Winged Warfare Read Online Free
Author: William Avery Bishop
more we took up our wintry vigil.
Toward the end of February, word came through from the War Office one night that I was to go to France. I had become convinced that the winter would not offer much opportunity at Zeppelin hunting, and had applied several times for duty at the fighting front. Before I went, however, there was another course at a special school, where I learned to fly the smallest of our single-seater machines. Now I felt I had reached the height of my ambition at last; to actually fly one of these tiny, wasp-like fighting machines seemed to me the most wonderful thing in the world. A few days later when I reported for my orders to cross the Channel it was with a gay heart and a determination to reflect as much honour as I could upon the double-wings on my left breast.
Chapter III
With a dozen other flying men I landed in Boulogne on the seventh of March, 1917, for my second go at the war. At the Boulogne quay we separated, and I wish I could say that âsome flew east and some flew west,â but as a matter of fact we didnât fly at all. Instead, we meandered along over the slow French railroads for nearly two days before reaching our destinations.
One other pilot and myself had been ordered to join a flying squadron on the southern sector of the British line. The squadron to which we were assigned had a great reputation, one of the best in all France, and we were very proud to become members of it. Captain Albert Ball, who was resting in England at the time, but who came back to France in the late spring and was killed within a few weeks, had brought down twenty-nine machines as a member of âourâ squadron. That was an inspiration in itself.
The first day of my stay with the squadron there was no flying and so I wandered about the field hangars looking at the machines. They were all of a type I had never seen before at close range Nieuport Scouts, very small and of course with but a single seat. Being a French model, the Nieuport Scout is a beautiful creature. The distinctly British machinesâand some of our newer ones are indeed marvels of the airâare built strictly for business, with no particular attention paid to the beauty of lines. The French, however, never overlook such things.
The modern fighting scout, and to my mind the single-seater is the only real aeroplane for offensive work, may have the power of two-hundred horses throbbing in its wonderful engine. Some of the machines are very slender of waist and almost transparent of wing. Aeroplanes do not thrust their warlike nature upon the casual observer. One has to look twice before definitely locating the gun or guns attached so unobtrusively to the framework, and synchronised, where necessary, to shoot through the whirring propeller in front. Such guns are connected to the engine itself by means of cams and are so arranged that they can fire only when the propeller reaches a given position, thus allowing the bullets to pass safely between the blades. It seems like a very delicate bit of timing, but the devices are extremely simple.
The nacelle, or cockpit of the modern machine, I have heard people say, suggests to them the pilot house of a palatial private yacht in miniature. They generally are finished in hard wood and there are polished nickel instruments all about you. They indicate height, speed, angle, revolutions, and about everything an airman ought to know. There are ingenious sights for the guns and range-finders for bomb dropping. When he is tucked away in the nacelle, a little well-like compartment, about as big around as an ordinary barrel, only the pilotâs head is visible above the freeboard of the body of the machineâthe body being technically known as the fuselage. Directly in front of the pilot is a cute little glass windscreen, a sort of half-moon effect.
We newcomers at the squadronâthe other pilot and myselfâhad to stand by the next day and watch the patrols leaving to do
Toward the end of February, word came through from the War Office one night that I was to go to France. I had become convinced that the winter would not offer much opportunity at Zeppelin hunting, and had applied several times for duty at the fighting front. Before I went, however, there was another course at a special school, where I learned to fly the smallest of our single-seater machines. Now I felt I had reached the height of my ambition at last; to actually fly one of these tiny, wasp-like fighting machines seemed to me the most wonderful thing in the world. A few days later when I reported for my orders to cross the Channel it was with a gay heart and a determination to reflect as much honour as I could upon the double-wings on my left breast.
Chapter III
With a dozen other flying men I landed in Boulogne on the seventh of March, 1917, for my second go at the war. At the Boulogne quay we separated, and I wish I could say that âsome flew east and some flew west,â but as a matter of fact we didnât fly at all. Instead, we meandered along over the slow French railroads for nearly two days before reaching our destinations.
One other pilot and myself had been ordered to join a flying squadron on the southern sector of the British line. The squadron to which we were assigned had a great reputation, one of the best in all France, and we were very proud to become members of it. Captain Albert Ball, who was resting in England at the time, but who came back to France in the late spring and was killed within a few weeks, had brought down twenty-nine machines as a member of âourâ squadron. That was an inspiration in itself.
The first day of my stay with the squadron there was no flying and so I wandered about the field hangars looking at the machines. They were all of a type I had never seen before at close range Nieuport Scouts, very small and of course with but a single seat. Being a French model, the Nieuport Scout is a beautiful creature. The distinctly British machinesâand some of our newer ones are indeed marvels of the airâare built strictly for business, with no particular attention paid to the beauty of lines. The French, however, never overlook such things.
The modern fighting scout, and to my mind the single-seater is the only real aeroplane for offensive work, may have the power of two-hundred horses throbbing in its wonderful engine. Some of the machines are very slender of waist and almost transparent of wing. Aeroplanes do not thrust their warlike nature upon the casual observer. One has to look twice before definitely locating the gun or guns attached so unobtrusively to the framework, and synchronised, where necessary, to shoot through the whirring propeller in front. Such guns are connected to the engine itself by means of cams and are so arranged that they can fire only when the propeller reaches a given position, thus allowing the bullets to pass safely between the blades. It seems like a very delicate bit of timing, but the devices are extremely simple.
The nacelle, or cockpit of the modern machine, I have heard people say, suggests to them the pilot house of a palatial private yacht in miniature. They generally are finished in hard wood and there are polished nickel instruments all about you. They indicate height, speed, angle, revolutions, and about everything an airman ought to know. There are ingenious sights for the guns and range-finders for bomb dropping. When he is tucked away in the nacelle, a little well-like compartment, about as big around as an ordinary barrel, only the pilotâs head is visible above the freeboard of the body of the machineâthe body being technically known as the fuselage. Directly in front of the pilot is a cute little glass windscreen, a sort of half-moon effect.
We newcomers at the squadronâthe other pilot and myselfâhad to stand by the next day and watch the patrols leaving to do
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