It was during a discussion in the mess on the question of air reprisals that Canada's champion airman slipped in the quiet remark; and when a man who has won the V.C., the Military Cross and the D.S.O. with a bar, says he could bomb the German capital it may be taken that he means what he says. He had then brought down nearly fifty German flyers, besides a few balloons.
Born at Owen Sound, Ontario, in 1894, a son of the registrar of Grey County, this stripling received a commission in the Canadian Cavalry in March, 1915, and went to France with a cavalry unit. He was in the trenches in the days when our Cavalry Brigade held a section of the line as infantry. Later, after only one experience of fighting Germans from horseback, he decided that he wanted more excitement and joined the increasing host of airmen.
His headquarters in France as a flying man were until recently in the cosiest of aerodromes, cuddled close up against a small bunch of cool trees, which looked innocent enough from the air. An ancient farm is in the vicinity and the title of the young airman's hut was "The Abode of Love." It is a fitting answer to the Hymn of Hate.
Commanding this squadron of airmen, he brought it to perfection, and none disputed that he was a fitting successor to Captain Ball, the famous English V.C. hero, who was the leader until his death. Every man of the squadron has brought down at least ten Germans and the cheerful group is reputed to have the greatest percentage of flying nerve on the western front.
His best and most daring work, however, has been done when he has been "solo" flying. It is true that he attributes most of his success to "luck," but his comrades know that more than luck is needed to bring an airman safely out of some of the awkward situations in which he has been placed. On the 24th April, 1917, he was climbing slowly against the wind a few miles east of Monchy when he saw an enemy two-seater busily making observations of the Allied line and sending wireless messages to the German headquarters in the rear. He dived at the big machine, firing in bursts from his Lewis gun as he went. But his gun jammed and he was compelled to wheel round, tinkering with the weapon as he flew. In a few moments he had remedied the trouble and banged fifteen more shots at the enemy; but again his gun jammed, and before he could clear it the big German had escaped.
When he got the gun into working order again he flew eastward towards Vitry, hawking the air lanes for other opponents. Before long he observed another two-seater, also on observation work. This time he tried his gun at long range, then rushed at the enemy, firing in bursts as he charged.
The German machine wriggled, flying first one way then another, with the Canadian hanging on at its tail and spouting gusts of bullets at it in short intervals. Hit at last in the fusilage, the German made a dive for earth. Swift on the track of the two-seater came the captain, firing all the way; and when the German machine finally landed in a meadow he finished the remainder of his ammunition drum into it as it lay on the ground. Neither pilot nor observer climbed out. Both had been killed as they sat in the 'bus.
Ten minutes later, after he had recharged his gun, Bishop climbed into the clouds to continue his cruise of the front line. As he rose he saw, away ahead, a British Nieuport being attacked by three Albatross scouts. He flew to his compatriot's assistance, and, coming up from behind, emptied his gun into one of the enemy. The German collapsed and went down like a stone. The Nieuport by this time had started in pursuit of one of the other Albatrosses, which was trying to escape, so Bishop tackled the third. A few buzzing, manœuvring circles, a few bursts from the deadly little gun—and the German was diving steeply to earth. Captain Bishop slid down in his smoking wake and saw him crash, a heap of broken spars and flames.
There is no trick of aircraft that this young Canadian does not know, though he is not a showy flyer. The number of his exploits is endless, and as his squadron moved from one part of the line to another he constantly found new pastures for adventure, new opponents to defeat, more Germans to kill. He has fought German airmen high over the waves of advancing battalions and has heard, as a faint whisper coming up to him, the cheers of his fellow countrymen when he shot down his enemies at their feet. He has chased a German Staff automobile along a dusty road and opened fire on it so that the driver lost his nerve and ditched the car, and the occupants threw their massive dignity to the winds and scrambled for shelter into a dug-out.
Not very long ago, when he was roaming alone, twelve thousand feet high, he heard the stutter of machine-guns from out the clouds, and drove in their direction to find his own juvenile major fighting single-handed against five formidable German battle machines. Down swooped the captain on the tail of the nearest enemy, riddled the pilot and observer with bullets, fought another for a few minutes and sent him also to the ground, dived down, reloading his gun as he went, then up again and blew a third into eternity with a terrific burst of fire; and then, joyfully and with calm happiness, escorted his major home in a merry, zig-zag course which told the watchers of his aerodrome that all was well with the world.