What a morning. The pilots of 1st and 2nd flight were abruptly roused by Soubiran, who had come into our Barracks with the express purpose of shaking us all out of our dreams. Woozily we staggered next-door into the Mess, where Soubiran gave us our briefing. Given the circumstances, we were all allowed to eat our breakfast as we received our orders. However, we wouldn't have much of an appetite after hearing what the day had in store.
2nd. Flight was tasked with shooting up a Bosche aerodrome at Carignan, about 30 miles behind the German lines. 1st. Flight would be present in order to deter any fighter threats. Naturally, Soubiran was eager to lead by example and opted to take command of 2nd. Flight. We appreciated the sentiment, but many of the more experienced men were appalled at the mere notion of flying at low level so far into German territory. I must admit, I was excited. The folly of inexperience!
Nothing much was said that morning, apart from Soubiran's orders. Instead, we quietly made our way to our machines,which awaited us on the airfield. As I boarded my SPAD I saw Larner partaking in his usual routine of lighting three cigarettes off the same match. We ascended and headed towards the climbing point. No sign of "Je Vois Tout" today - I guess he'd seen enough to earn himself a rest.
We reached our altitude and turned towards St. Mihiel with the intention of making a dash straight through the German 'pocket' in the lines towards Verdun. Luckily for us, no Germans decided to impede our progress, and we made it across fairly easily. From Verdun we headed further North-West, before settling onto our final course at the French front-lines. We followed the Meuse river on its flowing path towards our target, the whole time scanning for Bosche machines. Whereas the more well-versed men were seaching for scouts, I, the inexperienced man, was hoping to spot a lone Biplace.
About 10 miles into Bosche lines the flak started up at us, bursting in foreboding clouds around our formation. 1st. Flight, sitting above us, looked down on us with concern. To our discomfort, the flak was more accurate than we were used to, and I saw Monk wallowing left and right slightly to throw their aim. I copied this trick, although in hindsight I doubt it did much for us. At one point the artillery got especially bad, and I looked down to see that we were crossing over a Hun airfield. Not our target. I must admit, the flak put the fear in me something fierce and before long I had climbed above my flight. I felt utterly ashamed as I peered over at them taking the brunt of the artillery, and once it had died down sufficiently I promptly dropped my SPAD back down into the formation. Although I got a glance from Monk, none of the pilots seemed to chastise me. I guess they must all have felt the fear of flak early on in their flying days.
Very soon we were over another Bosche airfield. This time I steeled myself and resolved not to leave my flight's side. The flak went off all around me in terrifying bursts, but I 'stuck to my guns', as they say, and flew on. Suddenly I saw Soubiran's machine rattling violently, and a second later he had split off and was headed straight back the way we came. Had he been hit? Engine trouble? We all nervously glanced at each other as we flew on towards our target without our C.O.
Despite Soubiran's absence, we reached the target and proceeded to drop altitude. By this point the artillery had whipped itself up into a frenzy. One flak burst went off intimidatingly close to my machine, causing it to rock upwards in the air. Muttering curses under my breath, I focused on the task at hand. Once I had recovered from the initial shock, my attention drifted towards an unsettling whistling sound coming from my machine, and a dull ache worked its way into my mind. I looked down to see lines of blood trickling down my left forearm and thigh...several fine cuts had appeared, no doubt due to some overenthusiastic shrapnel from the close flak burst! A warmth underneath my flying scarf informed me that I'd been gotten in the face by the shards as well. I leaned out the left side of my machine to see how it had fared, and my stomach turned at the sight of a greeny-white trail of fuel, steadily evacuating my newly-holed petrol tank. God, not here! What do I do? I thought. My two options were to press the attack with my formation and pray that I would have the fuel left to get home, or break off now and face 30 miles of hostile skies alone. I racked my brain as I flew, before finally deciding that, despite hating the thought of leaving my flight, I had to turn back.
I snapped my SPAD Southwards and begun to climb away, reluctantly watching my flight as they continued onwards towards the Bosche aerodrome. Cursing the flak gunners, I continued to ascend in order to avoid taking a second hit on my way home. My plane felt unresponsive - I feared the damage was much worse than was evident to me at the moment. The damn flak gunners, seeing that I had split from the formation, turned their full attention to me. Another close burst went off near me, then another.
