The Mammoth Book of Fighter Pilots (25 page)

People at the neighboring tables, their attention attracted by the old lady’s clamor, are looking at us. This would be pretty embarrassing if I were a dodger but, since I’m not, it amuses me, but Lo has blushed to the roots of her hair.

“Well,” I say, “so give me a couple of bundles.”

The transformation is miraculous. Her ire has passed with the speed of a theater storm, and her face is suffused with sweetness and courtesy. She hastily fishes around among her bundles of roses.

“Never mind me, young man,” she babbles on, “anyone can see you are still much too young to go out. I just let my temper run away with me. All you have to do is look to see,” she says, turning to the people at the surrounding tables, “any child can tell that this boy just celebrated his confirmation.”

I wave her off. Lo has an ominous wrinkle between her eyebrows.

“Just confirmed,” she snaps.

I reach for her small, sun-tanned hand, lying on the white tablecloth.

“You know,” I say, “just once, I would like to be alone with you, away from everything.” It is an attack straight out of the sun. She is so surprised, I can almost read the thoughts behind the round, childlike forehead.

“We would have to drive out,” I said, “somewhere in the country. Perhaps we could go to Lake Starnberg; Gustav Otto has invited me. Perhaps we could also go farther up into the mountains. We could be free and unencumbered and enjoy nature, as though we were in another world.”

At first she smiles, then she purses her lips.

“But we could hardly do this. What would my parents say?”

“Please forgive me,” I say, “but I have left my manners in the field.”

We go. It is a humid night, and the wind rustles the treetops. We stop under a lantern, and she pats me on the arm.

“Please don’t be angry.”

I shrug: “Angry? No!”

But I feel something is amiss. Out in the field, everything has changed. Things that were once important are no longer of any value. Other things as important as life itself. But back here, life has stood still. I can’t put it into words, but suddenly I feel homesick for my buddies.

We stop at the garden gate in front of Lo’s home. She lingers, but I quickly kiss her hand quite correctly and make a fast getaway.

On the next day I go out by myself. I’m in a rotten mood. I can’t get back to the front. When I brought up the subject, the doctor read me the riot act. But back here I feel lost. When I come home, my parents are already asleep.

On one evening, however, all windows are still alight. I run up the stairs as the door opens and my mother stands on the jamb, her face red and shining with happiness. She is waving a piece of paper in her hand, a telegram from the group, advising that I had been awarded the
Pour le Mérite.

I am happy, really happy, even though it doesn’t come as a complete surprise. After a certain number of victories, the
Pour le Mérite
comes – it is almost automatic. But the real joy is that which reflects from my mother. She is beside herself and has kept everyone up to wait for me, even my little sister. She has cut a medal out of paper and now hangs it around my neck with a piece of yarn.

My father shakes hands with me. “Congratulations, son,” he says, nothing else. But he has opened a bottle of Stein-berger Kabinett, 1884 vintage, one of the family heirlooms. This says more than words. The wine is golden yellow and flows like oil. Its fragrance permeates the entire room. We touch glasses.

“To peace, a good peace,” says father.

Next morning, in bed, I think of Lo. If I had my
Pour le Mérite
, I would make a date with her, as if nothing had happened. I jump out of bed, get dressed, and go into town.

I go to an orders jeweler on Theatinerstrasse. The salesman shrugs his shoulders: “
Pour le Mérite?
– No! Insufficient demand.” Too bad. I thought I could surprise Lo. But it will be at least two weeks before the medal will reach me from my unit. Slowly I amble along the street, mechanically returning salutes to soldiers and officers passing by. There comes a naval officer; it is Wenninger, commander of a submarine. At his throat, a
Pour le Mérite
glistens in the sun.

It is the inspiration of the moment. I go toward him, saluting, and ask: “Excuse me, but do you per chance happen to have a second
Pour le Mérite?
”

He gives me a wide-eyed look, and I explain. He laughs loudly and embarrassingly long. No, he doesn’t have a second one, but he gives me the address of a store in Berlin where I can order one, by telegram if I so desire. I thank him, a little chagrined, and salute formally.

