A Bluenoser’s War: the letters of 2d Lieut. Michael Colin McKinnon, R.F.C.
"... there was a brilliant flash that reflected off all the fabric of my Nieuport."
15 April 1917
Dear Robbie,
Action at last! Kennedy woke me and Pope at 4 o’clock this morning. He is supposed to bring us tea and biscuits. The saucer was awash with tea and the biscuits were dissolving into it. There’s something about the fellow I distrust. Some evil thought inside my head suggests it was intentional. In any event, he announced with undisguised glee that I was due to fly into Darkest Hunland in forty minutes.
Our mission was to attack a Hun aerodrome close to the town of Douai. From what I’ve been told, Douai is to the Hunnish air service what Picadilly Circus is to London buses. It is also the better part of 20 miles over the lines so any damage from anti-aircraft fire or ground fire can leave you stranded. I’m not sure of I mentioned it before, but anti-aircraft fire is always referred to here as “Archie.” Anyway, we were airborne at 4:45 and flew directly into the rising sun. Your neck sure gets sore from looking all about at times like this. They say that when you’re new like me it is really hard to spot other machines until they are on top of you. That is why so many new pilots don’t make it through the first fortnight at the front. I have resolved not to be one of the unfortunate.
There were five of us including Major Scott, who was leading – Molesworth, Whealdon, Pope, and me. As we drew closer to Douai, the Archie started up in earnest. There was a bright flash directly in front of my Nieuport and I flew through the better-smelling smoke an instant later. Two more explosions close by rocked my machine. I climbed a little and drifted off to the right. That’s when I noticed Major Scott. He was waiving his right arm furiously and pointing directly at me. He gestured for me to retake my position in the formation. The major looked for all the world like a schoolmaster telling a naughty boy to “come up and sit in the front row where I can see you.” As I tucked in beside his machine he continued to shake his head in disgust. I tried not to let it bother me but I could remember snatches of the commander’s welcoming speech the day I got here. “Any pilot who shows me a yellow streak will be cut out of the squadron like a cancerous growth,” he had said.
We approached the Hun aerodrome from the south and cross directly over it before turning and diving to shoot the place up. I throttled well back and even blipped the engine. There is a button on the control column that cuts power to the spark plugs. You can press it momentarily to slow the machine down. Nieuports have a bad habit of shedding their wings in a dive. The way the bottom wing attaches to the fuselage is odd. There is a friction collar that bolts onto a wooden ring on the fuselage main spar. If that wooden ring is worn or shrunken, the whole wing can twist under stress. That sort of thing is very unhealthy! So I’m following Major Scott down and he suddenly turns away from the hangers he was about to shoot at and pulls up into the right. That’s when I noticed for the first time two enemy scouts – a type called the Albatros – and they are taking off from the field below. Scott overshoots them but I’m in perfect position to turn behind them. I fire about 50 rounds into one of them from very close range and see him wobble and fall away to one side. I’m sure I got him and reported his actions when I got back and filled out my combat report. I turned towards the south and I saw the second Hun machine over the nearby village and had a quick go at it. It dived away at low altitude and I thought I had it too, but again I could not be sure.
We returned to Filescamp Farm and gave our reports to Lieutenant Guy, the Recording Officer. There is an art to this exercise. One requires a certain bluff, manly tone. Understatement is essential, but not too much understatement or your claim will be discarded. I mentioned shooting at the two Huns. Guy questioned me like a barrister: “Did you see the machine fall?” Me: “Yes, Mr Guy. I saw it begin to fall.” Guy: “Begin to fall? As in, you saw it begin to move downwards?” Me: “That is correct.” Guy: “You do realise, McKinnon, that aeroplanes often go up and often go down…” Laughter ensues.
Needless to say, neither Hun was considered a victory, nor even what they call a “driven down.” Driven down claims do not count as victories but merit a pat on the back. In any event, when I went to the mess for my second breakfast – the real one, not the boiled egg and tea at 4:20 in the morning – there was great fun to be had at my expense.
We were back up at 11:30 this morning and the job was a tough one. Headquarters wanted a German observation balloon up near Lille removed. Attacking balloons is one of the most feared jobs we get because every balloon is well defended by machine guns and crack Archie gunners, not to mention the chance of a defensive patrol overhead. For this show we were equipped with French rockets that are fired electronically from tubes attached to the V-struts on our wings. Pidders briefed me quickly on their use. Essentially he told me that if I crashed into the side of the balloon and then fired the rockets, I should have a 50/50 chance of a hit.
As I walked towards the hangar I saw the Major standing with his two canes in front of one of the waiting Nieuports. He motioned for me to come over. When I got there, he asked me if I understood his signal this morning. I told him that I understood he did not want me taking evasive action for Archie. “Correct,” he said. “That is the leader’s job. You had me worried that you were a flincher, McKinnon. But you did well over Riencourt. I saw you turn on that Hun and close in on him despite the very heavy ground fire in your direction. That was the sort of stout stuff I want to see in the squadron.”
I felt very good about myself after that chat but was disconcerted by his mention of ground fire. I had been blissfully unaware that the Huns were shooting at me the whole time! Anyway, I gave the boss a bluff and manly “Thank you, sir,” and headed for my machine.
The flight to Lille was uneventful. Captain Pidcock led, flanked by Bishop and Lloyd with me and Whealdon on the outside of our V-shaped formation. Pope brought up the rear about 200 yards behind and a little above. The balloon showed up clearly from three miles away. Most of them are a dirty brown colour but this one was shiny and new, almost silvery. I cocked the Lewis gun above my wing (our squadron has a specially designed cocking handle so the gun does not have to be lowered in flight to be charged). Pidders had not given detailed orders about the attack so I took it upon myself to open my throttle and charge ahead of the others. I began firing 250 yards out and continued until the last instant. A moment before pulling off to the left of the balloon, I toggled the switch for the rockets. There was a whoosh. I didn’t see the rockets actually launch because I was too busy not crashing into the observation balloon. But there was a brilliant flash that reflected off all the fabric of my Nieuport. The balloon had exploded and I was the only one at that point who had fired at it. We got back to Filescamp Farm and there was much hooting and hollering and patting of back. Bishop asked me if I saw the balloon go all the way down. He was smiling but I wasn’t sure what to make of the comment. Pidders told the RO that the victory was mine without a shred of doubt.
Major Scott has a chalk board in the mess where pilots’ scores are kept. It felt very good watching Guy print my name and the numeral 1 beside it.
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