Suddenly, my revolutions started to drop at a horrifying rate. Oh no, please, not now! I begged, looking on helplessly as my RPM dropped from 2000 to 1600, then down to 1000. The Germans on the ground really had my number now, and one burst sent shards flying through my windscreen. I flinched as one glanced off the side of my flying cap. I knew I couldn't stay in the air any longer or they'd get me for sure, and so I said a prayer and dipped my nose, looking for a suitable field. Everything felt dreamlike as I descended, 30 miles inside enemy territory.
In one nauseating instant my propeller began to windmill, and then stopped dead. My head spinning, I aimed for a relatively flat patch of field in front of me. To my amazement, the flak still went up at me as if I were flying perfectly normally! Those twisted b*stards on the ground must have been so desperate for a victory that merely forcing me down wasn't enough to satiate their bloodlust. The ground rushed up to greet me and so, with no other choice, I obliged.
I sat in my cockpit, numb with fear. What was going to happen to me...? Would I be excecuted? Tortured? I've heard what they say about Germans in the papers. It seemed like nonsense - but what if it was true?
Calm down, Frisk! What are you supposed to do?. I climbed out of the plane, scanning my surroundings. . The machine. Burn the machine.. I lit a cigarette, and tossed the match into the cockpit of my SPAD. Immediately, flames begun licking out from underneath the dashboard. Just then, a single shot cracked past my head, and I dropped down in terror before looking behind me, the cigarette dropping out of my mouth. On the road several feet away stood a group of grey-clad figures, all pointing rifles my way. I turned to make a break for a treeline nearby, but a second shot impacted the earth in front of me, followed by a distant voice; "Halt, Amerikaner!". I needed no more encouragement after that, and my hands promptly found themselves above my head.
The Bosche infantrymen walked over to me, rifles implying death at every step of the way. When they reached me one German, apparently their commanding officer, stepped forwards and spoke to me in accented, yet perfectly clear, English:
"So, American, you are now a prisoner of war. Come with us or we will shoot you". As I said, perfectly clear. They led me to an infantry truck which I was promptly bundled into the back of. Two Germans sat close on either side of me, while the Bosche officer sat across the way, regarding me with tired eyes. To my amazement, he offered to replace my lost cigarette with one of his own. I hesitated a moment before accepting his offer and nodding my thanks. He lit my cigarette, and sighed. "Don't look so sorry - your war is over. You survived" he muttered.
After that we drove in silence for another fifteen minutes before a great commotion came from the drivers' cab. The German in the passenger seat turned round and excitedly shouted something at the officer. A sharp, barked reply warranted us to veer off the road with alarming speed and roll to a stop. Again the Germans, save for my two guards, piled out the back of the truck. Moments later I was hit with Deja Vu as a single gunshot rung out followed by the command of "Amerikaner, Halt! Jetzt!" A few moments passed before an Aviator was thrown through the flap of the truck, swearing under his breath. The unfortunate pilot rose to his feet before being pushed down onto the bench and boxed-in by two Germans like I was.
We looked across at each other, and I blinked in surprise. "Wilson?" I asked, and the pilot squinted in the darkness. "Is that you, Drummond? What are you doing here?". "Same as you, dummy!" I shouted, earning a sharp command from one German soldier, followed by a pistol barrel in my face. I reckon it translated roughly to "Stop Talking, Please".
We drove for roughly an hour before stopping and abruptly being ordered from the truck. We were met with the sight of some kind of temporary camp, surrounded by barbed wire and crudely-build guard towers. I guessed that it was only going to be our temporary accomodation while the Germans decided what to do with us. As we were escorted towards the entrance, a bullet-holed wooden sign had the words "HOTEL BAYERISCHER" painted in red, It looked uncomfortably similar to blood as it swung above the checkpointed entryway.
After being stripped of our personal effects and our flying coats, we were marched into a Barracks full of filthy P.O.Ws, who scarecely bothered looking up at our arrival. We were shown to our 'bunks', if you can call them that - the mattresses were badly holed and rock-hard, and there were no covers - and before we had even sat down the Germans had quick-stepped out and slammed the door shut. No sooner had they left than the barracks burst into life - some Americans came over and patted us on the back and one inquisitive British pilot rushed over to Wilson and begun pestering him with questions about life in the U.S.A.S.
Suddenly the finality dawned on me, and I fell backwards on to my bed. I had lost. My war was done. I would be here until it ended. I held my head in my hands, despairing privately. When I again looked up, a ragged British pilot was staring at me intently. Warily, I stared back. After a while, he leaned closer to me, shot a glance towards the door, and spoke to me in a raspy Scottish accent;
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