BY Eddie V. Rickenbacker
Eddie Rickenbacker was America’s first air hero. He shot down twenty-six German planes in the final year of World War I, a score that only a handful of American pilots managed to surpass during World War II and none in the jet age since.
Rickenbacker was a recruiter’s dream, a handsome, athletic young man with extraordinary reflexes and natural leadership ability who knew all there was to know about internal combustion engines. By the time America came into the war in 1917, Rickenbacker had won championships as a professional motorcycle racer and race-car driver. He enlisted in the U. S. Army and used his racing fame to wangle an assignment as General Pershing’s personal chauffeur. Once in France he pulled more strings and got himself sent to a French flying
School, where he took to flying as if he had been born with wings upon his back.
Rickenbacker flew the same way he raced — flat-out, right against the edge of the performance envelope. He enjoyed almost immediate success against the Germans. Like many fighter pilots since. Captain Eddie was not averse to acting as his own PR agent. In the excerpt that follows he stars in one of the very first movies about fighter pilots, filmed in 1918, appropriately enough, at the front. And they didn’t use blanks in the guns. Then he does what he knew so well exactly how to do — shoot down German planes. But let’s let Captain Eddie tell it.
The new Liberty duly arrived, and after a brief rehearsal of our parts in the coming show, we again had our machines run out on the field on the morning of October 21 and took our stations in the line. Captain Cooper was again placed in the rear seat of the Liberty, with Jimmy Meissner in the front seat acting as his pilot. Jimmy was to keep his machine as near the actors as possible, always flying to the left side, so that the photographer might face the show and keep his handle turning with the least possible difficulty.
Reed Chambers sat in the front seat of the captured Hanover and piloted it. He carried two guns which would fire only tracer and flaming bullets, and with true movie instinct Reed was prepared to do his utmost to imitate with two guns the Roman-candle effect of the latest four-gun effort of the Huns whom he was supposed to represent.
In the rear seat of the Hun machine sat Thorn Taylor, the villain of the play. He was dressed in villainous-looking garments that would deceive even the most particular Hun. He too had a gun, one which swung on a tournelle and which would emit a stream of smoky and fiery projectiles when the climax of the action was reached. As a clever piece de resistance Thorn carried with him, down out of sight of the camera, a dummy Boche pilot stuffed with straw. At the height of the tragedy Thorn was supposed to duck down out of sight behind his cockpit and heave overboard the stuffed figure, which would fall with outstretched arms and legs, head over heels to earth. This would portray the very acme of despair of the Boche aviators, who, it would be seen, preferred to hurl themselves out to certain death rather than longer face the furious assaults of the dashing young American air fighters.
As to the latter — I was supposed to be it.
In my old Spad No. 1, with the Hat-in-the-Ring insignia plainly inscribed on the side of the fuselage and the red, white, and blue markings along wings and tail sufficiently glaring to prove to the most skeptical movie fan that this was indeed a genuine United States airplane — I was to be Jack the Giant Killer, with an abundance of smoky and fiery stuff pouring from all my guns every time the hostile machine hove in sight. A few films of a distant formation passing through the sky had been taken early in the game so as to delude the innocent public into the belief that I was going up to demolish the whole caravan with my lone machine. A series of falls and spins would put the one Hanover out of the fighting enough times to account for a whole formation of them. Then as the last desperate encounter took place. Thorn Taylor, after shooting all his spectacular ammunition well over my head, would force the dummy to commit suicide rather than longer endure the suspense of waiting.
It was a clever plot. The whole aerodrome was in raptures over the idea, and everybody quit work to gather on the field to witness the contest. I doubt if the later performances will ever have a more expectant, more interested, or so large an audience.
Jimmy and his camera operator got away
Safely this time, and right behind them the comedian and tragedians of the show winged their way. Arrived at 2,000 feet over the field we pulled up our belts and began the performance. It was necessary to keep an eye on the camera, so as not to get out of its beam while pulling off our most priceless stunts, and at the same time we had to be a little careful as to the direction in which our bullets were going. Captain Cooper was thrusting his head out into the slipstream manfully trying to keep my swifter-moving machine always within the range of his camera. As I came up under the Hanover airplane’s tail I would let off a terrific stream of flaming projectiles which are perfectly visible to the naked eye and certainly ought to be caught by a camera even in the daytime. Thorn shot as lustily under me and over me as I approached and even Reed’s front guns were spitting death in a continuous stream at the imaginary enemy planes ahead of him.
