SUBALTERN'S SAGA

There are not many of us left who can wear the sky-blue tie of the Royal Flying Corps with its dark blue and red diagonal stripes, and even if in some dark cupboard there still hangs a "maternity jacket" - the R.F.C. double breasted and high collared uniform of which we were so proud - increasing girth no longer makes it possible to gird our loins. How glad we were to sport our "Wings" and to throw away puttees for the light coloured breeches and field boots which indicated to the world that we had become pilots.

When war broke out in August 1914 I was in camp with the Eton College O.T.C. near Aldershot. War was something we had never imagined would engulf us - Uncle George returning from the South African Campaign, and newsboys crying "Paiper, paiper, all the latest war news" when as children we were recuperating at a seaside resort at the time of the Russo-Japanese War, were just bits of news which in no way affected our calm Edwardian way of life.

Camp broke up quickly and I came home to find my elder brother preparing to go overseas with his regiment, the 4th Dragoon Guards. In those far-off summer holidays I went to work in the laboratory and drawing office of Chance Brothers, the family glass and lighthouse manufacturing firm, until it was time to return to school for the Autumn "half". In December most of my contemporaries were leaving early and I decided - without the enthusiasm some of them showed to get into the war before it finished - that I should leave too. Not being interested in horses, I decided that the County Yeomanry was not my line of country, so went with my brother - recently returned from France wounded and with an M.C. - to call upon the County Territorial H.Q. where we were seen by the County Secretary Major Reddie (later Sir John Reddie), and Colonel Mat Dixon - an old Volunteer officer who had returned to raise and command the second-line battalion of the 8th Worcesters. Although the battalion was nearly up to strength, there was still a vacancy for a subaltern; and after a short interview I was accepted and assigned to one of the eight companies parading on the small barrack square adjoining Territorial H.Q. in Silver Street, Worcester. We had no uniforms, few small-arms and very little equipment; but the battalion was as keen as mustard and had recruited a fine bunch of volunteers.

Before my commission came through, the battalion left for Northampton and with another newly-joined subaltern I was left behind to train a platoon of newly enlisted men. Withthe background of a "Certificate A", I managed to keep ahead with my "Infantry Training" and we daily marched down to the Pitchcroft to drill.

My parents went south to winter and I was left alone in our large country house - Blackmore Park, near Malvern. But I achieved one of my schoolboy dreams by acquiring a belt-driven two-stroke motor bike, on which I travelled daily to Worcester. It had no clutch or gears and to start it one pushed madly until the engine fired and one leaped onto the saddle.

In March 1915 my commission was gazetted and I joined the Battalion at Northampton, being posted to command a platoon in D. Coy. - the "Redditch" Company. The Battalion was billeted and there was no officers' mess. We met in the evening in one of the local pubs where the usual drink was a "sherry and bitters". The barriers imposed by the sheltered upper-class life which I had enjoyed began to be broken down - as far as I can remember I had never before consumed alcohol or seen the inside of a Private Bar.

When our first-line division went overseas, the 61st Division moved to Essex to guard the coast against a possible German invasion and to dig trenches. After a short stay at Billericay we moved to Maldon, a small harbour on the river Blackwater. The 2/8th Battalion occupied the top half of the town and the 2/7th Battalion the lower part.

One night when we were watching a film in the local cinema we heard a great roaring, and rushing out into the street we found a huge Zeppelin airship flying very low overhead. Some bombs and incendiaries were dropped round the ironworks near the harbour and a light left burning in Battalion H.Q. brought another shower which fortunately did no damage apart from destroying a wooden carpenter's shop and killing a blackbird. This was the first of a series of Zeppelin raids and our initial experience of enemy action. A few months later the Brigade was under canvas near Epping and one of the Gloucester battalions was having a guest night. Suddenly over the forest appeared a Zeppelin flying low, and the bomb-dropper must have been surprised to find himself over a large tented camp. Anyhow he forgot to remove the safety pins from the bombs which he let fly, and although several fell and buried themselves deeply in the ground, no one was hurt and the only casualty was the Gloucesters' mess tent which was set on fire by an incendiary.

As we had only a few antique Lee-Metford rifles and no ammunition - the Gunners were equipped with Crimean muzzle-loading guns - there was no means of retaliation and the Zep flew off unharmed. At this period of the war the East Coast anti-aircraft defences consisted of two Rolls Royce cars each mounting a small pom-pom, and the Zeps which were brought down in flames were set on fire by early night-flying B.E.2c.s - Leefe-Robinson being awarded a V.C. as being the first man to cripple and destroy one of these huge but useless airships. Mersea Island lies at the mouth of the Blackwater and was reputed to be a place where German spies were landed from submarines: So a detachment of the 2/8th was sent to guard and patrol the coast. We had a long and very hot march to arrive at The Strood - a causeway - giving access to the island from the mainland. Pat Barrow - second in command of my Company - and I billeted the troops and decided to accept the offer of a local yachtsman to bed down in his hulk, a converted schooner. Mersea Island was the home of many of the professional crews who were recruited to man the big racing yachts of those days. After a heavy day I was too tired to get out of uniform, but Pat changed into "civies". We were peacefully relaxing when overhead on the deck we heard the stamping of field boots, and who should appear but our Divisional Commander the Marquess of Salisbury and some of his staff. Too terrified to speak I stood at attention, while Lord Salisbury ticked off Pat for being out of uniform, and next day he was returned to unit! We spent a pleasant month on Mersea - periodically going to the east end of the island to visit another detachment. Douglas Bomford, one its officers, was the proud owner of a Bradbury motor bike which one foggy evening deposited me into a ditch without damage to the bike or its rider. My own Douglas had been left behind at Maldon; it was a horizontally-opposed two cylinder model and a great improvement on its predecessor.

