Reconnaissance Escort

Sometimes a day filled with very complex and involved actions must be boiled down to only a few brief statements in a diary. To be limited to reading only what is scribbled in a diary at the end of the day is to miss out on a huge amount of information. To illustrate this point I present the following with the diary entry FIRST, followed by the narrative first person account from which it was derived.

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DIARY ENTRY - March 18th 1918, [Monday]

Flying from Chalons. Dawn escort of French recce Caudrons from Grand Pre to Rheims. Caudrons limited in altitude. They cannot fly above 6,000 ft. so archy is a problem. Attacked by German fliers. Captain Hunter’s machine struck by dud archy shell, but he made it back safely. Germans planning some sort of offensive. Informed we will be moving to Epiez soon. I made my first kill.

NARRATIVE DESCRIPTION - March 18th.

A French poilu awakened us early and we ate a quick meal in the mess tent before making our way to the waiting line of aircraft and donning our flying kit. It was cold and damp, and while I was anxious to confront the Boche, I was not anxious to experience the intense and bitter cold which was the mark of higher altitudes.

Our morning flight was to escort photographic reconnaissance machines which would cover the area behind the Boche lines from Neufchatel on the northwest of Rheims to the vicinity of Grand Pre. The 94th contingent would be escorting recce machines which would photograph Boche activity from Grand Pre to the Argonne Forest and Verdun. Our recce charges were flying from the vicinity of Epernay, and we were to rendezvous with them at sun rise, continue northwest to Neufchatel, and then turn east. With the rising sun low on the eastern horizon, even those objects on the ground which might be difficult to see at other times of day could be expected to cast particularly long and conspicuous shadows.

I have obtained a map of the region, trimmed off the excess bits, and drawn in the approximate location of the front lines as they stand at this date, and the sector of responsibility which we have been assigned. It extends from Verdun at the east end of the line to just north of Rheims on the west. This map was printed in America, and some of the names are spelt a bit differently than here in France. I note that the French spelling of “Rheims” has been printed on the American map as “Reims”.

By flying toward the rising sun, from which we might expect seasoned Boche fliers to appear, we would be facing toward potential antagonists rather than offering them an opportunity to find our backs due to our inattention. We have all been issued a small square of smoked glass in a leather pouch, to be fastened at the center of the chest on our flying coats, which we have been directed to utilize when looking toward the sun. This will permit us to discern enemy machines which might otherwise be masked by the blinding light of the sun.

It was still dark when we took off, and it was necessary for the Spotlight Company crews to direct their spotlights onto the field in order for us to get off the ground without colliding with one another. Once we had cleared the tree tops and the lights below us had been extinguished, we took up our formation and began climbing for altitude. It took several minutes for us to climb sufficiently to clear the clouds and find clearer air. The stars were fading to the east, but were still clearly visible above our heads and ahead in the west.

Although the eastern horizon was just beginning to lighten with pre-dawn, it was still insufficient to allow anything but a general perception of the horizon and dark silhouettes of the other machines around me. I set my eyes upon the glowing exhausts showing around the cowling of Captain Hunter’s machine ahead of mine as a point to follow in the dim predawn light. Within what seemed like mere minutes the sky had lightened significantly, and the eastern horizon behind us had begun to take on a dim golden tone. The air was frigid and the little triangular windscreen at the forward edge of the cockpit did little to reduce the sting of the freezing air in my nostrils. The sharp odor of castor oil from my engine added a pungent smell to the experience which I cannot wholly describe, but which was altogether wonderfully invigorating and which, at the same time, filled me with a combined sense of dread, adventure, and expectation.

