Part 26

But after he had brought down his fiftieth, for some unaccountable reason a change came over Guynemer. He became nervous and irritable. He lost his old vivacity, nerve, dash, and with them his instincts of the air seemed to desert him. Friends urged him to rest, to give over fighting and direct his genius to teaching others to fly. But he answered: “They would say I would fight no more because France has no more decorations to give me”; and he had a jealous pride to work harder than ever, do even more valiant deeds. And he did work harder. He did take greater risks. He engaged in combats but was unable to win. Luck had turned and his chums, his comrades, knew him to be a sick man in no condition to fly. They ’phoned to their commanding officer in Paris begging him to come and take Guynemer away for a recuperative rest. Captain Brocard responded promptly. He arrived at the Dunkerque aerodrome at nine o’clock the next morning. But Guynemer had ordered his machine and taken flight half an hour before, accompanied, in another machine, by Lieut. Bozon-Verduras.

It was Sept. 11, 1918. It was Guynemer’s last flight. All that is known of it Bozon-Verduras tells. Somewhat northeast of Ypres, at an altitude of 12,000 feet, a two-seater enemy machine was discovered. Directing Lieut. Bozon-Verduras to take a position above to guard against rescue, Guynemer rushed to the attack. While on guard the Lieutenant detected a distant enemy formation and drove forward to intercept its course. But without seeing him the formation changed its course and the Lieutenant returned to position. He did not, however, see Guynemer’s machine, nor did several hours of extended search lead to any trace above or below of the vanished aviator. His fuel exhausted, the Lieutenant returned to the aerodrome hoping Guynemer might be there. But he was not. All day they waited for his return. He never returned. “Undoubtedly,” said some one of the men, “he has been taken prisoner.”

Says M. Bordeaux:

“Guynemer a prisoner! He had said one day, laughingly, ‘The Boche will never have me alive’—but his laugh was terrible. No one believed Guynemer to be a prisoner. What then?”

Nothing more is known. The Germans made contradictory and unreliable reports about his death. The simple minded among the French believe their hero an immortal, taken up into his native heaven. The lofty minded French name him “Héros légendaire, tombé en plein ciel de gloire, après trois ans de lutte ardente,” and this they have inscribed on a marble plaque in the crypt of the Panthéon, that temple which the French hold sacred as the “Sepulcher of Great Men.”

WORTHY CITATION

A Distinguished Service on the Battle Front for Which No Honors Provision Has Been Made

There is a kind of heroism that never gets tagged. Many would not think it heroism. But when you come to analyze heroism into its elemental parts you find that it is a spiritual energy with myriad forms of expression, though these forms always have the character of self-dedication to an altruistic service. By that definition Capt. E. W. Zinn takes place in the ranks of war heroes; but if you have not seen what _The Stars and Stripes_—the official newspaper of the A. E. F., published in France—has said about him you probably never have heard of Capt. Zinn and his self-appointed mission. It is well to know about him; so here is the story as it appeared in the official organ:

“It was Captain Zinn, a veteran of the French Foreign Legion and the Lafayette Escadrille, who, when eager young American aviators, fresh from their training-camps, reported for duty where the fighting was, assigned them to squadrons and each to a particular airplane. Thus it was that he came to know them all. He sent them to their stations. He knew what ships they would pilot in combat in the air, on bombing expeditions, on reconnaissances over the lines.

“And now he seeks for those he sent out and who never returned. He asked that he might do it. If you talk to Captain Zinn about it, you know why he made the request. You know how he feels about that which he is doing. There is no mawkish sentiment about Captain Zinn.

“But deep down within him Captain Zinn feels that he and no other should go out on the mission that now engages him. He has an interest that is intimate and personal.

“Already, Captain Zinn’s quest has led him over the greater part of northern France and into Belgium and Germany. Through the torn fields and woods in the Verdun, Château-Thierry, St. Mihiel, and Meuse sectors he has gone. He has tramped through the Argonne to Sedan and sought in the mountains that encircle Metz and hide the valley of the Moselle. Wherever there was fighting in which the American Air Service participated, there has gone, or will go, Zinn.

“Out of 150 missing American aviators, Captain Zinn already has definitely located and identified the spots where seventy fell and were buried. It has required many days of painstaking search and inquiry to attain this result.

“Captain Zinn has found that in a great many cases American fliers were buried either by the Germans or by civilians with no mark of identification left on them.

THE UNIDENTIFIED

“Many times he has come upon a grave with a rude cross on which was scrawled: ‘Unidentified American Aviator’ or ‘Two Unidentified American Aviators.’ He has had to obtain positive identification by careful examination of air-service records, questioning of peasants and civilians who saw American machines brought down and deductions based on the information he gathered. In some instances it has been necessary to open graves to make sure.