When we returned to Maldon, the Battalion was moved to Epping and later to Brentwood where Dick Stallard, Eric Mitchell and I found a very comfortable billet.

Before we left Maldon the Division was reviewed by the Secretary of State for War, Lord Kitchener, paraded in a park near Chelmsford. After a long, hot, and tiring march, the Battalion sat on the grass to relax. Called to attention, we saw Lord Kitchener, mounted on a white horse, ride slowly down the lines while the battalions in turn presented arms. In front of us sat on their steeds our 6 ft. 8 in. Colonel Mat Dixon and Major Checketts, second in command, whose large bay horse had had more experience in the hunting field than on parade.

After Christmas 1915 the Division was sent to Salisbury Plain, where we were in barracks at Tidworth and fired our musketry course on the nearby ranges. An epidemic of flu struck down many of us and I was carted off to hospital, to be cheered daily by the mournful sounds of a band detachment accompanying a firing party to the military cemetery. Infantry Training had its appropriate section on the honours to be accorded to the dead - "H'on the h'arrival at the Cemetery, Mortuary, or Dead-'Ouse, the troops will h'assume a dejected h'attitude" was the order read out by the Sergeant-Major in command.

While at Tidworth I was sent on a Stokes mortar course, having been to Bisley the previous summer to learn about machine guns. The Vickers and the lighter Lewis guns were only just being issued to the troops in France, so we spent our time on the old Maxim. The final stage of the course involved range practice - No. 1 picked up the gun, No. 2 the tripod, and No. 3 carried a box of ammunition. All the equipment was extremely heavy and we arrived panting after doubling several hundred yards from firing point to firing point.

The Stokes mortar was a primitive weapon consisting of a steel tube with base plate and two legs which could be adjusted to provide the requisite angle for range. The projectile was a steel cylinder at one end of which was inserted a 12 bore blank cartridge, while at the other end was a mechanism similar to that used on the Mills bomb. One cut a length of fuse to the appropriate length, fixed a detonator at one end and a .22 cartridge on the other, inserted the cartridge into the firing mechanism, which was then screwed down into the projectile. To fire the mortar the projectile was partially inserted into the muzzle, the safety pin pulled out, and sliding down the barrel the 12 bore cartridge was impaled upon a striker and "off she went". But things did not always work smoothly and on one occasion a ham-fisted operator pulled out the safety pin and let the firing lever loose before it had entered the barrel. The cartridge misfired and we leaped from the trench just before the mortar exploded.

By this time the Battalion was making good progress with its training and we had got over the loss of many of our best N.C.O.s and men who had been posted to the 1/8th Battalion to replace "Home Service only" volunteers. I had an excellent Platoon Sergeant, by name Tolley - soon to be promoted Company Sergeant Major - and an equally good Platoon Corporal. But the future of the Division was as yet undecided and it was rumoured that we were to be sent to India. The war in France had become static and seemed to have reached a stalemate, with both sides facing each other in line after line of trenches. In D. Company we were not too happy with our Company Commander, so when we heard that the Royal Flying Corps needed pilots Harold Pilkington, who had joined at the same time as me, decided we would apply to be seconded. After some hesitation on behalf of our C.O. and Captain Vigors the adjutant, our applications were forwarded and within a few weeks we were being interviewed at the Air Ministry by Captain Charteris, a charming ex-Regular Cavalry officer responsible for picking material thought suitable to be trained as pilots. I was asked about my weight and whether I had "a good pair of hands". As I was not a lightweight and hated horses, I came away rather despondent about my prospects. But all was well and in April 1916 I received orders to proceed to the preliminary training centre at Wantage Hall, a Hall of Residence of Reading University taken over by the R.F.C. I suppose there were about a hundred officers on the course; some had seen service overseas, some were newly commissioned into the Corps, and others seconded from their units at home. In some ways I was sorry to leave the Battalion; we had a very nice lot of officers and, if I had known it at the time, the 61st Division was to go to France before I had finished my training in the R.F.C. Curiously enough only one of the original 2/8th officers was killed in action - Lance Evers, who had won the M.C. and bar and who survived until just before the Armistice. The life of a subaltern in World War I was hazardous and many of my contemporaries at school, including my youngest brother - an Ensign in the Coldstream Guards - were to fall before the war ended.

At Reading we studied engines, air-frames, theory of flying, Morse, and other subjects relative to the training of a pilot. Preparations were being made for the great offensive on the Somme and the R.F.C. was being rapidly expanded.

After six weeks at Reading I was posted to No. 5 Reserve Squadron at Castle Bromwich near Birmingham and I rode home on my newly acquired Red Indian motor bike for a brief leave - very excited at the prospect of actually taking to the air.

