Free Winged Warfare by William Avery Bishop Page A

“camouflage” in this, and you have no fear that the enemy is trying any kind of flying trick in the hope that he will be left alone.
    I was flying over a layer of white clouds when I saw a two-seater just above me. We generally met the enemy in force during these days, but this German machine was all alone. Neither the pilot nor observer saw me. They flew along blissfully ignorant of my existence, while I carefully kept directly underneath them, climbing all the time. I was only ten yards behind the Hun when I fired directly up at him. It had been an exciting game getting into position underneath him, carefully following every move he made, waiting, hoping and praying that he would not see me before I got into the place I wanted. I was afraid that if he did see me I would be at a distinct disadvantage below him. My hand must have been shaky, or my eye slightly out, because although I managed to fire ten rounds, I did not hit anything vital. Even in this crucial moment, the humour of the situation almost got the better of me. My machine seemed so little carefully flying there under the big, peaceful Hun, who thought he was so safe and so far from any danger. Suddenly, from just underneath him he heard the “tat—tat—tat—tatter—tatter” of my machine gun almost in his ear, the range was so close. Then he must have seen my smoking bullets passing all around him. Anyway, there was consternation in the camp. He turned quickly and a regular battle in the air began between the two of us. We manoeuvred every way possible, diving, rolling, stalling, he attempting to get a straight shot at me, while my one object was to get straight behind him again, or directly in front of him, so as to have a direct line of fire right into him.
    Twice I dived at him and opened fire from almost point-blank range, being within two lengths of him before I touched the lever which set my gun to spouting. But there was no success. The third time I tried a new manoeuvre. I dived at him from the side, firing as I came. My new tactics gave the German observer a direct shot at me from his swivel gun, and he was firing very well, too, his bullets passing quite close for a moment or two. Then, however, they began to fly well beyond my wing-tips, and on seeing this I knew that his nerve was shaken. I could now see my own bullets hitting the right part of the Hun machine and felt confident the battle soon would be over.
    I pulled my machine out of its dive just in time to pass about five feet over the enemy. I could see the observer evidently had been hit and had stopped firing. Otherwise the Hun machine seemed perfectly all right. But just after I passed I looked back over my shoulder and saw it burst into flames. A second later it fell a burning mass, leaving a long trail of smoke behind as it disappeared through the clouds. I thought for a moment of the fate of the wounded observer and the hooded pilot into whose faces I had just been looking—but it was fair hunting, and I flew away with great contentment in my heart.
    This fight seemed to have changed my luck for the better. Everywhere I went for the next few weeks enemy machines were easily found, and I had numerous combats, many of them successful. Some days I could have been accused of violating all the rules of a flying men’s union (if we had had one). I would fly as much as seven and a half hours between sunrise and sunset. Far from affecting my nerves, the more I flew the more I wanted to fly, the better I seemed to feel and each combat became more and more enjoyable. Ambition was born in my breast, and although I still dared not entertain hope of equalling the record of the renowned Captain Ball, who by this time had shot down over thirty-five machines, I did have vague hopes of running second to him.
    Along with the new ambition, there was born in me as well a distinct dislike for all two-seated German flying machines! They always seemed so placid and sort