WAR-FLYING is much like other business one gets
accustomed to all the incidents that attend its daily routine, its risks, its
thrills, its dangers, its good and bad fortune. A strange sort of fatalism
fastens to the mind of an aviator who continues to run the gauntlet of Archy.
He flies through bursting shells without trying to dodge them, with indeed
little thought of their menace. If a bullet or shell has his name written on it
there is no use trying to avoid contact with it. If it has not why worry
?
To score a fatal hit these invisible missiles of death have
a great space to fill when a small aeroplane and a still smaller pilot are at a
height of ten or twelve thousand feet above earth. Even when flying through the
defensive fire of a balloon battery at two or three hundred feet elevation or
when cruising along the trenches but fifty feet above the rifles and machine
guns of the enemy we learned to disdain the furious fire that was turned upon
our swift flying planes. Experience had taught us that the non-flying
sharpshooter is wofully ignorant of the rapidity with which we pass his aim
when we are traveling at the rate of two miles a minuteexactly 176 feet
each second! It requires a second or more for him to steady his aim. How many
riflemen can compute the exact point 176 feet ahead of their gun-muzzle where
the bullet and the pilot's head must meet in order to bring down the prize? Not
one! 'Occasional hits are made at random, but the percentage is ridiculously
low. When tracer bullets are fired at one's aeroplane it is amusing to see how
far behind the tail of the machine the streams of bullets are passing. When
hundreds of Archy shells are bursting about one's vicinity one of the flying
fragments may, of course, happen to take the path that coincides with that of
the pilot. Upon this problem no scientist would dare to assume a position of
authoritative knowledge as to the chances or percentages of possible hits. To
the pilot who has actually experienced these daily strafings by Archy the whole
danger resolves itself into a question as to whether or not he will permit his
imagination to terrorize him into fleeing away from so appalling but so futile
a menace. In other words, he knows that the actual danger is almost nil. If a
flying fragment of shrapnel happens to strike him it is bad luck. There is no
way to avoid it. A hundred to one no hits will be received. Thus comes the
fatalism that saves the experienced airman from worry.
On Sunday, October 27th, only a fortnight before the end of
the war, Hamilton Coolidge, one of the best pilots and most respected men in
the American Air Service, met an annihilating death from a direct hit by an
Archy shell in full flight. The shell had not yet burst when it struck the Spad
in which Coolidge was sitting. The aeroplane was moving forward at its usual
fast speed when the mounting shell, probably traveling at the speed of 3,000
feet per second struck squarely under the center of the aeroplane's engine.
Poor Coolidge must have been killed instantly. The Spad flew into fragments and
the unfortunate pilot dropped like a stone to the ground.
Coolidge was one of the top-score aces of 94 Squadron and
one of the most popular men in the service. A graduate of Groton and later of
Harvard, he possessed all the qualifications of leadership and a brilliant
career in any profession he might have chosen to adopt. In his work at the
front he never shirked and never complained. The loss of Lieutenant Hamilton
Coolidge was one of the severest that we had been called upon to suffer.
It was beginning to be a matter of constant conjecture among
us as to just what day Germany would cave in and surrender. The collapse of
Austria and the constant and obvious weakening of the Hun troops opposite our
sector were well known to us. Hence it seemed doubly bitter that Ham Coolidge
should meet death now, just as the end of the war was at hand. Especially
tragic was it to all of us who knew Coolidge's fighting ability that he should
be the one airman who should meet his end in this incredible manner. More than
one pilot bitterly remarked that no German airman could down Ham Coolidge, so
they had to kill him by a miracle!
And miracle it was, for no other American pilot, and but one
or two other aviators during the whole course of the war were shot down from on
high by an Archy in full flight. The shell had Hamilton's name written on it
and there was no escape!
Coolidge, with his usual intrepidity was hurrying in to the
assistance of a formation of American bombing machines which, after dropping
their eggs on the enemy town of Grand Pre, as they started home, were in turn
attacked by a large number of swifter flying Fokker machines. The Archy shells
were directed at the bombers and not at the Spad of Ham Coolidge! After having
scornfully passed through hundreds of barrages which were aimed at him our
unlucky ace had collided with a shell not at all intended for him!
Although I did not see this ghastly accident to poor
Coolidge, I was in the midst of the same barrage of Archy on the other side of
Grand Pre at the same time.
The bombing machines above mentioned had not gained their
objective without considerable fighting all the way over the lines.