The aerodrome at Castle Bromwich was large enough to hold three units - a B.E.2c squadron preparing to go overseas, a flight of Avros and R.E.7s and at the north end the Mess and hutments of No. 5 R.A.S. where we were housed. Initial flying training was carried out in Maurice-Farman biplanes - the "Longhorn" having a front elevator supported by booms and the "Shorthorn" with rudder and elevator on the tail-plane. Both models had 70 h.p. air-cooled V-8 Renault engines, and the pilot and pupil sat one behind the other in an open nacelle which extended forward of the planes. The Maurice-Farman was not a difficult plane to fly and at ground level would do its 60 m.p.h.

The first entry in my Log-book reads "29 May 1916. 5.37 p.m. M.F.L.H. 6697. Captain Scott. 19 mins. Partial Control." Dressed in leather flying coats, wool-lined flying boots, flying helmets and goggles, my instructor and I climbed into the nacelle. Captain Scott repeated the engine-starting formula - "Switch off, suck in, contact." The Air mechanic - they were colloquially known as "Ak-Emmas" - swung the prop, the engine fired, the pilot waved his hand - "Chocks away" - and we were off. It is not easy to recall the sensations of a first flight, sitting in the nose of the nacelle in front of the pilot, but Shorthorns only needed a short run to take off and soon we were circling the aerodrome, flying over Castle Bromwich Church, the railway, and the open fields which surrounded the aerodrome. Birmingham has now spread its tentacles, Dunlop and Pressed Steel factories cover the meadows and the aerodrome has been given over to housing.

Over the next fortnight I put in something over an hour's flying, partly on Longhorns and partly on Shorthorns, and was allowed to hold the controls while we practised landings, flying either in the evenings or early mornings. Pilots' training was being rushed at this period of the war and after nine brief flights and two hours and thirty-one minutes of instruction I was considered fit enough to take off on my first solo. So at 7.42 a.m. on 17th June I climbed into my seat, started the engine, taxied out onto the runway, pushed forward the throttle, and I was "off". The flight only lasted nine minutes and on landing I was told to go off again. The plane climbed well and having reached a height of 1200 feet I found myself over Castle Bromwich Church and turned to glide in to the aerodrome. As I crossed the water meadows I realised that I was too low, so opened the throttle to give the engine a boost. But horror of horrors, nothing happened, and looking back I realised that the engine had stopped and I had "lost my prop". There were only a few seconds to decide what to do - ahead lay the railway and a river and I was too low to turn. So the only hope was to flatten out as much as possible without losing flying speed and with a beating heart and with the wheels clipping some young trees on the edge of the aerodrome, down we came with a bounce and a bump, and my skin was saved. After three more solos I attempted the test for the Royal Aero Club Certificate which involved making two figures of eight and landing near a designated spot. All went well and after a total of three hours and fifty-nine minutes flying I had qualified for my "Ticket" which entitled me to rank as a certificated Pilot and bore the number 3099.

Three weeks after posting to Castle Bromwich I was ordered to 47 Squadron at Beverley in Yorkshire, commanded by Major J.G. Small. Beverley aerodrome had been a racecourse and was like a grassy pimple; if one flew in too low one ran the danger of hitting the rising ground; and if too high, the ground receded on the far side of the pimple and, instead of touching down, one's wheels went higher and higher and another circuit became imperative.

No. 47 was equipped with Avros and Armstrong Whitworths, both biplanes. The Avro - later to become and for many years to remain the standard primary "tutor" of the R.A.F. - was a two seater and was equipped with an 80 horse power rotary Gnome engine, manufactured in France. The 7 cylinder engine, which revolved round a stationary crankshaft, had automatic inlet valves (which sometimes refused to open) and mechanically operated exhaust valves. There was no means of controlling the speed of the engine and before taking off it was necessary to "blip" - that is to use the button on the top of the joy-stick to switch on and off. To protect the propellor on landing a skid jutted out from and was fixed to the axle of the landing wheels. The engine was lubricated with castor oil and the centrifugal force of the rotating cylinders spewed out a thin film of oil, some of which found its way aft to the discomfort and odour of the pupil and instructor. Avros were not difficult to fly, provided the engine behaved itself, and were much lighter on the controls than the relatively heavy-handed Maurice-Farmans. We were warned to treat the controls with delicacy, as too energetic handling could put the plane into a spin; and at that time the technique of recovering from a spin had not been discovered; so we flew with caution and avoided "stunting". In two weeks of dual instruction - eleven separate outings - I put in nearly two hours of flying and after three more trips - one with Major Small who commanded the Squadron - I was thought capable of "going solo".

My log book - signed weekly by the Squadron Commander - bears his comment "Don't use American slang." "Dud engine" and "Joy ride" were not considered appropriate terms of expression by the Army Regulars seconded to the R.F.C.

In the "remarks" column of my log book the entry relating to my third solo reads: "Bumpy. Switch wire broke. Landed by petrol tap." The Avro I was flying was a good climber and I found myself going higher and higher. So I decided to switch off the engine and lose height. But when I pressed the switch button, nothing happened! What could I do? Should I fly round until the petrol was exhausted and hope to land without engine. Then I remembered that under the pilot's seat was a tap which regulated the petrol supply. Reaching down I twisted the handle and after what seemed a long pause the engine cut out. Turning into the wind, I set course for the aerodrome, but there was a strongish breeze blowing and I realised I was not going to "make it". So the tap was feverishly twisted and after a wait which seemed interminable the engine picked up and disaster was avoided. Another circuit and I tried again. This time I approached at a greater height and by twisting and turning managed to hit the landing strip with several bumps and bounces. Thank goodness I had remembered the existence of the petrol tap.

