War Wounds Read online

  War Wounds

  Richard Townshend Bickers

  © Richard Townshend Bickers 1985

  Richard Townshend Bickers has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in Great Britain 1985 by Robert Hale Limited as ‘Bomburst’.

  This edition published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  Extract from Fighters Up by Richard Townsend Bickers

  1.

  At eight-o’clock in the morning the pilots and observers were waiting in the squadron readiness room. The windows were open to dispel the fug that thirty men could create with pipes and cigarettes, much-worn flying boots, old uniforms impregnated with the fumes of petrol, oil, cordite and fabric dope. Bulky flying clothes hanging from pegs along two walls reduced the apparent size of the room, which was crowded with chairs and a pair of office tables.

  Templer had no inclination to sit down. The March day promised to be fine: he would spend many hours cramped in the cockpit of a DH4; there was ample sitting in prospect. He was at a window with Liversedge, his observer. His tall, slightly stooping figure seemed to be trying to push his bony nose through the glass. Templer never merely stared, he always appeared to be looking with a purpose. His grey eyes were peering, like a kestrel’s. Liversedge, stocky, dark, seemingly casual, had long become used to his pilot’s air of intensity. It was not, he knew by now, a sign of windiness, anxiety or tension.

  Templer spoke without turning his head to address anyone in particular.

  “There should be enough cloud over Germany, at the right height, to give us some cover. At the rate it’s drifting, we’ll have a hard plug back.”

  “From wherever we’re going,” Liversedge said. “Might be this side of the Rhine, after all.”

  In 1918, the Royal Flying Corps was bombing targets in Germany and enemy-held France around the clock. The night bomber crews were abed. The day squadron crews had been up since shortly after dawn.

  “Germany.” Templer’s tone could sound offensive to those who did not know him well. It was not meant to be; not that he was concerned about other people’s opinions: but he eschewed rudeness; unless it were provoked. His manner, as Liversedge was well aware, was merely intended to convey certain facts which, in his view, made his opinion or judgment in military matters more likely to be correct than most other people’s on the squadron.

  What Captain Lionel Templer, M.C. was implying was: I’m a Regular; I went to the Royal Military College, Sandhurst; I served in a Lancer regiment from 1912 until 1915, and everyone knows that the cavalry are God’s gift to any Army; I transferred to the R.F.C. in 1915, because I had the sense to see that science and engineering had made mounted troops obsolescent; I came to the Western Front on the outbreak of war, floundered around in the mud for nine months, then returned in the second winter to experience the Fokker Scourge and our horrific casualties, with only 30 flying hours to my name; I’ve been a flight commander for over a year: so, if I say we’re bound to bomb a target in Hunland today, that is what we shall find ourselves doing.

  Liversedge, who, at 20, was six years younger than his pilot, did not resent Templer’s assumption of strategic omniscience. He had joined the R.F.C straight from school, two years ago. If he survived the war, he intended to become a quantity surveyor. He deferred to Templer’s professionalism.

  Major Bentinck, commanding the squadron, came in with the Recording Officer, which was what a squadron Adjutant was then called. Bentinck was another horseman: the Royal Horse Artillery had enjoyed his services until shortly before the war. He was always beautifully turned out, as though ready at any instant to parade in front of his sovereign.

  People started to rise, and he told them genially to sit down.

  “It’s Mannheim, this morning.” He pulled his moustache and cast an impassive look around. “The target is a munitions factory. You’ve seen the balloon barrage there before, and you know the Boche maintains a standing patrol from there, due west to Trier. You know he’s positioned hundred-and-five-millimetre Archie around it, as well as smaller calibre. Don’t forget the Hun’s other standing patrol line from east of Karlsruhe, due west to Thionville: you’ll be crossing it. Take-off at nine pip emma. Five aeroplanes from each flight.”

  The Major sat down and the Recording Officer, a pilot who had been grounded after nearly dying of dysentery, malaria and typhoid at Gallipoli and in Mesopotamia, went to the map slung over a blackboard and easel at one end of the room.

