Horses Don't Fly

The Memoir of the Cowboy Who Became a World War I Ace

Frederick Libby

• Publisher: Arcade
• Year: 2012
• Print ISBN: 9781611457100
• eBook ISBN: 9781611454499
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Historical Biographies
• Index: History

From breaking wild horses in Colorado to fighting the Red Baron's squadrons in the skies over France, here in his own words is the true story of a forgotten American hero: the cowboy who became our first ace and the first pilot to fly the American colors over enemy lines. Growing up on a ranch in Sterling, Colorado, Frederick Libby mastered the cowboy arts of roping, punching cattle, and taming horses. As a young man he exercised his skills in the mountains and on the ranges of Arizona and New Mexico as well as the Colorado prairie. When World War I broke out, he found himself in Calgary, Alberta, and joined the Canadian army. In France, he transferred to the Royal Flying Corps as an "observer, " the gunner in a two-person biplane. Libby shot down an enemy plane on his first day in battle over the Somme, which was also the first day he flew in a plane or fired a machine gun. He went on to become a pilot. He fought against the legendary German aces Oswald Boelcke and Manfred von Richthofen, and became the first American to down five enemy planes. He won the Military Cross for conspicuous gallantry in action. Libby's memoir of his cowboy days in the last years of the Old West evokes a real-life Cormac McCarthy novel. His description of World War I combines a rattling good account of the air war over France with captivating and sometimes poignant depictions of wartime London, the sorrow for friends lost in combat, and the courage and camaraderie of the Royal Flying Corps. Told in charming, straightforward vernacular, Horses Don't Fly is an unforgettable piece of Americana.

1


Sunrise

I began life with an awful tragedy. Mother left us shortly before my fourth birthday. Where she had gone or for how long, no one told me and I didn’t know. There was a house full of people, some patting me on the head saying “What a big man.” But I wasn’t. This was in 1896. I was only a little boy.

There were strange women trying to hold me on their laps with no success. I was conscious of something wrong. Just what, I was too young to understand.

The fact that Mother had died of quick consumption came to me in the days that followed, sort of piecemeal. Someone seeing me for the first time would remark, “Why, he looks just like his mother.” Then I remember hearing Father say, “When a boy loses his mother he has lost everything, because it is the mother that keeps a family together and makes a home.” It finally dawned on me that Mama was gone forever. While this was terrible for me, it must have been doubly hard for Father. Mother’s death left only four of us, Father, my sister Minnie, Brother Bud and myself. Minnie, who was thirteen years older than I, was sent east to live with an aunt, leaving the three of us together.

Thank God for Father. He turned down all the aunts and uncles who were bent on taking me to raise, saying we would fight it out together, and when they insisted that I needed a woman to look after me, I was so young, Father replied, “I will take care of that.” And he did. Coming to live with us and take care of everyone was Sally, a colored lady. To me, she was an angel. She looked after me, baked cookies, cakes, fresh bread, and right or wrong was always on my side. This Father pretended was wrong, but he liked it very much, because he was keeping the three of us together and could give the back of his hand to all the doubting aunts and uncles.

Two events awakened me to life after the death of Mother. On my sixth birthday when I started to school, Father gave me a pony, saddle, bridle and the whole works. My riding before had always been on the back of one of Bud’s horses, with him leading and me hanging on. This pony was my first of my very own, and with this little monster, named Slowpoke, I started my career with horses.

Slowpoke and I were about the same age, but there the similarity ended. For this little guy had forgotten more about boys than I would ever know. There were times when he humored me by doing everything perfect. He would let me ride him everywhere like we were real pals. Then all of a sudden he would decide the ground was the best place for me. With a few well placed jumps, there I would be, walking home, with him just ahead dragging the reins — so far and yet so near. Boy, I could kill him.

Our home was on the edge of a small cowtown in Colorado, named Sterling, near the Platte River in the Platte Valley. Here no one could be a stranger for long. Everyone spoke to each other whether they had met before or not. Here I learned that cowmen are the kindest and friendliest people on earth.

On both sides of the river for miles and miles in every direction cattle and horses grazed without interference, except immediately along the river where there were many farms raising hay and grain. It was a real cow country for real cowmen. A place to be happy about.