No. 47 Squadron was also equipped with Armstrong-Witworths - biplanes somewhat like the standard B.E.2c. with 90 horse power air cooled engines made to Royal Aircraft Establishment design and in fact copies of the Renault. They were good, steady planes and easy to fly, but they saw little or no active service in France and were mainly used in Salonika and the Middle East.

After five minutes of "dual" I was sent up "solo" and on landing dipped a wing and damaged the kingpost of the right aileron. Looking back over fifty years it seems surprising that one should have been sent up in a strange plane with only a few minutes of "dual" experience.

After thirty minutes of what my log book describes as "Circuits. 3 landings", I was sent off on my first cross-country flight which lasted 83 minutes and took me over the Humber to Goole and on to Doncaster. The same afternoon another cross-country covered the triangle of Market Weighton, Tadcaster and Selby. At the end of this week Major Small left the Squadron and my log book is signed "J.A. Cunningham. Captain R.F.C."

Navigation in these early days was a matter of reading a map, spotting main roads and railways, and if in doubt, flying low over a station and reading its name on the signposts. Apart from a rev-counter and air-speed indicator, the only instruments were an altimeter, a compass, and a bubble-level.

Pilots at Doncaster played a game on the spectators who came out on Sundays to watch the flying. A two-seater took off with a dummy dressed in flying kit concealed in the cockpit. The pilot did a loop over the aerodrome and the observer ejected the dummy, which fell spreadeagled to the ground. A waiting ambulance, in which was concealed an officer dressed in flying kit and his pals, tore out over the grass and the occupants jumped out and surrounded "the corpse". Unperceived by the spectators the live airman took the place of the dummy and soon was seen being escorted to the tarmac apparently none the worse for his fall. Meanwhile the dummy had been hidden in the ambulance and the plane was seen to land with only the pilot's head showing and taxi back to the hangars.

My time at Beverley was now coming to an end and finished with a trip to Doncaster, where the Racecourse was used as an aerodrome, and on to Bramham Moor. Log book records "Clouds, low and misty. Bumpy." The aerodrome at Bramham Moor adjoined a main road and the planes were housed in tents. When I set out to return to Beverley, my engine refused to start and after spending a night in the Mess I was picked up by tender and taken back to Beverley. By this time I had totted up "Total solo 10 hrs. 42 min. Total in air 16 hrs. 22 min." and was beginning to feel that I was acquiring confidence and could find my way - weather conditions permitting - from point to point.

Two days after returning to Beverley I was posted back to Castle Bromwich and joined No. 28 Reserve Squadron. We had a few Avros but the Squadron was primarily equipped with R.E.7s built by Siddeley-Deasey and engined with the 12 cylinder 150 h.p. R.A.F. 4a engine.

The R.E.7 was a two seater with the pilot sitting aft of the observer, who occupied an enormous cockpit in the centre-section of the wings. It had a wing-span of 57 feet and at the time was the largest plane in use by the R.F.C. Designed for bombing, it was out of date before it saw active service; and only one squadron flew with it in France before the opening of the Somme offensive in July 1916. Slow to fly and clumsy to manoeuvre, R.E.s were "sitting ducks" and although they did some useful work they were soon scrapped.

After a few trips round the aerodrome in an Avro I climbed into the spacious cockpit of an R.E.7, strapped myself in, and went up with Captain Woodhouse - a racing motor cyclist and one of the early "stunters". Later in France he was to gain distinction by landing and taking off spies behind the enemy lines. Next day we went up again and, having climbed to 1500 feet, Woodhouse put his nose down and before I realised what he was doing he pulled back "the stick" and I was experiencing my first loop. During the next week I put in quite a lot of flying, on one occasion staying aloft for over an hour, getting up to 9000 feet and for the first time flying through cloud.

No doubt because R.E.7s were being scrapped I was posted early in August 1916 to No. 49 Squadron at Dover, where there were two aerodromes - one belonging to the R.F.C. and one to the R.N.A.S. Our aerodrome was on the cliffs east of Dover Castle, where a few years earlier Blériot landed after his famous Channel crossing. When flying round the aerodrome I was surprised to see below me a Blériot belonging to the R.N.A.S., with its warping wings and open fuselage.

No. 49 was equipped with Martynside Scouts and commanded by Major Barratt - later to end a notable career as Chief of the Air Staff and an Air Chief Marshal. I remember him with thick dark hair and a large black moustache, but my log book only records his signature.

The Martynside - known in the Service as the "Elephant" - was a single-seater biplane with a 120 horse-power four-cylinder-in-line water cooled Beardmore engine. It was rather Germanic in design and, while not difficult to fly, had a nasty habit of "floating" when one levelled off to land. So long as one held back "the stick", all was well and the wheels settled down into the grass. But it was fatal to attempt to hurry the process of landing, which only resulted in protests from the "Elephant" in the form of bumps and bounces.