  “For those of you who have bad memories, Mannheim is there.” There was some laughter. It eased taut nerves. “The target is here, on the eastern outskirts. Your secondary target, should you for any reason be unable to bomb the primary one, is our old friend the boot factory at Pirmasens. It will be a pity if you can’t blow up the munitions works; but at least, if you flatten the other place, there’ll be a dearth of jackboots in the Boche Army.” Again there was some amusement.

  In 1915, when casualties became high, Commanding Officers had been forbidden to fly behind enemy lines. The ukase was still in force. Of the three flight commanders, Templer, commanding C Flight, was the senior. He usually led the squadron. He stood up and moved to the map. Each flight comprised seven pilots, seven observers and seven aircraft: but sickness, leave and casualties reduced the average number of each that was available daily to five.

  “We’ll fly in three vics. C leading, followed by B and A. Machines stepped up fifteen feet from front to rear, and flights separated by ninety feet. Usual Verey signals: if I fire a white, it will mean ‘washout’; if we’re behind the Boche line, it will mean ‘hold formation’; unless I also waggle my wings. If I fire a red, it’s ‘Formate on me’. If anyone else fires a red, it’s for ‘Being attacked and need help’. A green from any of us means ‘Forced to return’.”

  The squadron’s licensed buffoon was heard to say “Make a note of that, Observer. Forget the rest.” This was always good for a chuckle. Templer turned to the C.O. “Two two-thirties, sir, or four one-twelves?”

  “Two two-hundred-and-thirty-pounders.”

  “Very good, sir.” Then, to the crews: “We’ll climb to five thousand over the aerodrome, and continue climbing to fourteen thousand on course. This will be our route.” He drew a forefinger across the map. “We’ll bomb at fourteen thousand.”

  The briefing was over.

  Templer sat down, lit a cigarette and laid his head against the chair back. He closed his eyes. It was his practice to spend a few minutes in a mental review of every task. He also thought about his personal affairs. He had married in 1915, during his weeks at home from the Front on his flying course. With his customary efficiency, he had begotten a child at once. He thought of his cheerful, pretty wife and their son, Henry, known as Harry, now two years old and reported to be on the verge of talking. Staff College material, obviously. Must get him up on a horse, next leave; and take him up for a flip as soon as practicable. In another week or so, on 1st April, the R.F.C. would change its name to Royal Air Force; and the Royal Naval Air Service would be amalgamated with it. Instead of pips and crowns on the sleeves of their old infantry, artillery or cavalry uniforms, or on the epaulettes of the R.F.C’s double-breasted tunics that few of them wore if they had transferred from another arm, the officers would sport blue and gold braid on their cuffs. They would adopt new ranks, adapted from the R.N.A.S’s: he would be known as flight lieutenant and the Major as a squadron leader. It would take some getting used to. But by the time Harry w
as old enough, the nascent R.A.F. would have settled down: make a fine career for the boy.

  Templer acknowledged to himself that his fond family thoughts owed as much to a desire to escape momentarily from his constant burdens of duty, as to love. For a few moments he put aside the stress and worry of his job; but when it reclaimed him it would in no way have been lessened. Nothing seemed to reduce the stresses of air fighting. Most aero engines were unreliable. Most aeroplanes had at least one vice which could prove fatal. As aircraft flew higher and faster, the cold and fatigue increased. As soon as the British or French invented some more efficient way of killing from the air, the Germans produced a counter. Each advance in the design of aircraft or armament made combat flying more dangerous.

  He made ready for the raid on Mannheim. He had taken to wearing the clumsy new Sidcot suit of fur-lined canvas, with fleecy boots that reached almost to the knee. It was more efficient than the old leather coat that fell nearly to the ankles, but it still was not enough. Until recently, oxygen starvation had caused great discomfort and led to fatal accidents. An oxygen bottle had been introduced, from which pilots and observers sucked the contents through a tube held between the teeth. That was uncomfortable and messy. Now a crude canvas mask had been designed, to strap over the lower part of the face, to which a pipe fed oxygen: a better idea; but still of use only as long as the meagre supply of oxygen lasted.

