Much Ado From Nothing
21 September 1917
Aerodrome hangar
2100 hoursThe weather had turned too windy to fly for two days, but rather than feeling good about it (as we normally did), we were eager to take the skies. We were down to just three in the flight; the stress of the first bite of combat had proven too poisonous for one of our new pilots. Rather than face a German Maxim or Spandau he had turned his revolver against himself - Rene said the meat would probably be hanging in the branches above where he ended himself next year.
It was so depressing and horrific that we naturally turned to the darkest of humor, particularly after the second bottle of wine.
"We should do it," Lafayette suggested.
"Why?"
"It would get us out of flying for awhile."
"Getting shot in the head will do that," I admitted, "but it doesn't always work out that way." I pulled back my cap to show him the scar from when I was stabbed through my flying cap by a piece of my Nieuport 17 in what seemed like a lifetime ago.
"No, not in the head," he corrected, "in the leg. We could take turns."
"I've seen him shoot," said a voice behind us, "he's liable to miss and turn you into a eunich, Lieutenant."
We both jumped, startled. It was our frustrating Executive Officer, and it couldn't be good news if he had turned up.
"The weather looks like it will improve tomorrow," which meant
you will be flying even if there is a herd tornadoes twisting the skies ten deep, "but I want you to perform a small patrol behind our lines to give your new man more experience."
"Well, there are always convoys over where Escadrille 89 is setting up," Lafayette suggested.
"Do it," he ordered, then added "have either of you seen Forager? Another Nieuport 17 has gone missing from a hangar near Rheims and he's been nowhere to be found."
We laughed. That scarred peg legged Artillery observer was definately a wild card - and the fact that he didn't belong to a proper Escadrille meant that he had to pretty much come up with his own plane and parts. Even his mechanic was a one-off; he looked and sounded more like a young girl than a man (except for the exceptional use of profanity that never failed to impress even the most hardened non-commissioned officers) and never wore anything but a baggy set of coveralls.
"It's rumored he's holed up in a small village near that area," the Exec continued, "or at least I think so, judging by the items being stolen from the 89th."
We stoppered the bottle and made our way to our beds. It did not pay to fly even a nothing mission like that with too much of a hangover.
The morning came with remarkably calm skies and no more than ten or twelve mile an hour winds, when one counted in the gusts. We placed our neophyte between us and started our engines before they cooled from the mechanic's run ups.
We made quite a sight flying in a V formation, climbing over the farm house that made our first waypoint.
At the bridge that marked our second, though, Jaques dipped his plane to verify it was the right bridge and turned to the right, diving below me.
I lost sight of him and banked slightly, slowing.
I slammed the throttle shut and pulled up as he filled the front of my cowling!
Too close a call for something as mundane as a simple truck convoy circling lark!
As we crossed over a small farm I spied something that looked suspiciously like a Nieuport next to one of the houses. I smiled at the thought of not saying one word about it.
I had become distracted, though, and lost station with the other two. Fine example I was showing for our new flight member.
Lafayette's SPAD glinted in the sunlight, a hazard of having freshly doped linen.
He didn't continue to circle, however. He straightened up towards the north and raced forward, as if he had seen the Hun.
Incredibly, he had - and this was no lone recon aircraft! Three two seaters in Lafayette's bit and four scouts to the right of them. We'd have our work cut out for us.
I punched one of them in the nose, trying for the radiator or better yet the pilot.
And then plowed through the formation of scouts, hoping that A) they wouldn't be gray with red noses and B) that it would disrupt them.
No real luck on either count!
I did manage to get a pair of the Jerry's attentions, though, and they made a quick turn for me.
I let him pass under me and went for the second.
Fresh meat! He made the fatal error of turning away from my guns - clearly an inexperienced pilot.
He realized his mistake a bit late - I gave him some of my good French lead as he dove away.
To my right was another Albatros, and I made for him.
Perhaps he was looking for his flight or staying high and looking low for easy prey; either way he didn't see me.
I introduced myself to him.
He corkscrewed away as linen flew like confetti from his fuselage, but I didn't dive with him.
Indeed, I didn't see anyone.
Where did they all go?
Low to protect the two seaters, idiot! I yelled to myself.
I rolled into the turn and got back into the game. The German didn't see me rush at him.
Roaring past him, not bothering to see if he went down, I looked back to see there was a lot to think about.
I caught a glipse of a SPAD gliding down towards the treeline at the bottom of my vision.
No time to worry about it, though, as an Alby presented itself to my guns.
He rolled lazily towards the trees and I looked about for other prey.
Another was giving a SPAD some grief, and I moved quickly to intercept.
My angles were bad and I pitched down hard to disrupt his attack.
He flashed past me, escaping my vision, and I turned reflexively towards the planes that were behind me.
