fly in no. 2 position as his wingman, with the other experienced pilots, Scott and O'Leary, on the outside. 'Don't fret Laddie, we'll keep you nice and warm in the middle' jokes O'Leary as we walk out to our scouts. With our engines running, I'm gripped with sudden fear. Not of death, but that I'll do something wrong and earn their disapproval. It's my first mission- and I fear I don't know what I'm doing.
And yet, when my little Nieuport lifts off the ground, all my anxiety falls away behind me. We are climbing, soaring upwards into the blue. Bertincourt shrinks to the size of a postage stamp below, and in the distance, rivers and roads criss-cross the landscape. I'll have to get to know all of them, I think, as Mulberry gets us up to about 7000 feet before turning towards the Lines. I stay right in my place on his left shoulder- determined not to lose my position.
Our task is simple enough- we're to circle above a pair of our observation balloons and guard them against any Germans that come prowling around hoping to shoot them down. From these balloons, our observers can see for miles into enemy territory, noting down troop movements, supply trains, and ammo dumps. It can't be overstated how important this information is. If we spot a concentration of troops and supplies, we can anticipate an assault from the enemy. Because of this, observation balloons are prime targets, and heavily defended with a ring of Anti-Air guns below, and usually scouts above. We must keep our balloons aloft at all cost, and destroy the enemy's as soon as we can.
We get into position above the balloons and begin a wide circle. The novelty of my first real war flight soon wears off as I find myself consumed with keeping position near Mulberry, who stalks the sky in a never ending slow bank to the left. No sooner do I find myself wishing something would happen when Mulberry waggles his wings- the warning signal! Abruptly he banks across my nose and disappears to the left. I scan the sky ahead and see nothing unusual. But when I look to my left, I see our Nieuports diving into a wild aerial melee with as many Germans. I've been caught napping! I rush towards the tangle of machines, hoping to do my part.
All three of my wingmen were making a bee-line for the nearest enemy scout- it looked like an Albatros D.II. This was Germany's latest single seater, a shark-like biplane with twin Spandau machine guns- twice the firepower on one of our Nieuports. But three Nieuports firing at once was a different story. The Albatros crumpled under their combined fire and fell like a stone out of the sky. One second there, the next utterly destroyed. I was shocked at the speed with which it was shot down, but had no time to dwell as my wingmen all turned to chase the next enemy.
I turned after them, but by this stage the echelon formation we'd flown thus far had been abandoned in the fray. The next German was more alert, and banked hard to avoid the attack. My wingmen all jostled for position, flying across my nose. Being at the back of the pack, I saw little sense in risking collision with the rest of my flight so I pulled away, looking for other enemies. Presently I found an Albie not too far away, banking around to the left. I pulled up towards it and fired a burst, but it went wide. Still, this caused the enemy to pull up in a loop, and as he reached the zenith, a stream of lead from my right poured into the machine and sent it blazing down after the first. Two of my wingmen zoomed past me -it was impossible to tell which was which- before the three of us headed for a distant enemy, me once again at the rear.
Puffs of smoke were bursting in mid-air around the enemy scout- these were shells fired from our Anti-Aircraft gunners below- brazenly firing into the sky amongst friend and foe alike. As the three of us drew near, the German dodged to the right, my wingmen not getting a clear shot. Having more time to react, I swung my machine around to get on his tail, but he reversed direction and rolled above my guns, and my shot was denied as well.
Glancing over my tail to see if my wingmen were still in pursuit, I caught a glimpse of another Nieuport dogfighting two Germans behind and below me- just how many of the enemy were there!?
I left the dodger in the hands of the two wingmen close-by, and swung myself around to help out the lone Nieuport behind me. When my nose lined up with him, there was only one Albatros in sight, and as I drew near I could see he was badly damaged, peppered with bullet holes from the lone Nieuport. Before I closed to firing range, his final burst sent the Albatros falling away to oblivion.