Two days later, the order arrives from Berlin. It lies like a star in a red velvet case. I give Lo a call to make a date. She laughs and accepts at once. Waiting for her, I parade up and down in front of her house. Then she comes and spots the order around my neck at once. “Ernie,” she shouts, and comes hopping along like a bird trying to take off. In the middle of the street, in front of everyone, she throws here arms around my neck and kisses me.

It is a bright, sunny, spring morning. Side by side, we walk slowly and loose-jointed toward the center of town. When soldiers pass, they salute especially sharply, and most turn around. Lo counts: Out of forty-three, twenty-seven have turned around. We walk along Theatinerstrasse, the main artery of Munich, from which life seems to radiate and where it returns. In front of the Residenz
¹⁴
stands the sentry, a short reservist with bristling beard and button nose. Suddenly, with a voice of proportions unexpected from such a small chest, he shouts:

“The Guard, fall out!”

The men come piling out. “Fall in,” commands the officer. “Left shoulder arms!
Achtung!
Present arms!”

I look around. There is no one else near. Then I remember my
Pour le Mérite.
I am almost past when I return the salute. It comes off a bit small, too hasty and without dignity.

“What was that all about?” asks Lo, looking at me with big eyes.

“God,” I say loftily, “before a
Pour le Mérite
, the Guard has to fall out.”

“You’re kidding!”

“No, I’m not!”

“Good, then we’ll try once more.”

At first I object a little, but I finally give in. After all, I’m still not all that certain myself.

This time we are well prepared and enter into this affair with good posture. “Guards, fall out,” shouts the sentry. At the same moment Lo hooks into my arm and, with a gracious nod, she troops the short line at my side.

Woman’s vanity is insatiable. If she had her way, we would spend the rest of the afternoon chasing the Guard in and out. But I go on strike. The Guard detail is no toy for little girls. Lo pouts.

They are days of blue silk. Never again did I experience such a spring. We meet every day, strolling through the English Garden, drinking tea or going to the theater. The war is far, far away.

CRASHES AND COCKTAILS

JOHN McGAVOCK GRIDER

Grider, whose diary is extracted below, was an American aviator serving with the Royal Flying Corps in France, 1917–18.

November 18th

Cal and I went down to Stamford to spend the day and nearly died laughing. Our stomachs are still sore.

There was a sort of straff going on that day. They had a new C.O. and he was an ex-Guards officer and had a grudge against the Huns and wanted to get on with the war. There were a lot of young English kids that had been there some time swinging the lead and he sent for them all and lined them up. He told them that there was a war on and that pilots were needed badly at the front and that they were all going solo that afternoon. They nearly fainted. Some of them had had less than two hours of air work and none of them had had more than five.

We all went out to the airdrome to see the fun. I guess there were about thirty of them in all. The squadron was equipped with D.H. Sixes which are something like our Curtiss planes except they are slower and won’t spin no matter what you do to them.

The first one to take off was a bit uneasy and an instructor had to taxi out for him. He ran all the way across the field, and it was a big one, and then pulled the stick right back into his stomach. The Six went straight up nose first and stalled and hung on its propeller. Then it did a tail slide right back into the ground.

The next one did better. He got off and zig-zagged a bit but instead of making a circuit he kept straight on. His instructor remarked that he would probably land in Scotland, because he didn’t know how to turn.

Another one got off fairly well and came around for his landing. He leveled off and made a beautiful landing – a hundred feet above the ground. He pancaked beautifully and shoved his wheels up thru the lower wings. But the plane had a four-bladed prop on it and it broke off even all around. So the pupil was able to taxi on into the hangar as both wheels had come up the same distance. He was very much pleased with himself and cut off the engine and took off his goggles and stood up and started to jump down to the ground which he thought was about five feet below him. Then he looked down and saw the ground right under his seat. He certainly was shocked.

Another took off fine but he had never been taught to land and he was a bit uncertain about that operation. He had the general idea all right but he forgot to cut off his motor. He did a continuous series of dives and zooms. A couple of instructors sang a dirge for him:

The young aviator lay dying, and as ’neath the wreckage he lay

To the Ak Emmas around him assembled, these last parting words did he say:

“Take the cylinder out of my kidney, the connecting rod out of my brain,

From the small of my back take the crankshaft, and assemble the engine again!”