Being a single seater, no "dual" was possible, so after appropriate words of advice from an instructor I taxied out and took to the air. Log book reports; "1 hour 5 minutes, 3500 ft: bad landing." But the undercarriage was sturdy and no damage was done. I only stayed a week at Dover and put in just over five hours flying time. I had now completed my training - gained my "Wings" and flown solo for 26 hours and 37 minutes. The first thought on "graduating" was to acquire a R.F.C. "maternity jacket", as the double-breasted, high-collared uniform was colloquially known. Rounded off with a pale coloured pair of Cavalry breeches, brown field boots, Sam Browne belt, and a forage cap, one felt highly superior to the infantry subaltern.

One night at Dover we were woken by a terrific cannonade and rushing from our hutments we saw a Zeppelin flying high and illuminated by searchlights. The harbour was full of ships including the twelve-inch gunned monitors Erebus and Terror whose normal task was to shell the German fortifications on the Belgian coast. Every ship in the harbour seemed to be letting fly and the noise was deafening. But the Zep put its nose up, turned away, and departed apparently unharmed.

Before posting to France I went home on Embarcation Leave for a few days and then crossed the Channel to Boulogne. I still have my "movement order" authorising me to proceed to Candas and marked "Report to R.T.O. Abbeville". A Crossley tender picked me up and drove me through the pleasant countryside to Fienvillers where No. 27 Squadron was located. Fienvillers is a small village about ten miles west of Albert and some fifteen miles behind the front lines. Officers were housed in tents in an orchard and the Bessoneau hangars and Squadron H.Q. were on the edge of a near-by grass meadow. No. 27 formed part of H.Q. Wing and next to us was No. 70 equipped with Sopwith two-seater "one and a half strutters", which had Scarff ring-mountings for the observer seated in the fuselage behind the pilot, and which were driven by Clerget radial engines.

This Squadron was used mainly for "offensive patrols" and carried out sweeps over enemy territory. They had heavy casualties in battle with Boche fighters.

The H.Q. Wing served directly under R.F.C. H.Q. (which had its advanced H.Q. at Fienvillers) and was commanded by Lieutenant-Colonel Dowding - in World War II the famous Air Marshal who was the inspiration of his pilots in the Battle of Britain. Tall, upstanding, and to the Subalterns rather fierce looking, I remember him mainly carrying out inspections.

The H.Q. Wing was formed preparatory to the opening of the Somme offensive with three tactical duties - strategical reconnaissance, offensive action in guarding bombers, and the bombing of distant communications, i.e. railways and railway junctions. No. 27 was mainly concerned with bombing and with disrupting the rail transport of troops and ammunition; while No. 70 was engaged in reconnaissance, offensive patrols and escort duties. A fourth Squadron - No. 60, equipped with Morane single-seater monoplane fighters - was also attached to H.Q. Wing and their aerodrome was at Vert Galand, a few miles nearer the front than Fienvillers.

Shortly after my arrival the H.Q. Wing was reinforced with a Squadron of B.E.12s (No. 19) - single seaters engined by a 12 cylinder, 140 horsepower R.A.F. We saw little of them as their hangars were on the opposite side of the aerodrome. The planes were out-dated before they arrived and were no match for the German Albatros D 11 with its twin Spandad machine guns firing through the propellor and manned by the pilots of Boelke's newly formed Jadgstaffel 2. In a westerly gale on August 6th the Squadron had great difficulty in getting home from a raid on Havrincourt Wood, and five of its planes were lost.

On arrival I reported to the adjutant and was greeted by the C.O. Major Sidney Smith - known familiarly as "Crasher Smith" because of his ham-handedness on landing his aircraft. I was posted to Captain O.T. Boyd's* flight and sent to the Mess to meet the officers of the Squadron.

No. 27 had flown to France in March 1916 and was to go into action as a Fighter Squadron. But in this task it was not particularly successful and its role was transformed into long-range reconnaissance and escort duties and bombing of strategic targets - often penetrating up to 50 miles behind the Hun lines. When equipped for bombing we carried either two 112lb. bombs slung under the fuselage behind the landing-wheel axles, or ten 20 lb. bombs carried in frames attached to the underside of the lower planes. Armament consisted of a Lewis gun mounted above the top plane, which could be hinged down (with considerable difficulty) to enable the pilot to change drums. Another Lewis was mounted on the left of the pilot's seat and was supposed to be used to protect his tail. But it was almost impossible to fire accurately and at the same time maintain control of the aircraft. However on one occasion a pilot, finding a Hun on his tail, took a "pot shot" and, to the surprise of his assailant who had failed to recognise the sting in the Elephant's tail, shot him down and was awarded a Military Cross.

The "Elephants" originally had a 120 horse-power water-cooled Beardmore engine and flew level at about 75 m.p.h. But as newer planes were delivered they were equipped with a 160 horse-power motor which increased their speed by some 10 m.p.h. and gave a faster rate-of-climb.

Looking back after fifty years it is not easy to recapture one's feelings when "passive" service in England became "active" service in France. Certainly I was not rareing to get into action and I had doubts as to my ability to face up to anti-aircraft fire and hostile machine guns. But thousands of others whose life and background had brought no thought of war until the murders at Sarajevo were brought face to face with the same problem - "Can I make it?"

