Lieutenant 'Whiskers' Beard was flying the number 3 position in 'A' Flight, sandwiched between Captain Sherlock and Lieutenant Watts. He was not yet at ease with this new machine, the thing seemed to have a mind of its' own. It was a tail heavy pig to fly, and behaved very badly in a tight left turn, raising its' nose and fighting him all the way like a stubborn horse. There was very little warning at the onset of a stall, and the relatively docile looking Camel (which was not altogether dissimilar in appearance to its' gentle older brother, the Pup) would suddenly throw itself into a vicious spin at the slightest provocation. On the other hand, he could whip it around to starboard like a ferret. It had an adequate turn of speed and a good climb rate. He doubted it was stable enough to improve his poor shooting, and one or the other of its' vices would probably kill him before he got a shot off anyway. It was much like a floppy eared dog he once knew, all sweet and friendly looking; when he'd tried to pat the thing it had snapped at him with an evil snarl. He decided he did not like the Sopwith Camel.
He saw the green flare rise up from the C.O's kite and immediately rolled his machine onto its' back, pulling hard on the stick until his nose pointed straight down. Dropping vertically with the wind singing through the rigging wires he held the blip switch down, cutting the motor briefly to avoid overspeed, then rolled half right and pulled back under the tail of a green Albatross he'd been watching just prior to the C.O's signal. The Hun machine was chasing one of the SE5's which was damaged and clearly not handling well. Whiskers' manoeuvre took him so close he didn't need to aim, the underside of the Albatross spreading almost to the limits of his peripheral vision. He mashed the firing button and the two Vickers 303 machine guns erupted in a storm of mechanical hate, the acrid smell of cordite filling his nostrils almost a drug to him as he watched the shells tearing the heart out of the Hun machine. Mortally wounded, the pilot rolled slowly to starboard beginning his final descent but Beard could not know this, and blipping his engine again to avoid collision he fired another long burst, lifting his thumb when flames trailed back from a punctured fuel tank. There was no need to watch him go down; his attention turned to a bright blue Tripe with diagonal yellow markings which was diving on one of the DH4's to his right. Reefing the Camel around he flung her down after this new target, suddenly in love with his wonderful new machine.
Captain Fips held 'B' Flight in check with his raised hand, watching the five Camels of 'A' Flight drop into the fray like hawks on a flock of pigeons. He saw each pick a Hun and heard the rattle of their guns as one then another filled his sights, but still he held back, circling gently to the left now to stay overhead, his Flight following, the turn spreading the formation out to a half circle. The Hun airmen, absorbed in their game and feeling invincible, had failed to see the approaching Camels but some were now keenly aware of their presence. Those nearby not currently engaged turned in pursuit of the 'A' Flight machines, at which time Fips flung his hand forward and rolled inverted, dropping his Flight in on them in turn. He dropped in behind a DR1 triplane that had just opened fire on Lieutenant Taiters, who was himself hammering away at a lightly smoking Pfaltz. At least he thought it was Taiters; with the new machines allocated only days before he hadn't yet committed all the designations to memory. There was a large white 'F' on the upper wing. He sideslipped expertly into position about 50 feet behind the DR1 and shot the pilot dead with one burst. Hauling his mount swiftly around to the right he looked to see if anyone else needed cover, but the sudden bullwhip cracking of shells had him cursing and rolling into a split-S, twisting half left as he went down. Pulling out several hundred feet lower, he checked his rear in time to see an SE5 ripping pieces off the yellow Tripe which presumably had attacked him, and which now had turned away and was desperately trying to defend itself. He breathed a sigh of relief and finding himself on the northern edge of the rapidly thinning dogfight, fiddled briefly with the mixture and began the long climbing chase back up to the battle.
Lieutenant P. Taiters fired another burst at the oddly coloured Pfaltz, which slipped annoyingly into the turn and lost speed, causing another miss and forcing him to blip his motor and kick hard on the rudder. With a gentle shudder the Camel protested and started to drop its' right wing, but he caught the incipient spin with a quick nose over and some gentle pressure on the left rudder bar. Just then a hail of bullets shattered half his instruments and something struck his left thigh hard like a swipe from a baseball bat. He turned in time to see his attacker roll away, replaced by a Camel. He glanced down at his leg and saw a dark patch of blood seeping through his flying overalls, and a tentative push on the rudder bar produced a few seconds of agonising pain which left him breathless. An SE5a roared past with an Albatross in hot pursuit, but for the moment he could do nothing. Looking around, he picked the quietest looking piece of sky he could find and flew into it, gingerly turning with the least use of rudder and dropping the nose to gain speed. By some miracle he passed out of the fight unmolested. Passing nearby, the Snakeman glanced across. Something compelled him to turn and follow, covering his tail until they were clear. When he finally came up alongside he could see bullet holes around the cockpit. Taiters looked up at him with a face pale and drawn from shock. Checking his compass Snake signalled his 2 o'clock, and they turned gently south, heading home.
