A Soldier Of The Sky [Illustrated Edition]

Captain George Frederick Campbell, R.F.C.

• Publisher: Lucknow Books
• Year: 2012
• ISBN:
  9781782890706
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: World War I
• Index: History

"Never refuse a fight, is the motto of the Royal Flying Corps." – And so it was with Captain Campbell, one of the earliest British flying aces with five victories to his name. His flying career was abruptly cut short in 1917, after three years in the air, by a bullet which punctured his lung. Filled with tales of his own and his comrades exploits in the air, he wrote his recollections of his wartime service in America on tour as he sought to raise American aid.Author —Captain George Frederick Campbell, R.F.C.Text taken, whole and complete, from the edition published in Chicago, Davis printing works, 1918.Original Page Count – 232 pages.Illustrations – Numerous Illustrations.

A SOLDIER OF THE SKY

CHAPTER I.—WHY I JOINED THE FLYING CORPS.

“Petrol on!—Switch off!—Suck in, sir!”

The snappy cry of the air mechanic to the army flyer, as the soldier of the sky prepares for flight, still rings out clearly in my memory. I heard it first on Salisbury Plain; then at the starting-point in Hampshire from which I made my first flight to France; and then as a fighting scout I heard it, many a time after, at the dawn of day on the Western front of the world’s greatest war.

I hear it now, with the pilot’s answering cry, “Petrol on! Switch off!” as I begin to set down, while recollection remains vivid, some of the events and experiences of my two years in the air service. Two wonderful years! Two terrible years! Two years of unutterable sadness! Two years of revenge!

Of course you have heard of a Scotch mist. Perhaps you have met the real thing in its native haunts, and know just how it feels. Well, the day which I have in mind was a day in August, 1915, somewhere in Fifeshire, Scotland, when the heavy mist and the cold ate into the very marrowbones of a wounded man, and sent my spirits down to zero.

There I was, troubled very badly both in mind and body. The physical bother of sciatica, aggravated by the mist, was bad enough in my convalescent condition, but that was nothing compared with the mental anguish of a discovery I had made that day.

I had learned at the battalion depot that I should be of no further material use to my regiment, the Highland Light Infantry, on account of my last wound, received in the battle of Neuve Chapelle on March 10, five months before. This hip wound had been patched-up very nicely, but left me slightly lame, and so far as further infantry service in the trenches was concerned I was declared out of it.

This was a nice predicament to be in, when I had counted on getting back to the front with the regiment. I simply had to get back, just to ease my feelings. Probably there was an underlying desire for the satisfaction of some sort of personal revenge upon the Hun. In a way I wanted to get my own back, for in the war I had lost my father and three brothers, killed in action; my sister, torpedoed on the “Arabic,” and my mother, who died from the shock. That was indeed a score to be evened up. No man can deny me the right to harbor thoughts of vengeance, though God knows I tried hard enough to keep the thought of duty uppermost. But the blood of my kin cried aloud to me from the battlefields of France and Flanders, and the white faces of my mother and sister haunted my dreams. I simply must get back to the fighting line. But how?—that was the question: How was I to get back when the doctors had ruled against me? “Fit for home service only!”

Then, in that chill and penetrating mist on a bleak hillside of bonnie Scotland, tortured in body .and torn with unspeakable emotion, but fired with keen desire for another and a harder go at the enemy who had given me such a bitter personal grudge to wipe out, I cast about in my mind for some way to return to the front.

“By Jove,” I said to myself after taking stock of the possibilities. “I have it! The Flying Corps! There will surely be a chance for me in the aviation branch of the service. I know I can be of some use there, even if I am slightly lame.” And then and there I determined to make application to take the examination for entrance to the Royal Flying Corps, that gallant body of men which had already gained imperishable fame for itself and had nobly earned the nation’s gratitude.

That evening my application was duly posted.

I had never flown in any kind of a machine, nor had I ever been near an aeroplane up to that time, but as I recall my feelings on that day, I had a peculiar sort of intuition—call it a hunch, if you will—that I could fly. There is an indescribable something (at least I cannot describe it) which leads you to believe, almost to know, that you can do a thing, whether you have ever tried it before or not. That is the kind of feeling I had when I applied for a chance at flying service, and it was a sure-enough hunch.