“To start out with, Captain Zinn has the records of squadrons, which show, for instance, on what date a missing pilot went out, what his mission was, over what country he naturally would go, and what kind of machine he had. Perhaps an attack by an overwhelming force or an accident or other circumstances forced the pilot off the course marked out for him. When he failed to return, only speculation as to where he fell could be indulged in. Unless the Germans notified his squadron of his death and the location of his grave, he became one of the men for whom Captain Zinn now seeks.

“There was the case of young Kenyon Roper, of the 91st Aero Squadron. By a process of elimination of facts gathered, it was fairly definitely established that Roper had come down in the night between the lines. Captain Zinn questions scores of peasant folk. But the search appeared to be hopeless. And then Captain Zinn heard that a small boy had a handkerchief that the dead flier had possessed. He found the boy and the handkerchief. And written in indelible ink on the little piece of linen was the name ‘Kenyon Roper.’ It was easy then to learn from the boy where the grave was and to be sure that Kenyon Roper lay sleeping there.”

A LAST AUTOGRAPH

“Then there was the case of Lester Harter, of the 11th Squadron. He went out and his machine caught fire. Harter jumped, just as Major Lufbery did and as other aviators have done, and fell many thousand feet to his death. When awe-stricken peasants ran from the fields to his crushed body they found in his hand a scrap of paper, and on it was written in hurried, jerky letters, ‘Lester Harter.’

“Fearing lost identity among the dead, Lester Harter must have written his name on that piece of paper before he jumped from his machine.

“Then there were Kinne and McElroy, of the 99th Aero Squadron. Only a piece of the tail of their machine was found. Their plane came down in flames between Cunel and Nantillois. Both jumped. One day their squadron commander joined in the search for their bodies. He hunted for hours in a thick wood. And he gave up. He was standing on the edge of a covered shell-hole, discouraged. Some impulse caused him to stir the earth in the shell-hole with his foot. And there he found the body of young McElroy. Near by they later found Kinne.

“There are many such stories that Captain Zinn can tell.

“From the information he gathers, Captain Zinn writes personal letters to the relatives of the dead aviators, telling in simple words how and where they went to their deaths. His letters usually give the first true account of the manner in which the fighters of the air met their ends. Sometimes those letters destroy cherished hopes that the aviators reported as ‘missing’ by the War Department might some time, somehow, turn up. But it is better so, says Captain Zinn.”

A CHALLENGE DUEL

The Guns of Both Armies Suspend Fire as Captains Ball and Immelman Fight in Air

It was often said in the early months of the war that the air combats revived the spirit of ancient chivalry. It was true for a time, but German treachery and ruthlessness soon changed the character of the upper warfare. When the raider and the dastard entered, gallantry necessarily gave way to grim and merciless antagonism.

There were many, though, on both sides who felt that no glory came to aviation from methods of frightfulness and reprisals for such frightfulness and to the last there were instances of clean, brave fights. One of the last duels on the knightly lines of conduct was that in which Captain Immelman, “The Falcon” of the German army, met Captain Ball, one of the most brilliant airmen of the British Royal Flying Corps. Immelman had a record of some fifty-one British airplanes downed. Captain Ball wanted to wipe out this record, and the daring German at the same time; so one day he flew over the German lines and dropped the following note:

“Captain Immelman:

I challenge you to a man-to-man fight to take place this afternoon at two o’clock. I will meet you over the German lines. Have your anti-aircraft guns withhold their fire, while we decide which is the better man. The British guns will be silent.

“Ball.”

Ball was by that time quite renowned. The Germans were aware of his official record. He had taken part in twenty-six combats, had destroyed eleven hostile machines, driven two out of control, and forced several others to land.

In these combats Captain Ball had gone up alone. On one occasion he had fought six hostile machines, twice he had fought five machines, and once four. When leading two other British aeroplanes he had attacked an enemy formation of eight. On each of these occasions he had brought down at least one enemy.

The Germans knew all that, but evidently Ball had picked an opponent worthy of him not only in skill but in courage and chivalry, for that day the answer to the note was dropped from a German machine:

“Captain Ball:

Your challenge is accepted. The guns will not interfere. I will meet you promptly at two.

“Immelman.”

CHEERS FROM OPPOSING TRENCHES

Far and wide along the trenches the word was spread. Firing stopped as though a flag of truce had been hoisted. Germans and English left covers and sought positions of vantage from which to watch the battle royal. At the appointed time both flyers rose promptly and made their way over “No Man’s Land.”

“Cheering arose,” relates an eye-witness.

“There were wild cheers for Ball. The Germans yelled just as vigorously for Immelman.

“The cheers from the trenches continued; the Germans’ increased in volume; ours changed into cries of alarm.”