Doc pressed the firing button to administer the coup de grâce on the flaming Tripe and got only two rounds from the left Vickers for his trouble. The right gun had jammed some time back, and he'd been too busy to clear it. On his intial attack he'd pumped burst after burst into an Albatross with no apparent effect, which had then sped away to the east losing height fast. He felt sorry for the pilot of this Tripe, but there was nothing he could do. The Fokker sailed on, red-orange sheets of flame spilling out into the wind like fiery liquid. A smoking bundle dropped over the side and fell rapidly away, disappearing against the backdrop of field and forest below. Shuddering with horror, Doc changed the magazine on the left Vickers, had a look around then tried to unjam the right gun. It was no use, so he headed for the nearest gaggle of snarling machines, assessing the scene as he approached. Over to his right and about half a mile away two Camels were belting away from the battle in line astern. Directly ahead there were three SE5's and two more Camels engaged in a whirling melee with a mixture of Hun machines, probably eight or nine in all. Below them, a Flight of three DH4's flew on in close formation, harassed by a lone Albatross. Each time the German machine dove on the bombers a stream of fire came up from the trio of gunners, forcing him to break off and try a different attack. They seemed well able to handle themselves. The C.O. fixed his attention ahead, choosing his target carefully as he closed on the action.
Captain Sherlock saw Watts skid past in the other direction, guns chattering and banking around in a hard right turn. He tried to follow and cover him, but was attacked himself and had to split-S away. An SE5 nearly collided with him, causing his machine to rock wildly. There was an explosion behind him, the unmistakable deep thud of a fuel tank erupting. He'd shot down a Pfaltz on his first pass, staying with it for almost half a minute pouring shells in until the upper wing folded, but now he decided to fight defensively and just snap shoot, hoping Watts would do the same. He turned into a lunging attack by a Tripe, giving it a quick burst head-on before rolling away left then reversing and snapping off another few rounds at a diving Albatross. More chatter of gunfire behind and he turned sharp right, pulling the Camel around as hard as he dare. Things were definitely not looking up.
Watts had been feeling abandoned until Sherlock appeared, going the other way but very much still in the fight. He hadn't fired a shot since emptying both drums into a particularly stubborn Pfaltz which had finally exploded, stunning him so that he momentarily thought that Archie had claimed it. He'd never seen one explode from gunfire before, but had little time to reflect on it, being under attack constantly by two Huns working together, forcing him into a series of defensive turns. He caught another glimpse of Sherlock going head-on with a Tripe, then had to pull hard right again as bullet holes stitched across his lower port wing. If they'd leave him alone for a minute he could reload and shoot back. He'd never say die, but events had seemingly taken a turn for the worse. As he snatched another glance rearward the Tripe pilot close on his tail received one of the shocks of his young life; Watts was laughing.
Doc swept back into the fight single gun blazing just as the SE5's turned south, noses down hell for leather after the receding DH4's. They had the speed to disengage; not so the Camels. Oddly though, the Hun suddenly appeared to lose interest, and moments later the three Camels were alone in an almost empty sky. It was a phenomena witnessed often in air combat. Doc figured the rest of the squadron would find their way back to the bombers. The three Camels joined in a 'V' formation and headed south after the SE5's, Sherlock smiling to himself as he fashioned the tale of Doc coming to their rescue and scaring a dozen Hun into retreat. It would make for some good story telling in the Mess, and no doubt embarass the C.O. acutely.