Father and Brother had cattle and horses. At the home ranch some thirty miles from town there was a large pasture for horses, while the cattle roamed the range. Here I liked to spend my vacation, or any time I could, watching Brother Bud break horses to ride. I looked forward to the time I could do the things he was doing, only I was growing too slowly and time was passing slower. Every time I returned to our house in town after watching Bud front-foot some horses, I would try this on my pony, Slowpoke. He was a total loss. He would run about twice then stand still with his little rump facing me. To rope him was impossible.

We had our final battle just before I was eight years old. He stepped on my foot and walked over me, knocking me flat. To say that I was wild would be putting it mildly. Looking for something to work him over with, I found my ball bat in the back yard. With the small bat in one hand, limping and crying tears of anger, I chased him around the corral, trying to get close enough to conk him back of the ear, calling him a ——— so and so, when my brother showed on the scene. “My God, Pard. Such language! Your Sunday school teacher wouldn’t like that. And what do you think would happen if Father could hear that kind of talk? What did you do to Slowpoke or what were you trying to do?” I explained I was only trying to play elephant like they do in the circus — you know, where the elephant throws the man up on his back with his trunk. “I was only trying to teach him to throw me up with his head, but he is so dumb he walked all over me and stepped on my foot.”

“Pard, by now you know an elephant he is not, even if he does act like one at times. I am going to give you two Indian ponies I just bought, and you’ll need a new saddle as you’ve outgrown Slowpoke and your saddle. I think we should give Slowpoke and your saddle to our banker’s little girl. You need something with more life if you are to learn to be a rider. These new ponies are fast and tough and will stand no foolishness. If you learn to ride them, you’ll be plenty good. By the time you’re ten, I may have a real cowboy for a brother.”

With these two characters, a sorrel named Kid and a dark bay named Shoefly, life really became interesting. Where Slowpoke was short and squatty, these beautiful babies were slim and sleek and moved with the ease of a cat on a hot stove. Along with my two close pals, the King brothers, Willard and Earl, I roamed the prairies near our house, where we roped wild burros and were always busy. We were in the same class at school and wore the same kind of clothes — cowboy boots and long pants. The others, sissies, wore knee pants and shoes. The King boys’ daddy was in the cattle business. As we were all going to be cowpunchers, we were always together. Where there was trouble, we would go down together.

One day our grocery boy was making a delivery. He drove a horse and wagon which had a canvas top to keep the groceries dry. All Father or Bud had to do was leave orders at the store and they would be delivered, a convenience that left Sally no worries. The horse was a nice gentle plug that was used to the route. He would simply pull up in front of the house and then stand still like he was dead, while the man ran around back with the groceries.

This day the three of us were just getting home from school. Coming to the front where the half asleep horse was standing, Earl said, “Let’s have some fun. I’m going to wake Old Dobbin up.” With that, he extracted a small vial from his pocket and quickly dashed a few drops on the plug’s hind end. What was in the vial, I didn’t know. It looked like water, but water it was not, for the old boy threw up his head, surprised like, then began to wiggle his behind like he had the itch, then gave one hell of a jump and hit for the prairie, with the wagon bouncing every which way, and groceries going in every direction. About this time the most excited man in our town came around the corner of our house to see his grocery wagon upset and his horse traveling like a wild bull in fly time. Me, I was as surprised as the groceryman, as this was my first experience with Hoky Pokie. The liquid, applied properly, will bring the deadest creature that has hair to life with a bang for a short time, but has no lasting effect on the animal, only makes him wonder what in the world happened.

Had I known what it was all about, I would have had Earl sprinkle some on the guy’s tail so he could catch his horse, but I was dumb and just stood there while the King boys, all of a sudden, had to go home.

Had Sally not come to my rescue, the guy probably would have scalped me — he was mad enough. But he accepted Sally’s explanation that his old horse was stung by a bee, and I made my escape to the back of the house.

The next day Earl’s father paid the store for its loss in groceries and repair of the wagon. But the horse was never the same. At our house, he would never stand and wait but always had to be tied, even for a minute. Earl and Willard were a couple of swell guys. They could have left me holding the sack, but they told their mother, who could handle their father, and that made everything dandy.