Over and over we repeated the performance, the Hanover dying a dozen deaths in as many minutes. At last, our movie ammunition beginning to near exhaustion, it became necessary to stage a big hit that denoted the climax of the play. Coming about above the Hanover, while Captain Cooper was grinding industriously away not over
Twenty feet from its side, I came down in a swift dive, made a zoom and a renversement on the opposite side of the Hanover, and kicking my rudder over, came back directly at the enemy, full into the gaping lens of the camera. Firing my last rounds of ammunition as I approached, I saw them go safely over the tops of both machines. As I drew into the closest possible distance that was safe for such a maneuver, I threw my Spad up into a zoom, passed over the vanquished Boche, and came back in a loop somewhere near my original position.
As I glanced at the Hanover I saw that she was doomed! A quantity of lampblack, released by the crafty Taylor, was drifting windward, indicating that something seriously wrong had occurred with the enemy machine. Such a dense cloud of smoke would satisfy the dullest intellect that he must soon begin to catch fire. Ah, ha! There she comes! I knew she was afire! Sure enough several bright landing flares suddenly ignited under the Hanover’s wings throwing a bright gleam earthward, but were prevented from injuring the wings themselves by the tin surfaces above them. Finding existence on such a burning deck unendurable, the poor dummy gathered himself together in the arms of the stalwart
Taylor, and with one tremendous leap he departed the blazing furnace forever!
While Taylor kept himself hidden below deck, Chambers, throwing out the last of his sack of lampblack, lifted over onto the side the doomed machine and gave a good exhibition of the falling leaf. Down — down it drifted, the daring photographer leaning far out of his cage to catch the last expiring gasps of the stricken Hanover — the last of the wicked formation of hostile machines that had dared to cross our frontiers early in the picture. And then — just as he was prepared to flash on the “good night” sign and entertain the departing audience with views of the best line of corsets to be had at reasonable prices at Moe Levy’s emporium — just then the real climax of the play did appear.
We had wandered some little distance away from the vicinity of our aerodrome while firing genuine flaming bullets over each other, so that the falling missiles would not cause any injuries to property or persons below. Paying little attention as to just where we were flying, so long as open country was below us, we had not noticed that we were some miles south and west of our starting place and almost over the edge of a French aerodrome. Suddenly a puff of real Archie smoke in the vicinity of the Hanover told me
That some enthusiastic outsider was volunteering his services in behalf of our little entertainment. Another and another shell burst before I could reverse my direction and get started to place my Spad close to the black machine wearing the Iron Cross of the kaiser.
Reed Chambers took in the situation at a glance. He pointed down the Hanover’s nose and began to dive for a landing on the French aerodrome below us. At the same time several Frencji Breguets left the field and began climbing up to assist me in my dangerous task of demolishing the Hanover.
Diving down to intervene before any more shooting was done, I succeeded in satisfying the Frenchmen that I had the affair well in hand and that the Hanover was coming down to surrender. Without further incident we all landed and got out of our machines. The French pilots, their mechanics, and poi-lus gathered about in a curious body while I laughingly hurried over to the side of Reed’s machine and explained to the assembly the meaning of this strange performance. They all laughed heartily over their mistake — all except Reed and Thorn Taylor of the Hanover crew, who, from the expressions on their faces seemed to feel that the joke was on them.
Getting away again, the Hanover flew
Home under my protection. After it had landed I climbed up through the clouds where Jimmy and the movie man were still waiting for me. There I stunted for a while in front of the camera, giving some excellent views of an airplane bursting through the clouds and some close-up views of all the aerial tumbling that a Spad is capable of performing.
Next day Captain Cooper departed with his films for Paris, where he expected to turn them over to the American authorities and, if permitted, take a copy of them for public exhibition in Paris and the United States. A day or two after Christmas, on my way through Paris to New York, I learned that these pictures had turned out very well and would soon be shown in the movie palaces of the cities of America.