It was only a few days until I was ordered to take the physical examination for the Flying Corps. A sound constitution and perfect eyesight helped me with the doctors, and, in spite of the handicaps of my partially-healed wound and lameness, I was finally accepted by the War Office after about fifteen days’ waiting in grave suspense.

When the good news arrived, on September 1, 1915, I was ordered to report for training at once. Accordingly I started to pack my kit in feverish haste, ever to be off. But the news was too good to keep to myself. So hurrying up to the mess I had to tell everybody, my brother officers and all the boys I found at headquarters. The “lame duck” had a new lease of military life—a splendid prospect of getting back to active service at the front!

The boys all congratulated me and said I was very lucky to be able to pass the examinations. As I was the first officer of the regiment to be posted to the Flying Corps, they all expressed a hope that I would make a good showing in the air, if only for the sake of the regiment. This I promised them I would try to do, and I can sincerely say that I never forgot that promise, made in the hour of my most regretful farewells to the regiment.

Next day saw me en route to Reading, in the south of England, where one of the “ground schools” for the preliminary training of flying men was located.

The ground-school work, by the way, is an all-important part of an air pilot’s training, as I was soon to discover. It is there that you learn all the airman must know about engines, the theory of flight, aids to flight, wireless telegraphy, aerial navigation by night and by day, bomb dropping, observer’s duties, and a whole lot of other things that may not strike a novice as necessary, but are absolutely essential nevertheless to the making of a soldier of the sky. The equipment of a flying man, physical, mental, and technical, must be complete and first-class in every respect, or he will be handicapped from the take-off and his life is the stake.

 

CHAPTER II.—AT THE “GROUND SCHOOL.”

Arriving at Reading, I found that the ground school was quite a large one and known as the best of its kind in the country. There must have been from six to eight hundred fellows there, training for the R. F. C. Most of them, like myself, were army men and had been transferred at their own request from regiments of the line and other branches of the service. Nearly all had been “across” at the front and had seen active service. In fact, the material for pilots at that time was exceptionally good, because having had experience in trench warfare the men were accustomed to gunfire and it was a matter of small consequence to them. Nonchalance in this respect is a great advantage to a pilot in his early flights on the fighting front or in enemy terrain, where he is liable at any moment to receive a warm greeting from “Archie.” That is the name given by British airmen to the antiaircraft artillery of either side.

When I reported at Reading, however, I was unacquainted with “Archie” and had yet to learn his name. I presented myself at the orderly room, handed in my name, and was allotted quarters in a fine large room facing on the court of an ancient college, in which many of my fellow-novices were billeted.

A “batman,” or soldier servant, met me in the corridor and informed me that my luggage had arrived and that I was just in time for dinner. Oh, joy! This was welcome news after my journey down from the north, and I promptly made my way to the large refectory or mess hall where dinner was being served. This mess, I may remark, was a bit different from most regimental messes, because you had to do all your own waiting, and nobody made a fuss over you, even though you were an officer. It was a good, as well as a democratic, arrangement, for it was much quicker to serve oneself in cafeteria style and the plan allowed us all more time to ourselves for study or—otherwise.

A due regard for candor, and the traditional truthfulness of a Scot, compel me to state that it was mostly “otherwise” with a good many of us novices at Reading, at the time of which I write. However, I did manage to find a wee bit of time occasionally for study of matters that I thought I needed most to know.

Saturday was always a half-holiday at the ground school, and gave an opportunity for a weekly trip to London—about an hour’s ride—which most of the boys embraced. Some spent the week-end at Henley or Windsor, both of these favorite resorts being only a few miles from Reading and also on the River Thames, with splendid facilities for boating. On Saturday afternoons and all day on Sundays the embryo flyers dotted the famous old river, usually lazing about in punts and canoes with lady loves from London or the up-river towns. A few men would remain each week in their quarters at Reading for alleged purposes of study.

My course at the ground school lasted for five weeks, when there were examinations and my wee bits of study counted well, for I came out with very good results. The following Monday morning I received orders to report forthwith at the Central Flying School on Salisbury Plain. There, I learned, it was quite possible that I myself, a soldier of the King, might be called a “Hun.” In fact the young flyers on the ancient plain are quite frequently called Huns by their instructors and elders, the “Hun” in this case being a recent corruption of the old army pet name “young ‘un,” applied to a youngster in the service. There were several other things that I was to learn at the Flying School.

 

CHAPTER III.—THE FLYING SCHOOL ON SALISBURY PLAIN.