Thousands and thousands of German troops had been unloaded
from trains during the previous night and were now hidden in Grand Pre and its
neighborhood. The enemy fighting machines were out in force to defend this spot
against bombing planes until these troops had an opportunity for moving and
scattering themselves along their front. From every side Fokkers were piquing
upon the clumsy Liberty machines which, with their criminally constructed fuel
tanks, offered so easy a target to the incendiary bullets of the enemy that
their unfortunate pilots called this boasted achievement of our Aviation
Department their " flaming coffins." During that one brief fight over Grand
Pre, I saw three of these crude machines go down in flames, an American pilot
and an American gunner in each " flaming coffin " dying this frightful and
needless death.
During the combats which followed I again succeeded in
bringing down two of the red-nosed Fokkers. The first victim was on my tail
when I first noticed him. With one backward loop I had reversed our positions
and had my nose on his tail. One short burst from both my guns and he tumbled
down through space to crash a few miles within the German lines.
The second combat occurred just a few minutes later. The
last of the Liberty bombing machines had passed over the lines or had crashed
in flames and I thought the day's work was over when I noticed some thing going
on to the east of me in the region of Bantheville. I began climbing and
speeding forward to get a look at this performance when to my surprise I
discerned that one of the Liberty machines had been left behind and was in very
evident distress. Fortunately there was but a single enemy Fokker on his tail.
The Yankee pilot was kicking his machine about and the gunner at the rear was
managing to keep his enemy at bay when, at a favorable elevation above them
both, I found an opportunity to pique down and catch the Fokker, unaware of my
approach. The Liberty motor, I discovered, was almost dud. It had either been
struck by a bullet or had developed some interior trouble of its own. The pilot
had all he could do to maintain headway and avoid the maneuvers of his enemy.
Each time he banked the Liberty, it fell downwards two or three hundred feet.
The Fokker had only to worry him enough and the American machine must drop into
German territory, a captive.
As I began firing the German pilot, who had been so intent
upon the capture of his prize that he had forgotten to watch his rear, zoomed
suddenly up to let me pass under him. But that was too old a dodge to entrap
me. I began a similar zoom just a fraction of a second before he started his
and I was the first to come out on top. As I again prepared to open fire
I saw a curious sight. The Fokker with a red nose had not been able to complete
his loop. He had stalled just at the moment he was upright on his tail, and in
this position he was now hanging. And more extraordinary still, his engine had
stalled and his propeller was standing absolutely still. I could see the color
and laminations of the wood, so close had I approached to my helpless
victim.
On March 10th, 1918, there is the following entry in my
flight diary: " Resolved to-day that hereafter I will never shoot at a Hun who
is at a disadvantage, regardless of what he would do if he were in my
position."
Just what episode influenced me to adopt that principle and
even to enter it into my diary I have forgotten. That was very early in my
fighting days and I had then had but few combats in air. But with American
flyers the war has always been more or less a sporting proposition and the
desire for fair play the anger it always arouses in a true American to
see any violation of fair play prevents a sportsman from looking at the
matter in any other light, even though it be a case of life or death. However
that may be, I do not recall a single violation of this principle by any
American aviator that I should care to call my friend.
My Fokker enemy was now in a very ludicrous position. Of
course he could not continue hanging on there forever with his .nose pointing
upwards, his tail to the ground and his propeller dead. He began falling with a
tail slip. He was wondering why I didn't finish him or at least didn't begin
some attack so that he might know which way to head his last dive. We were over
ten thousand feet above ground, and looking down I saw that we were still two
or three miles within German lines. Naturally enough the pilot will turn his
nose homeward when he falls far enough to get headway for a glide. Accordingly
I kept control of the situation by heading him off and firing a few shots to
show him that I did not mean to let him escape.
Now the tables are turned. Instead of my Fokker friend
nursing homewards to Germany a captured and crippled American machine, I am
endeavoring to impress upon him that an American is desirous of escorting back
to the American lines a slightly crippled but very famous Fokker with a red
nose. What a triumphant entry I will make with one of Baron von Richthofen's
celebrated fighting planes! I picture the flights over our field I will make
with my prize to-morrow. The Boche pilot was satisfied that I had the upper
hand and he was gliding along in the proper direction with admirable docility.
We should clear the lines by at least five miles. I could steer him from behind
by firing a few bursts ahead, which had the effect of pushing him over in the
direction I wanted him to go. It was as simple as driving a tame horse to the
creek.
