by Harold F. Taylor

August 8th, 1918.  Who of those who were on the Somme will forget that day when we started to push the enemy back along the long, straight road which leads from Amiens to Peronne?

I had just joined my squadron as spare pilot.  It happened that an observer had been wounded the previous day, and my flight commander asked if I would act as an observer for a time.  Of course I said "Yes." What else could I say? Thus it was that on August 8th I had my first experience of a bombing expedition over the lines.  The objective was an ammunition dump somewhere along that same long, straight road.  Fourteen machines flew in V-shaped formation, so close that an observer on one side could make faces at his friend flying on the other.

For an hour we circled on our own side of the lines, gaining height.  Referring to my map, I found I could look down on the Forest of Crecy, where centuries ago another army of ours had fought, but with what different weapons!  Now we were heading east, sweeping along at ninety miles an hour, three miles up.  At such an altitude, details below cannot easily be picked out, and because of my lack of experience we were over the target and dropping bombs before I realized we had crossed the lines.

At a signal from my pilot, I pulled the two wires and released the bombs from their rack below the fuselage.  Then I leaned over the side to watch them fall.

Have you ever looked down from a high building and felt as though you must throw yourself down? As I watched those two bombs falling, second after second, getting smaller and smaller until they became invisible, I felt an almost irresistible impulse to slip over the low wall of three-ply wood that was the side of the cockpit, and follow them.  I had to turn away.

So far, we had had the sky to ourselves, but as we turned for home I became aware of a number of black specks on our left, rapidly growing into a flight of enemy scouts.

They did not dive on us, but hung behind, peppering away at the end machines of the V formation.  Everyone of us opened up with his two Lewis guns, and I had my first sight of a machine sent down in flames.

Who hit him it was impossible to say, since he was the foremost in the attack, and the target of at least six guns.  He suddenly dived.  Petrol vapour streamed out like smoke behind him, then burst into flames.  I watched as he rushed downwards, to fall to pieces 1,000 feet below.

His companions disappeared, and we were left to go home in peace.  In the distance I noticed a number of machines carrying out most wonderful evolutions.  There must have been twenty, twisting and turning like worms writhing in a fisherman's bait tin.

At the lines we dived and broke formation.  My pilot flew low, perhaps 100 feet up, and we looked on the ground that had been fought over that morning.  The earth was torn up.  Here a tree stump, there a heap of ruins, a wrecked gun, a dead horse, a deserted tank half buried in the mud.  It is impossible to describe how desolate the scene appeared.

Soon we were back at the aerodrome, taking off our flying suits.  "Poor old Baker's done," said my pilot.  "Didn't you see him go down?" I had not noticed any of our men drop out, but it was true.  Only thirteen buses landed.  I was no longer a spare pilot.

"Those fellows were having a good time stunting, just before we got to the line, weren't they?" I asked.  "Stunting?" said Johnson grimly.  "That was a dog fight.  Our bombers and Jerry's scouts.  That's what would happen to us if we didn't keep formation." "Why didn't we go and give them a hand?" "Nothing to do with us.  Our business is to drop bombs and get home as quickly as possible."

One soon gets to know people in an Air Force squadron.  There was Mills, who always stayed in bed until the last possible moment, and at the cry "Raid on!" would hastily don his flying kit over his pyjamas and climb into the machine.  There was Macdonald, who, unknown to the C.O., was so short-sighted as to be unable to judge his height, and had to give the controls to his observer when about to land.  Biddard, who rouged his cheeks and reddened his lips; and Machin, whose father was a boot manufacturer, and kept his son supplied with an extraordinary collection of footwear.

I was soon to see changes.  One by one as the days went by, familiar faces disappeared, and new ones came.  Mills went off one day alone, on a photographic expedition, returned with a dud engine, and was well cursed by the C.O. for not getting the job done.  He went off again, and never came back.  Whether he was killed or spent the rest of the war roaming a prison camp in pyjamas, I never knew.

It was not the C.O.'s fault.  He was being hurried by the wing commander, who in turn, no doubt, was responsible for the photos to someone higher up.  One machine and its occupant was a small price to pay for them.

Macdonald was lucky.  He went home after six months' flying with "nerves." Biddard came down one day in a raid on Namur, and was taken prisoner, unhurt, but no doubt sadly missing his rouge and lipstick, which he had left behind.  That evening in the mess, raid orders were posted up just like the football teams we used to put up at school only a few months before.

Machines, with pilot and observer, were set out each in its position in the formation.  Being a new pilot, I was given a comparatively safe position near the front.

At dawn next morning we were awakened by the cry "Raid on!" and hurried out for a quick breakfast of boiled eggs.  The engines were being run up by mechanics, and we were soon in.  A heavy mist hung over the ground.  One by one the engines were opened out, the machine moved forward, gained speed, and at last rose up.

Soon we were in formation, circling to gain height.  Below us stretched a sea of cotton wool, the earth being obscured by ground fog.  Ahead, we steered into the rising sun, straight for the lines.  I had no difficulty in keeping in formation; we had practised that when in the training squadron.

Nothing happened as we crossed the lines and neared our objective.  Then suddenly, a dirty yellow cloud unrolled itself about 20 yards on my right, and a hoarse "Woof" followed.  It was "Archie," an anti-aircraft battery.  Another and another followed, and we were soon flying through slowly dispersing clouds of smoke.

It seemed impossible to avoid being hit, and before I realized it, I had soared 200 feet above the rest.  I was no better off.  As I turned to avoid one burst, I would see another appear in front of me.  The range had been changed, and while the formation sailed peacefully below I was catching the lot.