Rotten two-seaters!
I stitched the first from nose to tail, but it seemed to do little to him.
Passing them, I turned against them to go for another try.
The incredible speed of the SPAD makes one a very hard target for the observers, so I screamed past the two trailing ones...
...and set fire to the lead.
I ducked down to turn and engage the other two.
A Nieuport 28 crossed me from right to left - I guess the 89th had started to arrive to their new home and decided to join in the fun!
Unfortunately, so did one of those Hun scouts.
Perhaps his engine had been taxed too hard, but he was definately flying much more slowly than they normally do; climbing did not help his cause one bit, though I found great utility in it.
He rolled away from me.
Ahead a SPAD with a shattered lower wing was limping towards our aerodrome, adding urgency to the matter of this German.
It was frighteningly simple, and I am convinced he must have been wounded or overcome with panic.
As I came into range, he did little to evade me - and I was proven wrong in my guess; with his damaged rudder he had little choice.
Indeed, my guns quickly tore it from him, and I rolled hard away from him to avoid being struck by it.
Incredibly, he managed to land it and was taken prisoner!
And ugly smear scarred the sky to the south as I moved to where the grey bombers were.
I whooped loudly as Forager's striped (and informally requisioned) Nieuport swooped about.
I had clearly lost mental count of the single seaters, as one flew along the road below me.
Perhaps he was performing that lazy circle in surrender or in looking for a good place to land.
Or maybe he was playing possum, as I'd seen them do before. No need to take a chance.
I didn't need to follow the scout down; the puff of red that came from the cockpit told the tale. There were other matters to atttend to.
Seeing the the Nieuport 28's had turned off from the observer's guns I made a try for him - and the observer tried for me. Smoke from our guns ran past each other. Mine struck true while he struck out.
Perhaps the engine died. Maybe I had struck the pilot. Either way he struck the ground hard, flipping over.
Looking about I found no more of the enemy, so I began to fly north. There were two aerodromes that way, and I thought maybe Lafayette might have landed at one of them since his wing was damaged (there is no way that a rookie would be flying while Lafayette had crashed into the trees). Not finding him there, I went further north until I saw two planes approaching from a higher altitude.
I had checked and recharged my guns, but there was no need!
The compass showed my course was true, and the instuments made me satisfied that everything was in order.
Almost immediately, of course, the engine simply quit running!
Maybe that gunner hadn't struck out after all.
There were good fields to pick from, and I picked one close to a farmer's road.
I sat there for a long time and pounded the leather around the cockpit with my fist. So much for a "nothing" mission.
Carefully unscrewing the timepiece from the panel, I walked to the road and rode on the back of a farmer's cart to the 89th's aerodromes. Telephone calls were made and I lounged around the mess hall while I waited for our own trucks to arrive to carry me and Number 17 back home.
Forty minutes later Jaques came limping in, his flight suit torn down one leg, a nasty gash having turned it red. His right sleeve was blackened and singed from elbow to shoulder, and he had a wild look about him. Leaves and twigs were matted in his hair.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"Landed in a tree."
"What?"
"Landed in a tree." he repeated flatly. "Caught fire and had to jump," he added.
"Jump?" I asked.
"Landed in a
big tree. Had to jump out when it caught fire."
"The tree caught fire?"
"No," he corrected as if talking to someone very stupid, "the plane caught fire. It was up in the tree."
It took it on face value, and we sat and said nothing until the trucks arrived an hour later.
That afternoon we regained our composure, and it came out that it was indeed Jaques that I saw gliding into the forest. He had brought it into a three point attitude at stall when he struck a very large oak that he said "grabbed the SPAD with its fist" some twelve feet off of the ground. He was unbuckling and wondering how he was going to get down when the petrol ignited; this hastened the decision making process exponentially and he simply lept to the ground, catching a branch that slashed his leg.
It's the sort of event one simply doesn't make up since it is entirely too unlikely to have actually happened.
Our flight mate was missing.
Just about dusk we heard the unmistakeable sound of a German triplane approach the aerodrome. We couldn't see him, and he was flying so low that the sound was bouncing around to defy direction. The bright green Fokker rolled so steeply we could see the yellow stripe on the top center wing as a parcel was thrown from it. Just as quickly he disappeared to the west, and since the sky was darkening we made no effort to pursue.
The most junior man - one of our sentries - was sent out to collect it (since we didn't know if it was a bomb of some sort) and, after many instructions to put his ear against it and shake it vigorously, brought it to us. The Commander unwrapped it to reveal a boquet of flowers and a note, which he handed to me.
Sergeant Miller, you are invited to meet with me at two thousand meters altitude over the front north of Reims at two o'clock tomorrow afternoon. You may bring one man to be your second.
Cordially,
Oberst Meuller
