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To return to the squadron which we left at Marie Capelle. On March 8, 1918, orders arrived to move up to Bailleul—a good deal nearer the line—where they remained for over a fortnight. This aerodrome was shelled every day that they were there, and on the last two nights was heavily bombed. On March 27 they were rushed down to Bellevue, near Doullens, to cope with the offensive which, as few will have forgotten, began on the 21st. This move brought the squadron back into the 13th Wing, in which it served, except for the winter of 1917–18, during the whole of its career on the Western Front. After three days at Bellevue another move was ordered to Fienvilliers.
On March 30, in the course of one patrol, Hammersley, the leader, destroyed two Hun scouts, putting one on to the roof of a house in Hem, where it burst into flames; while Copeland, Hegarty, Duncan, and Griffiths all shot down hostile machines, the destruction of which was officially confirmed. Bartlett also shot down one out of control. Both Copeland and Duncan were now piling up good scores.
On April 12 there was yet another move, this time to Boffles, where they stayed until September. For some time past they had been in tents, ready to move at a moment’s notice, and by now all the household goods which a squadron accumulated during the period of stationary warfare had disappeared: the bronze figures and silver basins, brought back as mementoes (on payment) after celebrations in Amiens and elsewhere; the original of Fleming Williams’ picture of a Nieuport scout; the cut-glass reproductions of two of his father’s valuable decanters, presented to the squadron by Lord Dalmeny on his departure for Egypt with General Allenby; the German signboards, shell-cases, and other trophies; all had been left behind or were lost long before the March retreat and the subsequent victorious advance were over. This was a pity, but could not be helped.
The losses of the Air Force during this retreat were very heavy indeed. Usually we used to calculate that the Germans lost twice as many machines as the British, according to the reports issued by our Headquarters. This thought was a comforting one. Under the head of hostile machines destroyed are not included, for the purpose of this calculation, those shown as driven down out of control. It should be remembered that Headquarters required very clear confirmation before officially recognising the destruction of an enemy machine, and that many Huns must have been destroyed which were not counted. If one set fire to a Boche machine in the air there was no difficulty, as the whole sky saw it and confirmation was readily forthcoming; but where this was not done, it was not at all easy to watch the victim glide down from fifteen or sixteen thousand feet, and to mark the spot at which he crashed. It takes a long time to reach the ground from nearly three miles up, and there were always plenty of watchful enemies in the sky waiting to swoop on to the overkeen pilot who forgot everything but his presumably vanquished foe. Once a pilot took his eyes off a machine, it was by no means always easy to pick it up again. The best type was always careful not to claim a doubtful Hun, and, though there were plenty who would like to have done so, the other officers of the flight generally knew pretty well when a doubtful claim was put in, and soon gave the offender a hint that such conduct did the squadron no good. It may, therefore, fairly be assumed that we had destroyed the full number of machines claimed. The German method of calculation was somewhat different, as they counted a two-seater machine as two “victories,” which made their star pilots appear to be more successful than ours.
Throughout the war, on the Western Front, the policy of the R.F.C., as directed by General Sir Hugh Trenchard, was that our fighters should engage the enemy over his territory and never allow him to cross our lines. These orders were never executed with complete success, as it is not possible to erect and maintain an aerial barrage, so to speak, which can completely prevent a resolute pilot from penetrating it if he really means to do so, nor can it be said that our patrols kept, in every case, always on the other side of the line. Broadly speaking, however, we fought over alien territory, the Germans over their own. The effect of this was that many a British machine was forced to land, disabled by gunfire or through engine failure, and the occupants, even though unwounded, were lost to their own side till the end of the war. The German pilot, on the other hand, whose engine was put out of action in a fight might land safely, get another machine, and be fighting again the same day.
Another circumstance which, in fairness to the Air Force, should always be borne in mind when the conditions of fighting in the air are under discussion, is that on the Western Front the wind entered very much into all questions of aerial strategy or tactics. The prevailing wind was that west wind which Conrad thus describes in a brilliant passage, and which, though it deals with the sea, is equally true of the air on the Western Front:
“The narrow seas around these isles, where British admirals keep watch and ward upon the marches of the Atlantic Ocean, are subject to the turbulent sway of the west wind.
“Call it north-west or south-west, it is all one—a different phase of the same character, a changed expression of the same face. In the orientation of the winds that rule the seas, the north and south directions are of no importance. The north and the south winds are but small princes in the dynasties that make peace and war upon the sea. In the polity of the winds, as among the tribes of the earth, the real struggle lies between east and west. The end of the day is the time to gaze at the kingly face of the westerly weather, who is the arbiter of ships’ destinies.
“Benignant and splendid, or splendid and sinister, the western sky reflects the hidden purpose of the royal wind.
“Clothed in a mantle of dazzling gold or draped in rags of black cloud like a beggar, the might of the westerly wind sits enthroned upon the western horizon, with the whole North Atlantic as a foot-stool for his feet and the first twinkling stars making a diadem for his brow.”
It was this powerful sovereign, this pitiless potentate who, five days out of seven, fought with our enemies against us, and it is to be hoped that he is properly humiliated by the result of the war. How many curses have been levelled at his careless head by pilots who, with trailing wires, with labouring, failing engines, and with tattered planes have tried, and often tried in vain, to reach that brown, smoky strip of battered terrain which marked the lines and safety, after a bitter fight? How often has a patrol, on a day with the wind at fifty to sixty miles an hour, at 10,000 feet fought batch after batch of Huns when on the Mons-Maubeuge or some other “long reconnaissance,” only to find that, though every enemy may have been shot down in flames, though no black-crossed machines remained to smirch the sky, inexorable Zephyrus had swept them during the fight so far towards the Rhine that lack of petrol must force them to land on hostile ground? Who has not felt, when turning homewards on a stormy day, that the machine could make no progress at all against the wind, but seemed for minutes that were like hours to stand still over some town or village? Actually headway was as a rule being made, but the change in ground speed from flying down-wind to struggling against it produced this very powerful illusion, and pilots have often thrown their guns, ammunition, and even field-glasses overboard with the frantic hope of lightening the machine and thus increasing her speed.
No! Zephyrus, who should have been a Teuton god, and who beyond question wears the Iron Cross, was no friend to the Air Force. We should perhaps have poured out libations to his eastern brothers—Eurus and Aquilus—or at very least have recommended them for the immediate award of the Distinguished Flying Cross in recognition of their invaluable services throughout the war.