We made our appointed rendezvous with two French Caudron R.11 machines over Epernay just as the first golden glow of sunrise illuminated our wings. The ground far below still lay swathed in broken clouds and darkness. The Caudrons are truly monsters compared to our tiny N28s. Powered by twin engines, they carry two observers as well as the pilot, are 34 feet from nose to tail, and have a wing span of 54 feet. Two of our N28 chasse machines, placed nose to tail, would fit easily across the span of those huge wings. The pilot has one fixed forward- firing machine gun at his command, while each of the two observers has in his charge a dual mounted machine gun. The forward observer has the ability to direct his fire through the entire arc of the sky, as well as the capability to fire vertically downward over the sides or front of his office. The rear observer sits behind the pilot in a more conventional accommodation, with yet another dual machine gun. He, too, may direct his fire downward over the sides of his office, as well as in a full circle above the machine. There is an upward curve in the rail of the gun mounting at the rear of his office which prevents him from shooting into the tail of his own machine.

Unlike most observation machines and bi-place bombers which can fly higher than chasse machines, these large Caudrons have a limited ceiling and can fly no higher than about 5,500 feet. It is for this reason that we are to provide an escort during their survey of the front lines. As we fell into formation around the Caudrons I could see the observers in both machines working to ensure their cameras were in proper working order; each resting his camera on the edge of his office at a steep angle, sighting through the viewfinder, and adjusting the lens to ensure a proper focus.

We passed over Rheims which was still partially obscured by thin clouds, and leveled off at just a bit higher than 5,000 feet. The eastern sides of the clouds were laced with gold light, and the tallest structures in the city below were likewise traced in gold. The clouds thinned significantly the further north we flew, and I anticipated that by the time we turned to head east the heat of the sun would reduce them further.

We crossed the lines, heading toward Neufchatel, just as sunlight began to wash across the fields below us, casting long shadows to the west. No Boche machines in sight yet, but the German archy was active, shooting off great motes of black popping corn in the skies around us. Although they seem able to do a credible job of shooting at targets which are coming straight at them or moving straight away from them, they are dreadfully inaccurate when shooting from the side as they do not seem to have the knack of leading their target. Still the bouncing and jostling their explosions gave us made me a bit apprehensive.

We reached the southern outskirts of Neufchatel and turned east, facing into the rising sun. I made frequent use of the small bit of smoked glass as it eased the strain of looking into the bright sunlight. The Caudrons settled upon their new easterly course and the observers in both machines went to work with their cameras. Below us the Boche scurried about in response to our presence, occasionally managing to turn an archy battery in our direction, but more often turning their rifles and machine guns in our direction. Of course those actions had no effect upon us at our altitude, and our photographers continued on about their task. The area behind the lines was thick with trucks and masses of troops, and there could be absolutely no doubt that they were preparing to mount a massive effort; the French had got the right of it after all, and the two observers in each of the Caudrons were busy capturing it all on film for detailed study.

Suddenly Captain Hunter’s machine began wing wagging, and I spun my head right and left in an attempt to discover what had alarmed him. His N28 pitched up a bit in just the sort of manner which a man might raise his chin as a way of directing someone’s attention to an object up a hillside. I snatched the smoked glass pane from the leather pouch tied across my chest, dropped the nose of my machine slightly, and leaned back in my seat to look across the top of the wing. Perhaps 3 miles distant were 5 machines bearing straight for us. They were too distant to determine precisely what sort of aeroplanes they were, but there was absolutely no mistaking their intentions. They were bent upon denying us the intelligence resident within those photographic images.

By previous agreement two of us had been designated to stay close to the Caudrons while the other four would move to engage attackers. The luck of the draw had placed Chubb and myself with the Caudrons. Thus it was that Captain Hunter and the others poured on the sauce and surged forward to meet the approaching Boche, while Chubb and I did nothing more than move slightly forward of our respective Caudrons that we might better intercept any Hun that managed to get past our fellows and attempt to despoil the photographers.

Ahead of us the two groups of machines closed ranks and commenced firing, with Captain Hunter’s Nieuport a good distance in the lead of the other three men of the squadron. They raced past each other as jousters were wont to do, shield to shield, flashing tracer bullets standing in the stead of lances. Then every machine, friend and foe alike, suddenly swooped upward in great sweeping arcs. As they swept upward we could now see that they were Albatros “V strutter” machines; these were some of the best machines the Boche had in the air. At the top of their climb, each pilot threw his machine over onto wing end, kicked his rudder round to reverse his direction, and began a downward swoop back toward his opponents, gun blazing away.

