The three forced landings within that short space of time constitute almost a record. It was with my own machine, and each time some trouble with the engine broke out when I had got up 500 feet. Each time that we thought that we had discovered the trouble and I took her up again, she cut out just the same. By great good luck I managed to get back into the aerodrome. On one occasion I had bombs on too! Now the machine is being practically pulled to pieces and altered by almost raving mechanics.
I had, as I wrote you yesterday, a three and a half hours’ non-stop flight, and later was down for night bombing. I was all on my own, and several people said they thought it was too misty. However, the C.O. asked me if I would like to try, and I said I was quite willing, and got ready.
I went up all right, though from the time I passed the last flare I saw absolutely nothing. There was a horrible ground mist, worse than it looked from the ground, and with no moon everything was black as ink. I could not tell whether I was flying upside down or anyway, and the machine was an old one and not very stable. I looked round at the flares and found I was flying all on the skew, left wing down, and I put that right; but not being able to see even a white road directly below me, I knew it was hopeless trying to leave the vicinity of the ’drome, and signalled that I was coming down. So down I came.
I had been told to land down wind, owing to trees being at the other end of the ’drome. Well, there wasn’t much wind, but what little there was I had pushing me on instead of holding me back. Likewise I lit a flare at the end of my wing, and although that enabled me to see the ground directly below me, I couldn’t tell my height. I expected to touch ground by the first flare, but owing to these things and the fact that I was flying a strange machine the engine of which “ticked over” rather fast, I did not touch ground at the first flare—but at the last. The landing was all right, but I plunged merrily on into the pitch darkness until I came to a nice new road and a ditch which pulled up ye machine with a “crunch”! It at once began to take up peculiar attitudes, similar to those of a stage contortionist, and endeavoured to mix up its tail and rudder with the propeller. At any rate, this is how the machine looked a second afterwards:
The flare on the wing tip was still burning, and I had hardly time to get over my surprise at the bombs not bursting, when it occurred to me that there might be a lot of petrol knocking about. “This is no place for me, my boy,” I thought, and undid my safety belt double quick and slid down one of the wings to the ground.
Meanwhile some dozens of breathless mechanics and officers arrived at the double, and made kind inquiries as to my health. I am absolutely certain they were infinitely more scared than I was, and they all seemed relieved when I told them I was all right. I then lit a cigarette (as being the correct thing to do), observing with satisfaction that my hand was quite steady, and walked up to the C.O. and apologised. “Oh, that’s all right, as long as you are all right: J—, just ring up the Wing, and tell them our machine has landed.”
Everybody was bucked that I got out all right. One of our pilots said he didn’t know how I managed to land at all, and thinks I was jolly lucky.
At any rate, it is experience and it didn’t hurt me in the least, so I have nothing to grumble about. By the way, I don’t expect to get my next leave much before Christmas at any rate, as there is none going here just now.
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