As I approached the stage of actual flight in my training, I was filled with curiosity about my probable sensations and behavior when I found myself at last “up in the air.” My first aerial joy-ride came sooner than I had expected.

The Central Flying School of the R. F. C., at Upavon, Wiltshire, turned out to be an enormously long and exceptionally good aerodrome, with L-shaped hangars which allowed a great many machines to be stored away at night. Situated in the midst of the great Salisbury Plain, with its wide stretches of level ground, and famed for its Druidic remains like those at Stonehenge, it was an ideal spot for the first flights of those who, like myself, had everything to learn about “taking off” and landing in a “plane” or “bus,” alias an aeroplane. The word “airplane,” by the way, had no standing with us.

After reporting to the camp commander I was put under canvas, or in a tent, but the weather being fairly good for October, tenting was not half as bad as might have been expected. The next morning I was allotted to a flying party or squadron, and then it was that I took my first ride in a plane.

I happened to be standing around, awaiting my turn and gazing about in wonder at the evolutions of some of the more advanced pupils, who were fighting sham battles over the drome.

“How soon shall I be able to do such things and meet the Hun in the air on even terms?”

I was just asking myself the question and resolving to do my best to speed the day, when suddenly I was roused to sharp attention by the clear and distinct drawl of one of the officer instructors, who wore a monocle in his right eye and stuttered very badly:

“All right, you—wh-what’s his name? Gug-gug-get your bally hel-helmet on and cuc-cuccome up with me. I’m gug-gug-going to give you a joy-ride.”

And he meant me! You may be able to imagine my feelings at that moment—about to go up for the first time! I had a strange sort of sensation—felt rather queer in fact—and thought it must be a case of the malady commonly called ““cold feet.” But I did my best to fight it down, so as not to betray my state of mind to the rest of the boys standing around the hangar door, for I observed that they were grinning and nudging one another. To me they seemed to be anticipating some sort of excitement or amusement—at my expense, I supposed—and this added greatly to the discomfort which I confess I felt.

Afterwards I found out why the boys were grinning. The instructor who had addressed me was no other than the most reckless pilot—at least for “stunting”—that was attached to the drome at that time. I was an absolute novice and it was generally known that he “put the wind up” everybody he took up, by his crazy, harebrained stunts. “Stunts” have a decided tendency to make a young flyer a bit dizzy, especially when performed close to the ground, which was his favorite arena for hair-raising performances with new pupils as passengers. Reckless though my stuttering instructor may have been, he looked a very innocent sort of chap for the kind of reputation he carried. But flyers cannot be judged by their looks. I found that out more than once later on. So did the Huns

But on with my first joy-ride! With many misgivings, which I tried hard to disguise, I proceeded into the hangar and got a flying helmet, as directed. These helmets are so constructed that if you fall and land on your “napper,” or if any kind of missile resulting from an accident should hit you, the helmet will protect your head somewhat.

Putting on the massive thing (commonly called a “Hun helmet”), I was then handed a pair of army goggles. These are of rubber, with two Triplex lenses inset to prevent splintering of the glass should the wearer be hit in the eye. I was well wrapped up in heavy clothing, for I had heard it was very cold “up there”—an idea common to new aviation pupils, who are often seen going up wrapped like an Eskimo with an instructor lightly clad. Then I followed my instructor out to the machine, which was standing ready several yards from the hangar, on the edge of the “tarmac.” This, by the way, is the portion of an aerodrome immediately outside the hangar doors—a stretch of smooth ground, asphalted or oil-surfaced to prevent dust from being blown into the shed or the picking up of earth and stones by the engine propeller when it revolves on starting.

The machine was set “facing into” the wind, a slight breeze having sprung up. I looked at the big “bird” for a minute, trying to puzzle out how I was going to climb into it, when I was struck by a bright idea—”Do as the instructor does!” So I watched him closely, as I disliked to appear foolish in front of all the other boys, standing around with their eyes riveted on me.

But in spite of my best efforts I did not get into the machine without getting tangled up in some wires which I had learned about at the ground school, but had forgotten for the moment—the “drift wires.” Once seated, however, in the rear seat of the cockpit, I began to feel more comfortable.

“Put on your belt—strap it around your waist!” ejaculated the “O.C. plane,” with the slightest symptoms of a stutter.

I complied to the best of my ability—ever...