Once the initial swooping and renversement had been accomplished, the various machines of both groups had lost a great deal of their momentum and the fight settled down to a tangled cluster of machines engaged in tight banking turns, both right and left, each trying desperately to get inside the turn radius of his opponent and bring his gun to bear. The noise of my engine quite drowned out the sounds which might have otherwise reached my ears, and it was as if I watched a moving picture show, lacking only dramatic piano music to complete the scene. Save, of course, that this moving picture show was in full color, not black and white, and filled with deadly earnest.

The tangled mass of turning machines drifted to the north, and though we chafed at the necessity to stay with the Caudrons and desired greatly to join our fellows, we continued to escort them as we had been directed. Archy began blasting upward around us again as the Boche gunners decided that we were sufficiently distant from their flying compatriots to ensure that they would not hit one of their own machines. Great black puffs of acrid smoke accompanied the buffeting of the archy detonations and it was immediately apparent that some of the shrapnel from the exploding shells had struck both of the big ships.

Rents appeared in the canvas along the body and wings of both the machines, and our Caudron pilots decided they had collected sufficient photographs to satisfy the higher command. A quick wag of a small red flag by one pilot was sufficient to signal his intentions to the other, and both ships leaned over in unison upon their right wings, turned south for home, and poured on the sauce. The observers in both machines tucked away their precious cargo and stood to their guns, directing the double barrels of their machine guns downward over the sides of their machines at the scurrying antagonists below. Whether or not their efforts made any significant impact upon the Boche was impossible to determine, but unlike the bullets fired upward from below which must surely fall short of reaching the Caudrons at their mile high altitude, gravity ensured that all of the bullets which they fired downward reached the enemy.

Chubb and I followed them as far as the German lines, and then with a wave and salute, both were gone over friendlier territory while we turned sharply to race back to our fellows. Again the Boche archy popped around our machines, buffeting us in our passage over their lines, and faded as we continued to the northwest where we had left our compatriots. Ahead of us there were twisting streaks of smoke in the sky; tell tale evidence that at least one machine had been damaged, though the smoke itself failed to reveal the nationality of its origin.

As we closed with the still turning ball of combatants we discovered that one Boche was gone, apparently down, and another was trailing thick, dark smoke from his engine cowling, though no flame yet showed. The Hun was rocking his injured machine alternately right and left as he dove for safety in a desperate effort to avoid being struck by the bullets of his pursuer. They both passed below us as we climbed toward the circling machines. Ahead of us three Boche machines raced round opposite our three compatriots, each spitting out a stream of tracers whenever the opportunity momentarily presented itself. Chubb pulled off to the left and ducked in close behind one of the Boche, his machine gun muzzle spewing flames. I pulled up and a bit to the right and tucked into the tangle near Captain Hunter, his machine easily discerned by the snapping red pennons attached to his struts. Our guns blazed in unison as the Boche did his best to avoid both of us at the same time.

In the center of the turning mass a black ball of smoke erupted; the German archy crews had apparently decided to disregard the danger to their own machines and do all within their power to prevent our being victorious in the match. Several more black puffs erupted, and my bus was buffeted violently by the concussions. We continued to turn after the Boche machine, firing in short bursts, when the nose of Captain Hunter’s machine suddenly gave a great bounce upward, and instantly rocked onto its wing to pull away from the fight. I dared not surrender the superior position in which I found myself, and had to trust that others would render assistance to the Captain whilst I pursued my target. I dropped the nose of my bus and then pressed hard on the rudder pedal. Although I had lost a small amount of altitude, the maneuver was sufficient to turn my machine more tightly than my opponent. As I pulled back on the stick I found his machine sliding directly across the pins of my gun sight. I blazed away and was gratified to see my tracers race along the side of his machine, stitching across the upper edge of his office. He slumped visibly, and the nose of his machine drooped downward. It rolled slowly onto its right wing, then continued over until it was completed inverted and plunged downward.