There were a lot more verses but I can’t remember them.

We thought sure he was gone but he got out of it all right and made a fairly decent landing but not where he had expected.

The next one didn’t know much about landing either. He came in too fast and didn’t make the slightest attempt to level off. The result was a tremendous bounce that sent him up a hundred feet. He used his head and put his motor on and went around again. He did that eight times and finally smashed the undercarriage so that next time he couldn’t bounce. Then he turned over on his back. The C.O. congratulated him and told him he would probably make a good observer.

They finally all got off and not a one of them got killed. I don’t see why not tho. Only one of them got hurt and that was when one landed on top of the other one. The one in the bottom plane got a broken arm. I got quite a thrill out of that.

May 13th

The great McCudden, now Major McCudden, V.C., D.S.O., M.C, E.T.C.,
¹⁵
just back from the front to get decorated again, came into Murray’s last night for dinner and, oh, boy, what a riot he caused. All the officers went over to his table to congratulate him and the women – well, they fought to get at him just like they do at a bargain counter back home. He’s the hottest thing we have now – 54 Huns, five more than Bishop
¹⁶
and he’s just gotten the V.C. and a bar to his D.S.O. He held a regular levee. I think there are only five airmen living that have the V.C. The first thing you have to do to get it is to get killed.

The girl with him thought she was the Queen of Sheba. She started to pretend she didn’t know us. I should have reminded her where we met but I didn’t. I saved her life once.

Well, I’m not jealous. I’m going to hot myself some day.

I’m either coming out of the war a big man or in a wooden kimono. I know I can fight, I know I can fly, and I ought to be able to shoot straight. If I can just learn to do all three things at once, they can’t stop me. And Bishop is going to teach me to do that. I’ve got to make a name for myself, even if they have to prefix “late” to it.

May 14th

All aboard for France. Our orders have come thru and we leave next Wednesday.

A ferry pilot brought over my new machine day before yesterday and smashed it all to pieces landing. He got tangled up in the wires coming in. So I decided I’d fetch my own service machine and got Springs to fly me over to Brooklands in an Avro yesterday and I flew it back. It certainly is a beauty. I like these 180 Viper Hispanos made by Wolsey much better than the 220 Peugeots. Brooklands used to be an automobile race track but is now the depot and test park for the R.F.C. I saw some of the new experimental planes down there. One was the Snipe, which has the 200 Bentley motor and is going to take the place of the Camel at the front. Another was the Snark which has the big A.B.C. air-cooled radial. It has a wonderful performance but I understand there’s some hitch about it. The Salamander and the Hippo and the Bulldog were all there too. The Hippo is a sort of two-seater Dolphin.

I gave my new plane a work-out in the air to-day. It flies hands off; I put it level just off the ground and it did 130. Then I went up high and did a spinning tail slide. Nothing broke so I have perfect confidence in it. I’ve been cleaning and oiling the machine guns, tuning up the motor and testing the rigging. The best part of it is that it’s mine – no one else has ever flown it and no one else ever will. It’s painted green and I have named it the Julep and am having one painted on the side of the fusilage. Nigger has the Gin Palace II. and Springs has the Eggnog First.

To-morrow, I’ve got to synchronize my gun gear, set my sights, swing my compass and then I’m ready.

May 17th

We had a bunch of Brass Hats from the War Office down at Hounslow to-day and we put on an exhibition of formation flying and stunting for them that was pretty good. Nineteen machines in close battle formation are a stirring sight. Everything went off well except Springs’s landing. His wheel hit a soft spot and turned him and the other wheel gave way and he turned over on his back and his head was shoved into the mud. He was a great sight when he came walking back to the tarmac where all the generals were standing. He had on slacks and a white shirt and wasn’t wearing helmet or goggles and his face and head were all covered with mud. He’s got to go over to Brooklands again to-morrow after another plane. I’m going to fly him over in an Avro.