Alone or with this pair, there was never a dull moment. We were all trying to grow up too fast and do the things that men did, like the day I climbed on a chair and helped myself to a fair portion of Father’s tonic, which was in a decanter high on the cupboard. It had a horrible smell, but Father seemed to enjoy it so much before supper, I knew I needed some. I only poured about half the amount Father usually poured into a water glass. If I didn’t like it, there wouldn’t be much loss. Settling down in his big chair, I took a gulp and swallowed real quick. Then the smell, the burn, the choke. I could hardly breathe when Sally came in. “Boy, what did you do?” She didn’t need to ask. The smell was enough. With my “Oh Sally, I think I am going to be sick,” she promptly gave me her apron. I didn’t quite die, but almost. It was many a year before I could stand the smell of whiskey.

Once my Uncle Sam came to visit us for a few weeks. He was my mother’s brother and my favorite uncle. In fact, my favorite over everyone except Father and Brother Bud. He always enjoyed life so much. After each meal, he would take a plug of chewing tobacco out of his pocket and bite off a big chew. This didn’t smell bad like whiskey but was pretty and brown like the crust of Sally’s pies. Boy, did I want to try this! Whether by accident or on purpose, Uncle Sam left the plug on the dining room table. This was all that was needed. Grabbing myself a large mouthful, chewing fast and furious, I got a mouthful of juice, which I swallowed. Down went the chew with the next swallow and up came everything I had ever eaten, plus my stomach. I broke out in a terrible sweat and was so dizzy I couldn’t walk. If chewing tobacco makes a man, I knew that I would never make it. And chew tobacco I never have.

2


An Antelope, a Rope
and a Small Boy

Sunday morning. We have just had breakfast. One week from tomorrow school will be out, so I can go to our home ranch for the summer. With me there is always something different. Father has promised a new saddle for my tenth birthday, in July, only a short time away. Brother Bud has ordered me a new custom-made pair of cowboy boots, just like he wears, black and tan with the small heel. My measurements and order have been sent to Mr. Hier in Kansas City. With my big Stetson hat, long pants stuck down in the boots and a special belt with a silver buckle to hold my pants up, I’ll look just like my brother, only he is twelve years my senior. To be just like him, to rope and ride as he does, will be something. I practice hard with the rope. I can spin and do fancy tricks now, but Bud says that is only for show. To front-foot and rope from your horse is what makes a good cowhand. He is the best.

The new saddle is not going to be a boy’s saddle. It will be a full-sized man’s, the kind bronco riders use.

This morning at breakfast I lost my final battle with Father. It wasn’t much of a battle, with what I have coming up soon, a birthday and summer vacation. I know when to quit and did.

Last week one of my aunts in the East sent me a waist which she made. Father thinks it is very beautiful, but it makes me sick to look at the thing. It is white with a great big collar with lace all around the edge and sleeves with lace cuffs that fold back over the end of your coat sleeves. Up the front are two rows of lace. The bottom of the waist ties around your middle, and it doesn’t stick down in your britches like a man’s shirt. This affair you wear over the suspenders that keep your pants up. It is horrible looking, and I am much too old for this kind of junk. Today I am to wear it to Sunday school and then church. I have a new blue suit with knee pants. This I wouldn’t mind so much if I could wear a real shirt with a tail to tuck in my pants. With me in black shoes, black stockings, my new blue suit and the damn waist with a ribbon bow tie, the kids are going to make it plenty tough. But Father won’t understand. He is the finest father I know and usually easy to handle, but after my attempt at breakfast, I know I’m sunk. He says I will look just like little Lord Fauntleroy, whoever he is, and all the little girls will be after me. Them I can do without. They smell terrible, all perfume and stuff. Horses smell better. Bud says girls will smell better as I get older, but he is always kidding. There is one thing I know: I’ll never let my ponies see me. I wouldn’t be caught dead in the stable in this outfit, and if some kid pulls the lace I won’t even sock him. My big brother and Sally, who runs the place and is my good friend (who even Father doesn’t sass), are always on my side. But this time, they have given me no help. They have just looked at each other, grinned and kept still like a couple of dumb clucks.