Selecting a fast moving Albatross going under his nose from left to right 2nd Lieutenant Gosling dipped his mount hesitantly into the upper level of the fray then pulled up again, cursing his poor timing. He wasn't about to waste the height advantage on a missed attack, he'd learned that much. A bright yellow Tripe shot past below, hunting the tail of a Camel trailing Flight Leader streamers; that would be Captain Fips. Rolling almost inverted he pulled the snarling Sopwith down and gave chase. Behind him Loopy Raymond, acting on instructions Fips gave him before takeoff, followed him down to cover his tail. He wasn't sure how long he could keep it up, this was a nasty kettle of fish here and pretty soon it would be every man for himself. A multicoloured patchwork Pfaltz appeared out of nowhere and settled in behind Gosling; a two second burst from Raymond had it breaking sharply away and down to the left, an aileron flapping loose and nearly hitting him as it sped by. He let the Pfaltz go and snatched a quick look over his shoulder. So far so good. He heard Gosling firing and looked down to see him trailing the yellow tripe about 100 feet behind, when an SE5 dropped in front of him shooting holes all over it. Gosling turned away and went after a passing Albatross which was chasing another SE5. He followed for some time, but eventually gave up when the gap widened to several hundred feet. Finding himself some distance from the main action, he turned tightly and waved at Raymond as he shot past going the other way. Raymond smiled to himself and reversed course, remembering his own first days with the squadron. This one showed real promise. Give him a week and he'll be the one shooting Huns off my tail.
Lieutenant Williams slashed through the milling gaggle of fighters like a sword of vengeance. Barely changing direction and not waiting to close the range he unerringly fired two second bursts into the place where each of his victims would be when the shells arrived. When he shot out the other side of the swarm he'd left two Huns spinning down either dead or wounded and a third diving away on fire. He checked over his tail and pulled up into a high rolling reversal, and heading back into the fray fixed his gaze on a Tripe that was harrassing a lone DH4. As he flew close over the bomber the nervous gunner fired a quick burst at the belly of his Camel before realising his mistake. One of the rounds came up through the floor of his cockpit, striking his right arm. The Camel wavered, then fell away from the fight as he fought to staunch the flow of blood, steadying the stick as best he could between his knees.
Fips gave the receding Albatross one last burst as it dived away to the east, more out of frustration than murderous intent. Turning south he looked about quickly but could see nothing save a couple of smudged smoke trails dissipating slowly in the wind. Cutting the engine briefly he listened intently but could hear nothing but the rush of air through his rigging. Checking his map he looked down at the countryside, rapped the compass with a gloved knuckle and adjusted his heading by 10 degrees. Suddenly the air around him erupted as a hail of bullets tore into canvas, wood and flesh, a hit to his left shoulder punching him forward violently. Without looking astern he flung the Camel into a hard right turn, coming full circle rapidly to see the Albatross he'd been chasing earlier climbing away to the south. He had a few moments before it resumed the attack, and removing his right glove he quickly examined the wound, took his scarf and stuffed it under his jacket to slow the bleeding. He attempted to move the left arm but it was no good, something was broken. The Albatross was high now, circling back for another pass. He knew it was useless to try to outrun it. His only real chance was to turn away each time it attacked, hoping the Hun would soon tire of the game and leave him to limp home. The sleek German machine dropped its' nose towards him again, and he waited, looking back over his good shoulder, waves of pain and weakness pulsing through him in turn.
And so the battle ended, some fallen, some victorious; some wounded or damaged, struggling back to the nearest safe landing almost literally on a wing and a prayer. Others, like Captain Fips, had to fight their way home. Just one amongst dozens of raids carried out that day by both sides, the RFC airmen had shown their leaders a glimmering of hope; the SE5 squadron from Villers-Bretonneux had a tough time defending the bombers until the Camels arrived, then the balance shifted in the RFC's favour, despite them still being outnumbered. The official report would show that 11 DH4's dropped their bombs on the fuel depot at Busigny supported by 17 SE5a's and 10 Sopwith Camels. Attacked by a circus of three Jasta with a combined strength of over 40 fighters 3 bombers and 4 SE5's were lost, with 2 SE5 pilots wounded; 3 Camel pilots were also wounded but none were lost. Luftstreitkräfte losses totalled 11 machines; 8 more landed with blood in the cockpit.
Unusually strong winds from the west had carried the raiders to Busigny in short order, resulting in the 'late' arrival of the Camels. Nevertheless, the C.O. of the DH4 squadron at Amiens sent a case of his finest scotch to each of the fighter squadrons. The Officers Mess at Soussons had an oversupply of fine scotch that night.....two cases; the second from Villers-Bretonneux.
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