Checking the skies all around, I could see no sign of the others. The sky above me was clear, so I banked my scout on its side to get a look at the ground underneath. Far below me, a Nieuport and Albatross circled each other near a big white circular object. Was that one of the balloons? Their fight had lost a lot of height. I didn't want to stray too far from my wingmen but I didn't want to lose too much height either, in case more enemies appeared above us. So I circled, keeping an eye on the fight below so that the German couldn't escape. Periodically one or the other aeroplane would disappear behind one of my wings, only to reappear as I circled around. First one, then two wingmen appeared down at the low-level scrap.
When the third appeared down there as well I became suddenly alarmed that I was up high completely alone. I used my blip switch to disengage the engine periodically, and spiraled down to rejoin them. Before I got there the last German was driven down, and Mulberry evidently thought we had served our dues, because he turned for our aerodrome and started climbing.
Rejoining the flight in my proper position, I noticed that Scott's Nieuport was badly shot up. There were so many holes around the engine I was surprised it was still running. But there he was, keeping in his place at the far end of the echelon.
As we flew back to base, my heart-rate steadied again for the first time since the fight had begun. How long had it lasted? 20 seconds? 30? It all seemed to whizz by so fast. As I sat there watching Scott flying alongside us, torn fabric flapping in the slipstream around his engine cowling, I felt suddenly ashamed of myself. I hadn't shot down a single enemy. Hadn't even hit one! How the others managed such accurate bursts through the rattle and flash of their guns was a mystery to me. I had been useless on this sortie, nothing but a dead-weight getting in their way as they jockeyed around the sky. How did they fly so close together in combat without hitting each other? I had so much to learn, I mused, thinking of the gentle turns and fair weather flying we had trained in back in England. This was the
real training right here, in the war itself. I prayed I would live long enough to learn the ropes out here.
We touched down back at Bertincourt, and I taxied up to the hangars. Mechanics excitedly swarmed around Scott's machine as he explained to them how he got it in such a state. O'Leary and Mulberry walked over to me, catching up just as I got my feet back onto the ground. Their beaming faces were full of the thrill of battle, with none of the scorn or disappointment in me that I had expected. 'How did you find it?' asked Mulberry, as O'Leary wiped engine oil from around his own face. 'Grand, just grand' I replied, searching for the words to describe the ride of my life. 'I'm afraid I lost track of how many there were, Sir. Did you shoot any of them down?' Mulberry gave O'Leary a playful punch in the shoulder. 'I got two of them. I would have had a third if this cheeky blighter here hadn't stolen it off me!' O'Leary feigned insult. 'I let you chase the bastard for half the afternoon. I just popped a few shots into his engine to end his misery... and yours!'
Wanting to join in on their laughter, Scott approached. 'Did you see that acrobat trying a loop near the start? That's the first flamer I've got while the turkey was upside down!' I started: 'I saw that! I wasn't sure who got him though... everyone was firing at once.' With this O'Leary piped up. 'You hear that Scott? Probably wasn't even your kill, you dozy beggar!' 'Oi, I got that Hun fair and square O'Leary- and got shot to pieces for my troubles, I'll have you know!' Scott retorted, trying not to laugh. 'It was a good kill, Scott...' Mulberry offered. '...But you need to be more aware of your surroundings. The leader of that second bunch nearly had you for dinner.' 'Second bunch!?' I was confused. Mulberry started counting on his gloved fingers. 'Let's see now, we had three Albatroses in the first bust-up, and before we were finished with them a second pair joined the fray. The leader of that pair was the last one to fall. He was the one who shot up Scott and flamed both of the balloons.
'By Jove' I said. 'I'd forgotten all about the balloons. I'm afraid I wasn't much of a guard today.' Mulberry threw his arm around my shoulders to cheer me up. 'You didn't get shot down on your first show, and stayed with the flight without getting lost. That's good enough for me. They may have got our balloons, but they paid the ultimate price for it, all thanks to us.' As we all started walking over to the Mess Hall for some tea, my spirits already started lifting. Maybe I was going to like it here after all...