  That was the least of the worries of anyone who flew in a DH4. It was a sturdy, handsome two-seater that handled well: but the petrol tank was between the two cockpits, and vulnerable to enemy bullets and shell fragments; and thus to fire; whence, the incineration of its occupants.

  With a best speed of 117 m.p.h., it was much slower than most contemporary enemy fighters; and with a service ceiling of 16,000 feet, it was easily outclimbed by them. But it had a Vickers gun mounted in front of the pilot and synchronised with the airscrew, and one or two Lewis guns, on a ring, for the observer. In the hands of a good crew it was able to defend itself quite well.

  With full tanks and two 230 lb bombs, the DH4s took some 140 yards’ run before becoming airborne. Templer led the way in a spiral outside the airfield perimeter, knowing that it would need nearly 50 minutes’ climbing to reach 14,000 ft; impatient to attain 5,000 before setting course. They had three and a half hours’ endurance, and Mannheim was 110 miles away. They would cruise at an indicated 90 m.p.h., which, with the tail wind, would give them a ground speed of over 100; but the wind would be in their teeth on the way home.

  He looked down at the camp, which had grown impressively in the year that the squadron had been based there. A farmhouse formed the nucleus, with its barns, byres and stables. Many bell tents still stood in neat lines, but wooden huts had proliferated and there were three hangars. The other squadron, which flew on night operations, had huge Handley Page 0/400s. These, with their twin engines and 100 ft wingspan, looked impressive on the ground and terrifying in the air. Templer wished he were operating in the comparative security of darkness and with three other men with him to man the five Lewis guns; and he would have relished the load of eight 230 lb bombs to release on the heads of the Boches.

  He saw the buildings of Nancy, to the south, become gradually more clearly defined as he gained altitude. Although no romantic, he responded still to the magic of flying that had so thrilled him in his early days as a pilot, when he first saw the Channel from over Stonehenge. The vast panoramas that flying provided always excited and pleased him.

  The sight of the accompanying aircraft in good formation provided another pleasure. Templer set himself to achieve perfection in everything he did: the result of this striving, although the attainment often fell short of his aspirations, was that he set the greatest possible value on efficiency. It seemed to him the epitome, and finest expression, of efficiency to see three or more aircraft impeccably spaced in every possible dimension in which aeroplanes could he positioned relative to one another. Again, despite the essentially prosaic nature of his character, and his scanty knowledge of the subject, he regarded such a spectacle as being poetry translated from the abstract to the concrete.

  In 1915, 1916 and much of 1917, pilots at the Western Front had not lived long enough, or long enough escaped being wounded and grounded, for the majority of them to acquire the highest degree of skill. Earlier aircraft were also less steady in the air than the DH4 and other more modern ones. By March 1918, the casualty rate had diminished, the basic training of pilots was longer and more thorough than previously, and there were therefore many experienced and highly skilled ones on every squadron.

  On Templer’s right and left the pairs of DHs in echelon rose and fell gently in response to the variations in the air. Looking astern and down, he watched the two other flights for a moment and rejoiced in the whole spectacle. There was more than an aesthetic appreciation — unsuspected by any of his comrades — in this emotion: he relished sorties against the enemy. He had been shot in the right thigh, in 1916. A few months later, an Albatros had poured bullets into his engine and would have set his BE2 on fire had not a DH2 scout shot the German down: but Templer had been forced to make a deadstick landing only a few yards behind the British front line trenches. Three of his observers had been killed, protecting his BE2 or DH4 from astern attack. Templer could not regard the enemy dispassionately. He hated Germans, and, for the past two years, had taken total delight in killing them. He also enjoyed destroying fuel, ammunition and other supply dumps in the battle zone, motor and horse-drawn transport, artillery positions, aerodrome buildings and parked aircraft. It gave him a new and specially sharp pleasure to destroy all manner of installations inside Germany itself.