I had my first kill and I was completely elated. The fight was still on, however, and I did not have the luxury of following the Boche machine downward. I pulled the nose of my little bus upward to climb toward the nearest Hun, and at that moment the remaining two machines flipped over, spinning round deftly upon their tails, and dove for the safety of the ground. I searched around quickly and spotted Captain Hunter’s machine angling toward friendly territory with two other 95th machines as escort. Just then Chubb’s machine dropped into formation on my left. Within a heartbeat the other remaining 95th member pulled up on my right wing. I gave him a wave and he responded by pulling up his goggles, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, and grinning broadly. Though the lower half of his face was darkly streaked with castor oil and soot, I recognized the smiling countenance of 1st Lieutenant Eric Dandridge. He gestured over the edge of his office with a jerk of his thumb, then pulled his goggles back onto his face and banked sharply away. I turned to look at Chubb and mimicked Dandridge’s thumb gesture. He answered with a nod and we turned in unison to follow Dandridge, heading for the south and safety.

The flight home included a few harrowing moments above the lines as the Boche archy made one last attempt to despoil our machines. Once we had gotten beyond the range of their guns we dropped lower, watching for the Marne River which would then lead us to our field on the outskirts of Chalons. The glitter of reflected sunlight below us soon marked the twisting path of the Marne, and we followed it easily enough to our destination.

Upon landing we found the other three members of our Flight had preceded us to safety. Upon investigation it turned out that a dud archy shell had struck Captain Hunter’s machine, ripping upward entirely through his bus without exploding, and passing through just forward and a bit to the right of his seat. It was only sheer luck which had prevented the projectile from smashing into the underside of his engine or severing the control wires which ran from his control stick and pedals. As it was the shell had severely damaged the anchor point for his lower wing and it was only due to his incredible flying skills that he had managed to bring the little bus safely home.
Captain Hunter’s mechanics set to work on his machine while we went to the communications tent to contact the French at Epernay. We were delighted to learn that both Caudrons had returned safely to their lines, and that the photographs which had been taken were even now being processed. The Captain quizzed each of us briefly on what we had seen below us at the various stages of our passage over Boche territory, and then left us to complete a report for HQ. His trademark insistence on re-enacting the encounter by walking through our actions on the ground was overridden by the urgent nature of the intelligence we had gathered and his need to pass it along to higher command.

We retreated to the mess tent to discuss the encounter and relieve a bit of the stress we had accumulated on the morning’s outing. Captain Hunter had shot down the Boche machine which Chubb and I realized had gone missing when we returned to the fight. Lieutenant Jerry Falkenhan had shot up the machine that left the fight trailing a line of black smoke, and he had followed it down, peppering it with short bursts from his gun until the archy recommenced. Though he had been forced to break off his pursuit and climb quickly, he had kept his eye upon the falling Boche and was pleased to report that the machine had crashed very nicely into matchwood and splinters. We congratulated him on his triumph, thumping his back soundly with comradely blows.

I, too, was congratulated on my first kill; both Chubb and Dandridge had seen the Albatros smash into the ground. We still had to await confirmation from independent ground observers, but whether or not we were officially credited with the victories did not seem important at that moment. Captain Hunter joined us at about that time, telling us to pack our kit and prepare to move once more. Once the officials at higher headquarters had received his report they did not wait for further information from the French photographers. The Boche were planning a major offensive and our makeshift aerodrome was far too close to the lines for their liking. With only some 18 miles separating us from the front lines, they determined that when the Boche began to move, our position might very quickly come under artillery fire, or worse. We were told that the entire collected 94th and 95th Squadrons were to be relocated to Epiez, some 30 miles behind the lines. The Boche would be on the offensive in a short time, and our efforts would most certainly be needed.We returned to our makeshift billets and began packing our kit. We’d only been here a day and a night and we were moving again. Little did it matter to me at that moment, however. We had struck the Boche a telling blow and left him worse for the encounter. They had lost three of their pilots and three of their machines, and there was absolutely no chance that the survivors would misidentify the nationality of the machines which had struck them down. The Americans were here, and they could fly. The 95th had drawn blood!