The time to dress is approaching, so up the back stairs from the kitchen to my room I go. From my back window I can see our big back yard with a board sidewalk running from our kitchen door to the stable. Our home is at the very edge of town and sits high on a terrace. It is a three-story frame building painted white with green trimmings, as are the stable, corrals and a picket fence that stands at the foot of the terrace on both sides and in front of the house. At the front and back of the house are large lawns with beautiful green grass sloping down to the picket fence. There is only one eyesore, the boardwalk to the stable. Several boards are broken, heads of many nails stick up, and Father is always going to have them removed but never does. I look out my window to the stable where Bud’s two cow ponies and Father’s two fancy horses are quartered and to the corral where my two ponies are munching hay I’m pretty proud of the whole affair, especially the three people downstairs. It is nine now and Sunday school starts at ten. Then church, where I am supposed to sing with the choir. Maybe something will happen before that.

Taking my time dressing, I am thinking of my new boots and saddle to come, along with my summer vacation. So if I get by today, life will be pretty good. Looking myself over in the mirror, big white collar on the outside of my coat collar, white lace cuffs over the ends of my sleeves, I am an awful sight.

Everything is ready, except Sally to brush my hair and put on the black ribbon tie, when I take a last look out the window. Here is something to gladden the heart of any small boy On our lawn, eating our wonderful green grass, are five of the prettiest antelope I have ever seen. They evidently have just landed, because when I looked out the window before, they were not there.

Three of this bunch I have seen before, the two little guys are new. The three largest ones were here in the winter looking for food on a day when there was a big blizzard. Sally fed them some potato peelings and Bud put out some hay on top of the snow. Then they were very thin and didn’t look good, but today they are fat and beautiful, with their big bunch of white hair for a tail and their slick coat. They are a sight to see. This is the only time I ever saw antelope this close to town in the summer. In the winter they are a common sight, especially around our house at the edge of town where they seem to know they’re welcome. Today, these babies must have been just traveling and spotted our nice green grass. I start to call my family to see the sight, when I have a better idea. Gone is any thought of Sunday school, my blue suit, or future plans. I have immediate business. Down the back stairs I go, through the kitchen and the front room where Bud is playing solitaire and Father is reading. All this without attracting undue attention, and I am out the front door, down the steps and out the front gate. The coast is clear. Ducking down so I won’t be seen, I run along the front and turn back to the stable, keeping well out of sight of my antelope until I reach the back of our corral. Here I slow up because it seems I have escaped safely from the house. My babies are still deep in grass.

Ignoring my ponies, I go through the stable to the front of the mangers where there is a runway between the manger and the door opening toward our house. Here hang three saddles, Father’s, Bud’s and mine. But what I am after is a dandy thirty-five-foot rope which Bud uses for front-footing. This is coiled up and hangs on the horn of his saddle. I remove it quickly. Looking out through a crack in the door, I spot my babies all happy with their heads in the grass, the largest of the five not ten feet from the door.

This is going to be perfect. If I can get my rope in position and open the door quietly but fast and get one shot. If I remember everything Bud has taught me. I will catch this guy, and will Father and Bud ever be proud of me! Clothes I have forgotten all about. Like I have been taught, I make a small loop for a quick throw, with the coil in my left hand, the loop in my right. I am about to open the door with my knee when I remember that, last month out to our ranch, I roped a wild horse going out a gate. I didn’t only lose the rope, I got my hands rope-burned. And worst of all, it was one of Bud’s best ropes and he spent a full day recovering it, which didn’t make him too happy. This time I will be safe. I tie the very end of the rope around my waist, leaving myself plenty to cast. Putting one of Bud’s gloves on my left hand, I leave my right hand free to cast my loop.

I am ready. All this has taken me practically no time. With one more look to see just where my prey is, I find everything to my liking. With a quick gentle push of my knee, the antelope and I are as one. My beautiful overhand loop has opened directly above and in front, so Mr. Antelope has no place to go. But go he does, straight up, turning in the air toward the wide open spaces.