My log book records that I made my first flight in France on 13th August 1916 - 35 minutes spent circling the aerodrome and practising landings. Next day we were sent up to practice formation flying, as it was customary to fly in Vee formation when escorting bomb raids by other Squadrons; and three days later I was taken for a tour of the lines, flying over Arras and Albert, where the statue of the Virgin hung upside down from the apex of the church spire. Below us were the lines of trenches and the shell-pocked terrain, with its battered towns and villages. Since the opening of the July offensive the line had advanced irregularly and one noticed the enormous mine craters north of Bapaume which had been blown in the chalk soil. It was difficult to realise that the English and German armies were at each other's throats, killing and maiming each other by the thousand, when we soared peacefully in a blue sky between the great white cumulous clouds.

My first sortie over into enemy territory was on August 20th. The Squadron was ordered to escort a bomb raid on Le Transloy, a village some miles behind the German lines. We took off individually and climbed to 12,000 feet before getting into formation over a designated rendezvous. The leader turned east and soon we were under fire from the German A.A. batteries. Black clouds of the bursting shells appeared below us and their detonation was felt by a sudden bump and, if near enough, heard with a loud "crump". But the Squadron flew into low cloud and log book records "three machines only over lines. Clouds at 3000 feet." Two days later I was roused by my batman at dawn and we took off early to bomb Beaulencourt. This time we carried bombs and log book says, "4 20 lbs. dropped on village unobserved. Misty. Plenty of Archie" (the slang for A.A. fire). I wrote home to say that "I saw 4 bombs fall on the village. There must have been 20 or 30 of our machines over the lines where we were and only one Hun in sight - very low down."

The next outing was a raid on Aulnoy - a railway junction some way behind the lines - and I was in the air for over three hours, having crossed at 13,000 feet. "Two 112lb. bombs seen to hit station and one on village." Our Martynsides had no proper bomb sights, except for a wire contraption fixed to the right side of the cockpit. It was almost impossible to fly straight and level and at the same time peer sideways over the edge. So I got my "rigger" to make a hole in the floor of the cockpit through which I could try to pick out a target. But accuracy was impossible unless one was flying low, and many of our bombs must have fallen ineffectively. High-explosive bombs were not the only weapons used against the Boche by the Squadron. Periodically a tender was sent into the nearest town and returned having denuded the shops of rolls of Bromo and as many china articles as could be found. Over our target the Bromo rolls were hurled out - to descend fluttering to earth as the paper unrolled - and followed by a "jerry'", which we fondly hoped would fall on the head of an unsuspecting enemy, gazing up at our paper streamers. But we shall never know whether "jerry" fell on –“Gerry". Other lethal weapons in the shape of broken gramophone [sic] records, soda-water bottles and other rubbish were likewise cast overboard.

We had a cheery Mess - particularly when clouds made flying impossible or when all pilots had returned safely from a raid. Captain Maurice Baring - Trenchard's A.D.C. - came to visit us from time to time and was adept in keeping us amused with various parlour tricks such as balancing a liqueur glass on his bald pate while reciting doggerel verse. Writer and poet, he had the knack of keeping up our spirits and advising his Master about the morale of his Squadrons.

During the next week the Squadron was engaged in a number of sorties and log book records on 25th July, "Busigny. 2 112 lbs dropped on station 6000 ft. Other bombs seen exploding." 31 August: "To lines. 2 leaders fell out. Formation lost. 3 machines missing"; and the same afternoon: "Escort. 12,000 feet. Bois de Havrincourt. Crossed above clouds. Not much Archie. Bombs seen in wood."

My C.O., Major Smith, hearing that my brother Roger was with the 4th Dragoon Guards about ten miles from Eu on the river La Bresle, gave me the use of a sidecar to go over to see him. He was billeted with his C.O. and other H.Q. officers in an estaminet. The horses were all down by the river on ground which gets flooded in winter and they seemed pretty comfortable. I wrote home later to say that I believed the Cavalry had moved up again behind Albert. Coming back from a raid I flew low and saw some horses, but could not make out if they were Cavalry or Army Service Corps. On the way home I flew over No. 60 Squadron's aerodrome at Vert Galand and seeing a prisoner-of-war cage near-by I dived down and was delighted to see the German prisoners scattering madly.

On September 3rd formation was lost in heavy clouds, but I went on alone to drop eight twenty-pounders on Sailly. There was a strong wind against me on the way home and I must have been an easy target flying under the clouds. I was making little headway and twisted and turned to avoid the shells. When I landed - thankful to get back and rather frightened - it was found that one of the main spars had been half shot through.

On September 6th we penetrated well behind the lines to Aulnoy Station, came down low, and I dropped my bombs on the tracks at 800 feet. Writing to Pilkington, who had left the 2/8th Worcesters at the same time as myself and was serving with 47 Squadron in Salonika (he kept my letter and gave it back to me shortly before he died in 1965), I commented: "One thing you will miss to a great extent will be Archie. He seems to get better every day and although you are at about 12,000, plumps off his first burst a damn sight too close to be comfortable. I have had my machine hit twice, but nothing badly. We had a good show the other day, 8 112 lb. and 36 20lb. or thereabouts on a big station about 50 miles behind the lines. We came down to about 500 and fairly b---d the place up. Trains flying miles in the air. One chap dropped his 112 on a turntable and all the slates on the engine sheds round it leapt about 6 ft. into the air. Huns bolted out of the station like rabbits, they exceeded all speed limits and had colossal vertical breeze. We got M.G. and rifle fire, but no damage done and all got back safely. At present we are rather short of pilots, as we have lost five in the past week or two."