  He was looking forward with glee to dropping his bombs, and seeing those of his comrades fall, on this morning’s target.

  He did not grieve when civilians died under his bombardment, but he did feel disgusted that this should be an inseparable part of attacking factories, railway yards, Rhine barges and steamers. He turned this disgust against the enemy, blaming them for putting him in a position in which his legitimate warlike acts could take civilian lives: except for those who worked in war material factories, whom he regarded as legitimate prey. It was when bombs drifted off target and killed innocent members of the populace that he felt dishonourable.

  He made two orbits at 5,000 ft to allow the lower flight to climb to the level of his; then set off north-eastward and climbing again. They were far to the eastern flank of the front line and the Allied trenches below were held by French and American divisions. The Americans had entered the war only eleven months ago, and the first of their troops had been in the line too short a time to have fought a battle. The line’s eastern sector had been static throughout the war, but as the DH4s made their way towards Metz — which they would leave on their left — they could make out, further to the west, the devastation wrought by the great battles around Verdun. They could see the fog hanging permanently above the trenches and no-man’s-land, that stretched westward from Verdun and had covered the British sector for the past three years. It was compounded of the smoke and the sulphurous fumes of millions of shells and mortar bombs, of aerial bombs and the bullets fired by rifles and machine-guns, of the millions of grenades that had been thrown and the thousands of mines that had been exploded. It stank, and to the stink of smoke and explosives’ fumes was added the reek of decaying bodies. But here, where Templer was leading a formation of Major Bentinck’s squadron, the air was comparatively clean. However, the prevailing westerly wind did blow some of the haze and stench even as far as this, and it seeped through the pilots’ and observers’ oxygen masks for a few minutes; then clung for a while.

  Soon they did not notice the smell any more; not so much because they had flown beyond it as because the cold was beginning to bite and this overpowered other sensations. They had all rubbed vaseline onto their faces, which otherwise became so chapped that the red, roughened skin cracked and bled. It was inadequate protection. Wearing two pairs of glo
ves — the outer, gauntlets with cuffs reaching halfway up the forearm — was not adequate to keep out the cold. Pilots’ hands became stiff and clumsy on the joystick, observers’ fingers fumbled at the triggers and ammunition drums of their Lewis guns. Mucus dribbled out of their nostrils. Their lips felt dry, despite the vaseline, and if they succumbed to the temptation to lick them they soon swelled and became sore and chapped.

  Saarbrücken, with its extensive balloon barrage, lay close enough on their left for them to discern the bloated oval shapes that the Germans called Hildas floating at 4,000 ft on the ends of their cables.

  This meant that they were approaching the first of the enemy’s standing patrol lines.

  Their course took them between Zweibrücken and Pirmasens. The outer ring of anti-aircraft defences around both towns were notoriously touchy.

  Black splodges of smoke appeared ahead of the DHs and above them. The dark stains, dissolving slowly into wraiths and tendrils, began to proliferate. They came closer. They started to surround the bombers. The shellbursts nearest to the formation glowed with crimson and orange centres at the instant of detonation.

  A green Verey light burst behind Templer, near enough for him to see it. He looked behind him. The aeroplane second on the right of B Flight’s leader had turned back. Templer knew that Archie was not the cause. The 200 h.p. Puma engine developed many defects. It was unlikely that any flight made by 15 aircraft would be completed without one or two, at least, being compelled to abandon it because the engine was misbehaving.

  Damn! That’s two bombs less to drop on Fritz. The thought irritated Templer.

  Some of the shells were well enough aimed for the shock waves of their explosions to rock the aircraft, to send them pitching and yawing and side-slipping. Templer felt the heat from a detonation, as well as the blast of air that struck his machine on the starboard side and flung it yards off track and several feet up; as though it were a galloping horse suddenly confronted by a steep hill.