This is possibly the first and only time a small boy has been attached to a jet-propelled antelope. This baby hits the end of the rope, jerking me straight up in the air and landing me on my belly, square on top of the broken part of Father’s boardwalk from which nail heads stick out everywhere. Mr. Antelope has barely cleared our picket fence, what with having me on the other end of the rope, and is flattened out. By the time I have unscrambled myself from the boards, he is on his feet again and away we go. One jerk and I am flat on my belly in the nice green grass, sliding across the lawn and down the terrace, where my head hits the bottom of the picket fence with a bang. I am not feeling so good. A shadow passes over the top of me and the fence, and I know I am being rescued by my long-suffering but faithful brother, who grabs the rope and, hand over hand, separates the loop from a surprised and very happy antelope. I have come to enough that I am trying to climb the terrace on my knees when Bud gives me a hand and unties the rope from around my waist.

Reality has returned. I am standing up wondering how soon Father will show up. The beautiful white shirt is no more. The big white collar is torn half off. Green grass covers the front of my shirt and suit. One stocking is down, the other is torn and there is a large rip in the pants leg. My head hurts like the dickens and my left eye feels like it is shutting. Worst of all, it is beginning to dawn on me that I haven’t gone to Sunday school. All of this has gone through my mind fast when Sally comes running out with “What has happened to my boy?” This is evidently too much for Bud and he starts to laugh and roll in the grass saying, “Sally, I told you he would make it. My God, Pard, you look terrible.” Then Sally starts laughing, only she doesn’t roll in the grass like Bud.

What I dreaded most is about to happen. Father is coming out the kitchen door. He takes one look at his bright young son. On his face is the funniest expression. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. Finally he blurts out, “This is the first blue suit I have ever seen turn green so soon. What the hell happened?” Seeing the rope in Bud’s hand, he inquires, “My God, what could he possibly rope to do this in such a short space of time?” So Bud tells him. His m...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• CONTENTS
• Introduction
• Preface
• 1 Sunrise
• 2 An Antelope, a Rope and a Small Boy
• 3 School and Sis, Wild Horses and the Stinkenest Hog Wallow in the World
• 4 My First Big Battle
• 5 Our Home Ranch and a Man with a Gun
• 6 A Girl, a Jug of Whiskey and Sheepherders
• 7 Wild Horse Roundup for Polo Ponies
• 8 Phoenix, Wild Horses, Wild Steers and a Broken Leg
• 9 Christmas Eve, with Hundreds of Dead Cattle
• 10 Denver, Where I’ m Rolled of My Loot by a Pimp
• 11 More Wild Horses and a Big Gray Outlaw
• 12 Fourth of July Celebration, Susie, Cyclone and a Wild Beautiful Brown Stallion
• 13 God’s Country — Imperial Valley
• 14 Calgary, Investment in Oil and a Soldier of the King
• 15 Loss of Citizenship, Sergeants Moose and Little Moose and the Motor Transport
• 16 An Operation, an Examination, Mutiny and War
• 17 I Join the Royal Air Forceto Get out of the Rain
• 18 First Flight over German Lines, One Enemy Plane Confirmed
• 19 Recommended for My Commission and Trying to Live, I Have a Great Idea
• 20 Back to France as an Officer, Where I Meet and Become Friends with the Royal Flying Corps’ Greatest Fighting Ace, Lieutenant Albert Ball
• 21 In a Drinking Bout, Price and I Lose a Battle to Our Own Artillery
• 22 Boelcke, the Great German Ace, and His Boys Cause Us Our Greatest Loss in Any Single Engagement
• 23 Captain Price Returns to England — I Follow Shortly — We Are Both Decorated at Buckingham Palace by His Majesty King George V
• 24 Thank God for America’s Ambassador Page and His Military Attache, Captain Chapman
• 25 A Great Major, a Sick Observer and a Forced Landing In Our Trenches
• 26 Dinner at the Savoy in London to Honor Our Old Commanding Officer — Back to France, Where We Lose Captain Harold Balfour in a Dogfight
• 27 Two Americans Who Lost Their Citizenship Return to America at General Mitchell’s Recommendation
• 28 Two Weeks with My Family In Boston — Then Texas, Where Space Began — A Hospital That Was a Morgue
• 29 New York to See a Great Specialist — The Auctioning of the First American Colors to Cross the German Lines
• 30 A Free Man, Lucky Beyond Belief
• Acknowledgments
• Afterword