Introducing 2nd Lieutenant Robert Bertram Lindley RFC
Baizieux aerodrome turned out to be a collection of huts, tents and hangars on the east side of the hamlet that gave its name. The army were resting soldiers here and so the entire facility dwarfed the little French settlement. Half way along the landing area was a windmill, which looked to be in working order. It wasn’t turning today as the tender turned south to reach the squadron offices of 23 squadron RFC.
The driver leaned over his shoulder to peer at the thin and scrawny looking youth sat on one of the benches in the back. “This is you, sir,” the driver said. “Do you need a hand with your bag?”
The young man had a pilot’s wings on his maternity jacket and a second lieutenant’s pip on his shoulder. Both looked new and completely out of place on their owner, who jumped down and dragged his valise toward him. “I shall be fine, thank you,” he replied.
There was a middle aged captain in the office as the new pilot opened the door. He looked up with a smile.
“Ah, replacement? Very good. Major Leighton is over at Wing for a meeting. I’m Captain Pye-Smith, the adjutant, recording officer and anything else they throw my way. What’s your name, subaltern?”
The new arrival looked confused for a moment. “’Subaltern’ sir?”
“Another word for second lieutenant,”Pye explained. “Perhaps old fashioned nowadays, but I find it breaks up all the ‘lieutenants' to say it every now and then.”
“I see sir. My name is Lindley.”
Pye consulted a list. “Lindley... ah yes. We have you in C flight. Captain Patrick is your flight leader. I’ll have a man take you over to C flight squadron office.”
C flights squadron office was a small shed behind the hangars that Lindley would soon find held the flight’s aeroplanes. A desk and a filing cabinet occupied most of the space inside. A man with captain's insignia on his shoulder and a bemused expression on his face looked up from his stack of paperwork.
“You'll be the replacement then?” The officer was only a little older than Lindley. His accent was that of a home counties education, but the way he pronounced ‘you'll' hinted at a Scottish origin.
“I am sir,” Lindley replied. “Lindley's the name.”
“A pleasure, I’m sure. I am Captain Patrick. It might say Kennedy-Cochran-Patrick on the paperwork, but rest assured it’s me.” He stood up and came around the desk. “What hours do you have, solo?”
“Twenty-four sir.”
“By God! That's nothing!” Patrick was aghast.
“My instructor said that I was needed at the Front,” Lindley explained as Patrick gave him a sour look.
“Do you at least have some time on Spads?”
“The last hour was in a Spad, sir. That was yesterday at Candas.” A look of concern appeared on Lindley's face, “You aren’t going to send me back are you sir?”
“I can’t afford to, Lindley. However, I’m shocked at your lack of experience. This is the sharp end of the sword, and I desperately need good pilots. Okay, Lindley. Get in 1591 and take her on a few laps of the aerodrome. Show me that you aren’t an idiot.”
“Shall I stow my kit away first, sir?
“I shouldn’t bother with that second lieutenant. Not yet, anyway. Show me how you fly.”
As Lindley went off to find mechanics to wheel his aeroplane out, another pilot wandered over to Patrick. “Hello Pat,” he said in a gentle Irish accent. “Is this the new boy?”
The pair watched as Lindley looked at the side of the Spad as though he did not know how to climb up into the cockpit. O’Grady, the Irish pilot took out a hip flask. He took a sip.
“What’s his name?” O’Grady offered the flask to his flight commander. Patrick took it.
He screwed up his face in an effort to remember. “Lindsay? It might not matter anyway.” He took a pull. “This is the Irish stuff. Pure filth.” He had another sip anyway.
“What would a Jock like you know about good whiskey? Shall I get the fire truck to stand by?”
“Better had.”
Lindley took longer to run up the field than Patrick expected. The new pilot was clearly being cautious with the stall speed of an unfamiliar machine. Once unstuck and climbing above the French countryside, Lindley marvelled at how close the town of Albert was. It was practically within touching distance. He couldn’t really see much below him. The large cockpit of the Spad felt very secure, but also very closed in. He hoped that he could make good use of the spaces he could see through the extra wing bracing struts.
The landing run was fast, the Spad bumped horribly across the grass for much longer than Lindley liked, but eventually the machine came to a halt and Lindley breathed a deep sigh of relief.
As he climbed down from the cockpit, a fire truck drove up with Patrick and another pilot holding onto the runnning board.
“How did I do?” Lindley asked.
“Well, you haven’t crashed yet,” Patrick admitted. “This is O’Grady, he’s flight deputy. As new boy, you get the drinks.”
O’Grady nodded, “squadron tradition.”