The week finished with two raids on aerodromes at Villers and Trescault when three hangars were seen to be blown up and several bombs fell on the aerodromes and near-by villages. On September 14th I was sent on offensive patrol and log book records: "3 combats with L.V.Gs (German two-seaters). Machine seen falling in flames Bois des Vaux." But I cannot claim to have shot down a Hun, although I loosed off my Lewis several times. We had had hardly any instruction or practice in fighting techniques and stood little chance if we met the newly formed Fighter Squadron commanded by Boelke, which caused so many casualties when it went into action for the first time on September 15th; but of this later.

A few days beforehand we were summoned into a hangar and addressed by "Boom" - General Trenchard, commanding the R.F.C. in France. He told us that a new attempt to break through the German lines would shortly be made; that we were to do everything we could to stop trains bringing up ammunition and reserves; and he hinted that new methods of attack would be used.

Early on September 15th I was sent to St. Omer to take a new Martynside to 2 Aircraft Depot which was close to our aerodrome. Taking off I got my tail too high, the propeller touched the ground and one blade splintered; but I was already airborne and flying very flat with the engine vibrating horribly I managed to skid round and get back to land on the aerodrome. I was well and truly "ticked off" - but this was not the end of a bad morning. On arriving at Candas I mistook the direction of the sleeve and attempted to land down wind. On the first two attempts I overshot and had to go round again. On my final attempt I skimmed over the hangars and just managed to pull up a few yards from a wire fence on the perimeter of the aerodrome.

After lunch we were sent out in pairs to bomb trains. A Canadian, by name Sherren, and I set off together, crossed the lines at a good height and came down low to look for trains. We spied one steaming along on a single line near Gouzeaucourt and I flew along behind it at about 500 feet, "pulled the plug", and let go my two 112lb. bombs. The first fell at the side of the train, but the second seemed to make a direct hit on the engine, which stopped, emitting clouds of smoke and steam. Sherren dropped his two bombs on the rear coaches and round we flew to examine the damage. I was flying one of the newly delivered planes with a 160 horse-power engine and circling over the village of Gouzeaucourt I realised that I was being machine-gunned from the ground and that bullets were hitting the plane. So I quickly opened the throttle and as I passed over the village let fly with my Lewis gun which was carried pointing down to earth. I saw a German soldier walking with a girl in the street, but I don't suppose my bullets disturbed them. Determined not to run any further risks, I climbed steadily until I reached an altitude of 15,000 feet which was pretty well the Martynside's ceiling. On landing at Fienvillers I thought I bumped more than usual and on taxi-ing to a halt found that both tyres had been punctured by bullets and one of the longerons behind my seat had been severed. So I was lucky to get away unscathed as there were several bullet holes in the wings. As I was flying over the battlefield I noticed two black objects in one of the ruined villages where fighting was taking place - I think it was Flers. Later we heard that Tanks had gone into action for the first time. It sometimes puzzles me that September 15th is celebrated as "Battle of Britain Day" and that people have forgotten that the invention of the Tank was at least as significant in military history as the day of climax of the German air attack in 1940.

Shortly after the War a friend and I did a tour of the battlefields and found the railway at Gouzeaucourt. Driving his plough near by was a French peasant and I inquired whether he had been there in 1916 and remembered a train being bombed. "Yes," he said, "brave French aviators dropped bombs on a German troop train. The engine was hit and a bomb fell on the last two coaches which contained ammunition and blew up. There were over 40 casualties and I was ordered to help to clear the wreckage." It was satisfactory to tell him that the bombs fell from British machines and that I was one of the pilots!

The next day was cloudy and no flying was possible, but on the 17th September we were ordered to attack Valenciennes, a long way behind the lines. We set off at 7 a.m. and were soon flying in formation towards our target. It was a fine sunny autumn day and "Archie" was more troublesome than usual. When we were about twenty miles inside German-held territory, we were heavily shelled and the air was full of black crumps. Almost immediately my engine stopped and I began to lose height. I thought that perhaps the air pump, which delivered fuel from the main tank to a small tank which supplied the carburettor by gravity, had packed up. So I feverishly worked at the auxiliary hand pump and after a short interval the engine picked up again. Then I was in a dilemma - should I try to rejoin the formation, which was now disappearing into the distance, or turn home. However fate decided, and the engine stopped again and refused to start in spite of my efforts to put pressure into the tank. So there was nothing to do but to glide down as flatly as possible and try to get back over the lines. But soon I realised I was not going to make it - I had already dropped my bombs on a wood - and would have to make a forced landing. We had just been issued with tracer bullets for our Lewis guns and were warned that the Boche were claiming that they were explosive and contrary to the rules of the Hague Convention. So before landing I fired off my machine guns and threw out the spare drums of ammunition. Picking a likely looking stubble field, I landed without difficulty and, clutching the incendiary torch with which we were equipped in case of a forced landing, jumped out - set the torch alight and poked it into the canvas of the main planes. But this proved ineffective, so I climbed back into the cockpit - broke the glass of the petrol gauge, dipped my handkerchief into the stream of petrol which poured out, lit it from the torch and flung it back into the cockpit. There was a great gush of flame and I ran headlong to be clear of the burning plane and flung myself down, as some German troops, exercising some distance away, started loosing off.