Immelman was known to have a method of attack peculiar to himself. Instead of approaching his adversary from the side, he maneuvered to get squarely behind him. His study was to hold the nose of his machine almost on the tail of the aircraft he was pursuing. This gave him, Abbot points out, what used to be called in the Navy a raking position, for his shots would rake the whole body of the enemy airplane from tail to nose with a fair chance of hitting either the fuel tank, the engine, or the pilot. Failing to secure the position he coveted, this daring German would surrender it with apparent unconcern to the enemy, who usually fell into a trap. For just as the foeman’s machine came up to the tail of Immelman’s craft the latter would suddenly turn his nose straight to earth, drop like a stone, execute a backward loop and come up behind his surprised adversary, who thus found the tables suddenly turned....”

We have left the description of the duel with the English in alarm.

“Ball,” continues the eye-witness, “thousands of feet above us and only a speck in the sky, was doing the craziest things imaginable. He was below Immelman and was apparently making no effort to get above him and thus gaining the advantage of position. Rather he was swinging around, this way and that, attempting, it seemed, to postpone the inevitable.

“We saw the German’s machine dip over preparatory to starting the nose-dive.

“‘He’s gone now,’ sobbed a young soldier at my side, for he knew Immelman’s gun would start its raking fire once it was being driven straight down.

“Then in a fraction of a second the tables were turned. Before Immelman’s plane could get into firing position, Ball drove his machine into a loop, getting above his adversary and cutting loose with his gun and smashing Immelman by a hail of bullets as he swept by.

A WREATH FOR HIS VICTIM

“Immelman’s airplane burst into flames and dropped. Ball from above followed for a few hundred feet and then straightened out and raced for home. He settled down, rose again, hurried back, and released a huge wreath of flowers, almost directly over the spot where Immelman’s charred body was being lifted from a tangled mass of metal.

“Four days later Ball too was killed.”

Shortly before his death Ball wrote to a friend: “You will be pleased to hear that I have ten more Huns, and that my total is now 40—two in front of my French rival. Oh, I’m having a topping time! To-day or to-morrow I’m being presented to Sir Douglas Haig. Am very pleased. I just want to get a few more if I can.”

Ball’s wish was gratified. He got more than a few more and then—died as he had so often lived—fighting against great odds, for when last seen, on the evening of May 7, 1917, he was high above the enemy’s lines engaging three German machines at once.

What slender hope had been left for him was shattered by the War Office intimation that Ball had been killed. The brave young officer lost his life at a village 5½ miles east of La Bassée.

AN AMERICAN WONDER

The Brief but Greatly Achieving Career of Lieut. Frank Luke, Jr.—His Mysterious End

Innumerable are the instances, never to be reckoned, of the sudden meteoric flame of splendid daring—the sudden flash of the courageous soul in achievement, and the equally sudden extinction—that a thousand attested circumstances assure us characterized the terrible passing of the Great War. Happily for the world, always the better for new evidence that “divinity still lives in the hearts of men,” very many of those deeds of devoted heroism have been written into history for the inspiration of high-minded youth.

There was no experience more aptly described as meteoric than that of Frank Luke, Jr., who joined the 27th Aero Squadron near Château-Thierry late in July, 1918, did brilliant service in that connection, and before the end of September had utterly disappeared from the knowledge of men—one of the missing never definitely accounted for.

Frank was a Phoenix, Arizona, boy, barely twenty when he entered the service. After a period of training in Texas he was sent to France and had further training at Issoudun and was then sent to join the squadron near Château-Thierry. He was an enthusiast for flying, never getting enough of it. It was like second nature to him, and he adhered to no rules but his own, apparently indifferent to safety regulations when in the air, and so impatient of restrictions that he almost invariably got lost from his flight when it went out in formation. This gave rise among his fellows to the belief that he was afraid to follow, his getting lost being the deliberate result of “funk.” In course of time, however, they came to understand that Frank Luke held no acquaintance with fear. He simply had a method—method and initiative—and put his abilities to their most effective use. It was so good a method, so wisely reasoned and so admirably executed that in the space of seventeen days he shot down eighteen enemy balloons and planes.

Lieut. Col. Harold E. Hartney, Chief of Gunnery in the Air Service, at that time Commander of the Squadron to which Luke belonged, gave an account of the young aviator’s first exploit. August 6, 1918, the First Pursuit Group, which included the 27th Squadron, was operating on the Château-Thierry sector. The work was seriously interfered with by heavy barrages of pursuit planes maintained by the enemy to prevent Allied reconnaissance over the territory being evacuated. Col. Hartney says:

HIS FIRST EXPLOIT

“Lieut. Luke believed that if he could get across the opposing lines unobserved and far enough, he would be able to take the enemy formations unaware and swoop down upon the unsuspecting rear man, shoot him down and get away in safety. Accordingly one day he went off on his own at great altitude and crossed over into enemy territory. Far below him he spied an enemy formation of six machines dropping down to land on their own aerodrome. Perfectly aware of the odds against him, he swooped from 15,000 feet to 3,000 feet in one long dive, speeding at approximately 200 miles an hour, closed in on the rear man, and from a distance of no more than twenty yards sent him crashing down.