“I see,” Lindley nodded back. “Then where is the mess?”
Lindley was lost. The banks of cloud obscured any recognisable landmarks. Not that he thought that he would recognise any if he did see them. It was only Lindley's second day at 23 squadron and he was wondering if he would ever see Baizieux again.
It had started when the third member of C flight, a Canadian called McGregor shook Lindley’s cot.
Lindley peered up at him through a hungover fug.
“O’Grady’s still too drunk to fly,” Mac told Lindley. “Captain Pat wants you up and in flying kit by half past.
Lindley held his head. “Argh! Is he worse than me?”
“You look a bit pale, but you threw up most of it, so you’ll do. We’re not picky, Lindley.”
Lindley sat up on the edge of the bed. His head pounded. He groaned.
“How much did I drink last night?”
“A fair bit,” McGregor handed Lindley a lukewarm mug of tea. “You can check your account with the mess, but remember to divide it by six.”
“Six?”
“Rounds.”
The tea helped, as did a boiled egg that Lindley’s batman provided. Lindley managed to reach the flight line in time for Patrick to tell him about the line patrol.
“We’re going up to the lines by Monchy,” Patrick told him. “You just stay with the flight. I’m not expecting any heroics from you today. Watch me closely and try to stay in formation.”
Patrick was mildly surprised that his new pilot was still with the formation over Monchy. Maybe this new chap isn’t so bad after all.
Patrick waggled his wings and began a descent. Lindley was taken slightly by surprise at this but followed the flight down. His Spad was slightly above and far behind the rest of the flight as Patrick dived steeper still.
Below them and racing east, a two-seater aeroplane stood out against the cloud. Two black crosses declared its German allegiance.
Patrick and McGregor’s Spads flashed past the German reconnaissance machine’s tail. Lindley saw the observer’s gun turn. As he closed in as well.
The Spad had a Vickers machine gun mounted on top of the engine and firing through the propeller arc by means of an interrupter gear that Lindley did not quite understand. What he did understand was that the sight was off to his right. Even as he tore down toward the 2 seater, he leaned across and squinted down the iron ring.
Lindley saw the observer heave the parabellum upwards and moments later bullets were punching holes in the wing to Lindley’s right.
“Hell’s bells!” Lindley pushed the stick forward and the Spad tore downwards with a lurch that reminded him that he had been sick recently.
Everything went white.
Then browns and greens appeared as Lindley dropped out of the cloud. He was high enough to level off safely, but he was now visible to anyone below.
Black bursts filled the air. “This must be Archie,” Lindley thought as he twisted and turned. Then his Spad plunged into cloud again.
And that was how Lindley got lost on his first patrol. Every so often a break in the cloud offered hope, but no landmarks.
A dot in the distance attracted Lindley’s attention. An aeroplane!
Lindley turned toward it and soon it was clear that the other machine was heading towards him. Perhaps it was Patrick or McGregor?
The aeroplane was slightly above and Lindley saw the tailplane. It was spade shaped. That wasn’t a Spad, but an Albatros!
The enemy machine came in and Lindley heard a ratatatat of gunfire. He dived for speed before zooming and turning with his rudder. Now the element of surprise was gone and Albatros and Spad circled in a desperate contest.
Not entirely certain of how he did it, Lindley got a burst in on the wing of the sharklike machine. He saw a flash of black and white as the German dived away.
Lindley was pleased as punch. His first solo combat was a roaring success. Now to find home.
After an eternity, he spotted a river with a that Lindley hoped was the Somme. In any case, if he followed that west he should be alright.
The yellow Spad descended to a bumpy landing at Baizieux. The pilot was climbing out of the cockpit even as the propeller slowed to a stop.
“Ah, Lindley! We were wondering!” Patrick shouted as Lindley trotted across to the shed ahead of the mechanics wheeling the Spad home.
“I got one!” Lindley’s face beamed with delight. “I need to go tell Pye-Smith.”
“You got one, eh? Well, you’d better tell me the whole story.”
His flight commander listened as Lindley related his adventure with the Albatros.
“So, let me get this right,” the Scot recounted. “You got lost, found and shot at a lone Albatros with no witnesses, but he dived away and you think you got him?”
“That’s right.”
“But there are no witnesses and you don’t really know where this happened?”
“Yes, but I shot him and he dived away...”
“Did you see him crash?”
Lindley’s smile dropped, “well, er, No.”
“Then he didn’t. It’s a trick to get out of trouble. Drop a long way, recover when you’re far away from your man and use your speed to get out of bother.” Patrick patted a crestfallen Lindley on the shoulder. “But you did chase him off, so that’s something.”