However, we left it behind, and I resumed my place.  On several subsequent occasions, I have seen young pilots do the same thing, to fall easy prey to Fokkers lurking above waiting for "Archie " to disrupt the formation.

Over the target we dropped our cargo, then as we turned, we met the enemy scouts as before.  Why they did not dive on us from the front and split us up I do not know, but their policy was always to hang on behind.  Our observers opened fire.

Streams of tracer bullets shot out from each gun, and our machines began to sway from side to side, and up and down, yet still keeping in the V shape, which it would have been fatal to lose.

For fifteen minutes it went on.  Above the roar of the engine could be heard the sharp rattle of machine guns.

Little rags of fabric would spring up in the wings as bullets tore them, and all the time the pilot must keep his hand on the throttle and his eyes on the machine ahead, swinging and dipping until collision seemed imminent, yet always keeping a little above and to one side, so that the guns in front might protect his blind spot under the tail.

We reached the lines, and our attackers vanished.  We could fly steadily now, and I had time to look behind.  My observer was leaning on the side, white-faced, and gazing longingly at the ground below.  I realized he had been wounded, and the awful thought flashed through my head that he might fall across the controls, setting the machine into a dive from which I might be unable to pull out.  Hastily I motioned to him to sit down, and dived steeply for home.

Every minute I expected to feel his weight on the elevator wires, and I was never more thankful than when my wheels touched the aerodrome.  My engine stopped as I landed, and I stood up and waved.  The ambulance, always ready, dashed across, and my observer was carefully lifted out.  I never saw him again: wounded men were always hurried away, lest the sight of them should affect the nerves of the rest.

I looked at my bus.  The planes were torn, and the ailerons sagged loosely.  It was half an hour before the next man came in, then one by one the stragglers arrived.  Three messages came later, reporting forced landings up and down the country, but four of our machines were never heard of again.  That was my first air raid as a pilot.

Of course it wasn't always like that.  We made two and sometimes three raids a day.  Sometimes we had trouble with aircraft or "Archie" or both; often we had none.  Twice we took over new aerodromes, following our slowly advancing infantry.  New faces appeared and old friends dropped out, and in three months I found myself senior pilot of my flight.

It was late in the afternoon of a day in October.  We had done our two raids, and imagined our work was over for the day, when a message came from the wing commander, asking for volunteers to bomb Peronne, the possession of which our troops were stoutly contesting.

Everybody volunteered; we couldn't refuse.  We were assured that it was an easy job, that there would be no "Archie" left in the town, and that we should be back before dark.  There was no time to gain height and we must do our job at 2,000 feet, a most unusual thing for us, with our engines specially designed for use at high altitudes.

We approached the lines as dusk was falling.  All around us guns flashed incessantly.  It seemed that the air must be full of projectiles.  I have no idea how high a shell travels, but I went in fear of being knocked to pieces any minute.  Then "Archie" started.  At such a range he could be very effective, and we had experienced nothing like it before.  Still we kept steadily on, to meet a new horror as we approached the town.

Long strings of balls of fire began to float up.  Sometimes slowly, then accelerating, one could not judge their speed.  Sooner or later one must become entangled and fall to a hideous death.

Now we were over the town.  I signalled to my partner to drop his bombs.  As he did so, the engine began to splutter and the nose dropped.  I looked at the revolution indicator: the engine had fallen off to half its speed.

Hastily I swung round, so hastily, indeed, that for some seconds my compass card continued to swing and I could not be sure in which direction we were flying.  Our only hope now was to clear the lines.  We could no longer fly horizontally, the only thing was to glide at as small an angle as possible and trust to luck.

Now we were alone "Archie" recommenced, and so near were his shots that in the disturbed air we were tossed like a leaf in the wind.  Tracer bullets pelted from below as we crossed the lines only a few hundred feet up.

We kept up as long as possible, but a very convenient field not badly scarred by shell holes enabled us to make a safe landing.  Even then we were not really sure we were among friends until a khaki uniform appeared.

My observer was so overjoyed that he wrung the hand of this bewildered artilleryman, then complained of a wound in the head.

Gingerly we untied his helmet.  Not a scratch!  It was a case of shell shock.  "Archie" had been a bit too close.  I spent the night with a battery of howitzers near by, and after 'phoning up my squadron got my engine repaired, it was a minor mishap, and I flew back next day.

As I say, these particular flights were exceptional.  The one I remember best was the last one I ever did.  It was uneventful, but I was panic-stricken the whole time.  I was to go on leave next day, and I could not drive away the fear of catching a stray bullet on this raid, after having done over 100 Without a scratch.

However, I did come back safely, and next morning, as I waited for the car to take me on leave the C.O. popped his head out of his hut and said, "The war's over!" It was November 11th.

Harold F. Taylor was commissioned in the R.F.C. in January 1918 at the age of eighteen, and after the usual training was sent in July 1918 to 205 Squadron, operating on the Somme.  He flew the DH4 and the DH9 daylight bombing machines, carrying out reconnaissance, photography, and bombing,  Sometimes doing two and three raids a day, and visiting St. Quentin, Busigny, Namur, and Dinant among other towns.  Richthofen's famous "Circus" was still lively.

Though three observers were wounded when flying with him, Lieutenant Taylor came out unscratched to the end of the war.  Moving up after the Armistice, his squadron was engaged on the earliest air mail, carrying mails from Cologne to the French coast.  He was demobilised in April 1919.

First published in Everyman at War (1930), edited by C. B. Purdom.