“The enemy formation had been taken completely by surprise. Before they could realize what had happened or engage Luke in combat the latter dropped to an elevation of less than 400 feet, and, zigzagging, made his way home, dodging anti-aircraft fire and machine-gun nests until he crossed the lines. By then he was completely out of gasoline and was compelled to make a forced landing near the front line. He had seen the enemy machine crash to earth, but was unable to give the location, and therefore he could not get from eye-witnesses on the ground the confirmation required to make the victory official.”

That feat indicated the man. It was very soon apparent that on the occasions when he was “lost” he was off on adventures of his own, planning actions and studying the means to execute them,—qualifying himself for what he conceived to be his most valuable and effective service. He was a veritable hunter.

The morning set for the opening of the St. Mihiel offensive, Sept. 12, 1918, the clouds hung low and the weather was such that ordinarily it would have been regarded as altogether unfit for flying. But Luke was not to be deterred by it. He was off at dawn in quest of enemy planes or balloons and after many vain explorations he finally discovered a German balloon at the extreme right of the American sector, but operated against a portion of the line allotted to other flyers. He returned to his aerodrome, and on reporting the balloon learned that it had been doing great damage by an enfilading fire, but that it had been attacked repeatedly without success both by American and French aviators. Luke offered to destroy the balloon and set off with Lieut. Fritz Wehner, his flying partner. The statement of eye-witnesses from the ground was that Luke dived suddenly out of the clouds taking the balloon wholly by surprise, but the balloon-gun which he was handling for the first time jammed when he attempted to discharge it. He rose into the clouds, got the gun free, immediately dived again and fired the heavy incendiary bullet that sent the balloon down in flames.

DOWNED THREE BALLOONS IN ONE DAY

Two days later he sent another balloon flaming down in somewhat more exciting circumstances. While he was speeding with an escort of other pilots, to attack three enemy balloons operating at an unusually low altitude, his escort became engaged with a formation of Fokkers. This would have made it seem to many pilots unwise to proceed with the attack; but Luke took advantage of the fight above to dive down and begin the assault on one of the balloons which, after several attempts, he succeeded in shooting down, though machine bullets and anti-aircraft shells and flaming onions were showered about him. As the balloon fell burning, Luke flew down to close range and turned loose his machine gun on the Huns on the ground with the desired result of many casualties. When he got back home he found that his machine was so full of bullet holes that a very few more taps would have weakened it enough to bring it down in collapse. But within five minutes he was in another machine and begging leave to go on a further quest.

At 5 o’clock that afternoon he sent down the second balloon in flames. Later he discovered attempts being made to send up another balloon north of Verdun; he hastened back to his squadron and asked to be ordered out at dusk to surprise and destroy the big bag.

He left with instructions not to descend on the balloon until 7.50 (that being for the benefit of his protective escort who would follow him down a few moments later). Precisely at 7.50 the watchers on the aerodrome saw the balloon flare in the darkness and fall to the ground.

And so the story runs; each new adventure a companion thriller to the others, every machine in which he flew being more or less riddled with bullets, and the miracle is that the daring youth passed so many hazards unscathed. Col. Hartney is authority for the statement that balloon strafing is in reality “the most dangerous exploit any man in any branch of the service can undertake.”

Frank Luke in seventeen days accounted for eighteen enemy balloons and planes. He was the first American flyer to win the Congressional Medal of Honor.

HIS END A MYSTERY

But there is an end to successful adventures as to other things, and the brilliant career of this Arizona lad came to abrupt conclusion, leaving the shadow of mystery as to just how the hero passed on. Here is the story of the last exploit as Col. Hartley tells it:

“His next official victory was on Sept. 28, when he shot down a German Hanoveraner airplane which was being escorted by a single-seater Fokker.

“That evening he did not return to his own aerodrome, but remained all night with the French squadron and went out the next day for the express purpose of destroying three balloons. The wonderful story of his exciting fight against hopeless odds and of his glorious death need not be dwelt upon. For his work on Sept. 29 he was awarded the Medal of Honor.

“Briefly, what happened was that he flew over an American aerodrome and dropped a weighted message. The message asked that a lookout be kept for three drachens over on the German side. He was next seen to go over in that direction at a very high altitude, and when very nearly over the drachens was attacked by ten enemy machines. He engaged all of them single-handed and crashed two of the ten. Then he dropped—out of control, as it seemed, but most likely only pretending to be so. When he reached the level of the balloons he shot them down one after another in flames—all three of them. The anti-aircraft guns were very busy about the second balloon. After that he disappeared.”