Over the lines we passed, the Fokker gliding steadily along
ahead of me, no other aeroplanes in the sky. Under the impression that I knew
this country better than my companion might know it I compelled him to steer
for the Exermont field, which lay just about four miles behind our front line
trench. He willingly complied, immediately heading in the desired direction and
apparently quite content to play fair with me and spare me his Fokker, since I
had spared him his life. Of course, I was fully aware that he might attempt to
set fire to his machine as soon as he touched the ground. I should have done
the same had I been in his place. But I did not intend that he should have this
opportunity. With his dead engine he could not change his course once he began
to settle to the ground. I would put myself immediately behind him and if he
attempted to do any injury to his aeroplane I would shoot him on the spot. With
this plan in mind I left him a moment when he was making his last circle over
the field at about 300 feet altitude and withdrew so that I might turn and land
my machine in such a position that he must come to a stop just ahead of me. And
then I received one of the worst disappointments of my whole life.
A Spad aeroplane suddenly appeared from out of the sky just
as I turned away from my convoy. The unknown idiot in the Spad began firing a
long burst into my helpless captive. I did not suspect his presence until I
heard him firing. Whipping madly back I piqued down and intervened between the
malignant Spad and my protege, even firing a short burst to warn the intruder
away. The latter understood me well enough, for he left us and did not return.
The marks on his machine were not familiar to me and to this day I do not know
whether this interfering person was an American or a Frenchman. But whichever
he was, he had absolutely ruined all my chances of a capture.
The Fokker pilot had been at the outside of his turn when
this unexpected attack was received. The Spad had headed him off, compelling
him to turn to the right instead of to the left in the direction of the field.
Now he was so low that it would be suicide to attempt to make the field. Trees
and rough ground were beneath him and the only safe course would be to pancake
as flatly as possible in the rough open ground directly ahead of him. All my
hopes vanished as I saw the nature of his landing place. I circled above him
until after the crash. He had over-shot his mark a little and ended up against
the edge of the opposite bit of woods. My red-nosed prize was scattered in
pieces over the ground!
To my genuine joy I saw the pilot disentangle himself from
the wreckage and walk out upon the ground. An officer on horseback and some of
our doughboys were advancing on the run to make him a prisoner. He waved his
thanks to me as I passed overhead and I waved back in the most friendly manner.
Inwardly I was furious with him, myself and most especially with the wretched
pilot of the unknown Spad. So nearly had I succeeded in capturing intact a most
valuable Fokker from Germany's most famous Squadron! So near and yet
Returning home I was somewhat mollified to learn that my
belated commission as Captain had just arrived. I had been acting Captain for
several weeks and had been told that my commission was on its way, but these
rumors often proved unfounded. But it had arrived at last and I would this
night add an extra bar to each shoulder. And then I was told of the awful loss
of poor Hamilton Coolidge. Surviving six months of very active flying over
enemy's lines, fighting nearly a hundred combats and escaping without a single
wound while he brought down confirmed eight enemy aeroplanes, our gallant
comrade had been suddenly swept away by a catastrophe that appalled us to
contemplate!
Early next morning I secured a Staff car and proceeded up to
the front to find the spot where lay the last remains of my dear friend. We
reached Montfaucon and turned northwest around the edge of the Argonne Forest,
passing on the way the wreckage of my red-nosed Fokker just outside the town of
Exermont. Arrived to within a mile of our front line, sheltered all along the
road by hanging curtains of burlap and moss, part of which had been left by the
Hums and partly our own concoction of camouflage, we were halted by an officer
who told me we could move no further without coming under shell fire from the
enemy guns.
Abandoning the car at the roadside, we skirted the edge of
woods that adjoined the road and made our way on foot to the flat lands just
across the Aire River from the opposite town of Grand Pre. And here in the bend
of the Aire, almost in full sight of the enemy, we came upon the body of
Captain Coolidge. A lieutenant in infantry who had seen the whole spectacle and
had marked down the spot where Ham's body had fallen, accompanied us and it was
through his very kind offices that we reached the exact spot without much
searching. The Chaplain of his regiment likewise accompanied us. And there, not
sixty yards behind our front lines, we watched the men dig a grave. The
Chaplain administered the last sad rites. Amid the continuous whines of passing
shells we laid the poor mangled body of Captain Hamilton Coolidge in its last
resting place. Over the grave was placed a Cross suitably engraved with his
name, rank and the date of his tragic death. A wreath of flowers was laid at
the foot of the cross. Then with uncovered head I took a photograph of the
grave, which later was sent " back home " to the family who mourned for one of
the most gallant gentlemen who ever fought in France.
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