Soon the plane was surrounded by field-grey soldiers and a German officer rode up on his horse. I saluted and we conversed in French. After a short time a staff car appeared and I was whisked off to German H.Q. which was located in the Chateau de Bourlon, the scene of much heavy fighting in 1918. After languishing in a cell for an hour or so, I was escorted into the Chateau and interrogated by a very rude German Intelligence officer. We had been warned only to give our name and rank, so I refused to answer his questions. Eventually I was marched off to the station and taken by train to the Citadel in Cambrai where I found several other officers - most of them from the R.F.C. September 17th was a notable day for the Fliegerkorps, as Boelke and his newly formed Fighter Squadron - Jagdstaffel 2 - first went into action as a Squadron with their new Albatroses. Boelke set out early in the morning and soon found four bomb-carrying B.E.2cs escorted by six F.E.2bs - two-seater fighters with pilot and observer sitting in a nacelle jutting beyond the planes in front of their engines. Losing height with the sun behind them, Boelke's pilots took the British formation by surprise as they turned for home after bombing Marcoing, and before breaking off the fight had shot down four F.E.s and one of the B.E.s. Another B.E., piloted by Raymond Money, was hit by "Archie", damaged, and crashed on landing.

So ended my active career as a pilot - with 42 hours 45 minutes in France and a total of 68 hours 25 minutes solo in the air. Casualties were heavy at this period of the war and some squadrons were changing completely in six weeks. General "Boom" Trenchard, in command of the R.F.C., had determined that the Somme offensive should be fully backed in the air and his planes operated entirely over or behind the front lines, whereas the Germans seldom ventured over British-held territory. Apart from A.A. casualties many British pilots were shot down by the German fighters, sitting up high in the eye of the sun and awaiting favourable opportunities to attack. The story of the R.F.C. has been told in many books - so this is just the personal record of one of the many young pilots who were sent to France relatively untrained and many of whom were killed or wounded. Falling into the enemy's hands was unpleasant, but probably saved one's life. Whether or not it was worth it in manpower and equipment is anyone's guess. Apart from the Gouzeaucourt episode I shall never know whether the bombs which fell from my Martynside helped towards ultimate Allied victory. But it was fun to fly and to be able to look back on the early struggles with unreliable engines, few navigational aids, and the wind rushing past one's ears as one climbed towards the heavens.

The Cambrai Citadel was used as a military headquarters and as a barracks. The room in which we were incarcerated was dirty and bug-ridden - we suspected later that it was also "bugged"! We slept in double-tier wooden beds on straw palliasses; and after the good food we had enjoyed in our Squadron Messes, watery vegetable soup, black bread, and ersatz coffee were not exactly inviting. On the day I arrived I was joined by several other officers who had been shot down - Captain Gray and his observer Sanders; Tom Lloyd-Molloy and his observer Helder; and Raymond Money who later wrote of his experiences in a book called Flying and Soldiering. We stayed at Cambrai for about a fortnight and were joined by other prisoners. While we were there we were taken out individually for interrogation and were visited by Fliegerkorps officers looking very smart in their field-grey uniforms.

On one occasion when we were let out for exercise, we witnessed a parade of a German infantry battalion which had been withdrawn from the battlefield to re-equip and to be made up to strength with young recruits. The battalion formed square and a senior officer rode in and gave a pep-talk to the troops. When he had reached his peroration an orderly with a bag produced a number of Iron Crosses which were duly pinned on to the breasts of those who had survived the ordeal of the Somme battle - no doubt to encourage their new comrades who were shortly to come under fire.

At last we left Cambrai in hard-seated and uncomfortable third-class carriages. Slowly we passed through Douai, Mons and Brussels and into Germany at Aachen. In the station in Cologne we were packed into an underground waiting-room - well known to many newly captured prisoners - and were scowled upon by German civilians. The end of our long journey was reached at Gütersloh in Hanover where we spent a few days in quarantine. But we only saw the outside of the P.O.W. Camp and after a few days we were moved on to Osnabruck, where a new camp was being organised in a disused cavalry barracks on the outskirts of the town. At first we were shut up in rooms with boarded windows and could not make out why some two dozen Flying Corps officers were kept incommunicado. After a visit from a representative of the American Embassy it came to light that we had been selected as potential victims to be shot if the British authorities decided that the crew of a Zeppelin, which had been driven down near London, had transgressed the Hague Convention by having tracer ammunition which it was claimed was "explosive". Fortunately the decision went in our favour and we were transferred to the main barracks which were partly occupied by Russian and a few French officer prisoners.

We were at Osnabruck for six months and most of us were then transferred to Clausthal in the Harz Mountains. After eighteen months in the Hotel zu Pfauenterchen (Peacock Lake) and its adjoining hutments, we were due to be sent to Holland and were shipped off to Aachen, where most of us fell sick with a devastating flu epidemic. As the days passed our expectation of getting out of Germany became fainter and fainter until we learned that the hospital ship which was to take a corresponding party of German prisoners to Holland had been sunk. So after six weeks of uncertainty we packed up and spent a very uncomfortable and lengthy journey across Germany to Stralsund on the Baltic where we remained until after the Armistice, when we were shipped back home via Denmark and across a rough North Sea to Leith.

But "Kriegsgefangenschaft" is another story which several authors have described - so for the moment "my tale is told" and I leave it at that.