The following afternoon I escaped death by four red-nosed Fokkers by the narrowest margin ever vouchsafed to a pilot, and at the end of the combat flew safely home with my twenty-first and twenty-second victories to my credit. Curiously enough I had gone out over the lines alone that day with a craving desire to get a thrill. I had become “fed-up” with a continuation of eventless flights. Saying nothing to any of my fellows at the aerodrome, I went off alone with an idea of
Shooting down a balloon that I thought might be hanging just north of Montfaucon. While I did not get a shot at the balloon I got all the thrill I needed for several days to come.
It was about five-thirty in the afternoon when I ordered out my machine and set off for Montfaucon. As I neared the Meuse valley, I found the whole vicinity was covered with a thick haze — so thick in fact that the Germans had hauled down all their observation balloons. There was nothing a mile away that could be observed until another day dawned. Over to the south the sky was clearer. Our own balloons were still up. But no enemy airplanes would be likely to come over our front again so late in the evening.
While I was reflecting thus sadly, a bright blaze struck my eye from the direction of our nearest balloon. I headed around toward this spot in the shortest space of time. There could be but one explanation for such a blaze. A late-roving Hun must have just crossed the lines and had made a successful attack upon our balloon over Exermont!
He ought to be an easy victim, I told myself, as soon as he should start to cross back into Germany since I was on his direct line to the nearest point in his lines. He was now coming my way. Though I could not see him,
I did see the bursting Archie shells following his course northward. He must pass well under me, and no doubt would be alone.
Just then a series of zipping streams of fire flashed by my face and through my fuselage and wings! I divined rather than saw what this was without looking around. Two, or perhaps more than two, enemy machines were diving on me from above. Utterly absorbed in planning what I should do to catch the other fellow I had been perfectly blind to my own surroundings. The Hun balloon strafer had a protective formation waiting for him. They had seen me come over and had doubtless been stalking me for many minutes without my knowing it.
These thoughts flashed through my mind as I almost automatically zoomed and did a climbing chandelle to escape the tracer bullets directed at me. I did not even stop to look at the position of my assailants. Knowing they were above, I concluded instantly that they had prepared for my diving away from them and that therefore that would be the best thing for me to avoid. I fortunately had reasoned correctly.
As I corkscrewed upward two red-nosed Fokkers, my old friends of the von Richthofen Circus sped down and passed me. But even before I had time enough to congratu-
Late myself upon my luck, I discovered that only half of the formation had passed me. Two more Fokkers had remained above on the chance that I might refuse to adopt the plan they had determined for me.
One glimpse of the skillful maneuvers of these two upper Fokkers showed me that I was in for the fight of my life. I lost all interest in the progress of the balloon strafer that had destroyed one of our balloons under my very nose. My one desire was to get away off by myself, where thrills were never mentioned. The masterly way in which the Fokkers met and even anticipated every movement I made assured me that I had four very experienced pilots with whom to deal. Zigzagging and side-slipping helped me not one whit, and I felt that I was getting a wind up that would only sap my coolness and soon make me the easy prey of these four extremely confident Huns.
The two machines that had first attacked me remained below me in such a position that they invited my attack, while also preventing my escape in their direction. I made up my mind to start something before it was too late. Even though it meant getting into trouble, I decided that would be better than waiting around for them to operate upon me as they had no doubt been practicing in so
Many rehearsals. Noting a favorable opening for an attack on the nearest man below me I suddenly nosed over at him and went hurtling down, shooting from both guns.
I had aimed ahead of him, instead of directly at him, to compel him either to pass through the path of my bullets or else dip down his nose or fall over onto his wing — in either case providing me with a fair target before he could get far away. He either preferred the former course or else did not see my bullets until it was too late. He ran straight through my line of fire and he left it with a gush of flame issuing from his fuel tank. I believe that several bullets passed through the pilot’s body as well.
Considerably bucked up with this success I did not seize this opportunity to escape, but executed a sudden loop and renverse-ment, under the impression that my two enemies above would certainly be close onto my tail and preparing to shoot. Again I had guessed correctly, for not only were they in just the position I expected to find them and just where I myself would have been were I in their places, but they were also startled out of their senses over my sudden and unexpected assault upon their comrade. It is never an encouraging sight to see a comrade’s machine falling in flames. It is enough
To make the stoutest heart quail unless one is hemmed in and is fighting for his very life. But however that may be, my three foemen did not turn to continue the combat with me, nor did they even pause for an instant to threaten pursuit. All three continued their headlong dive for Germany with a faster and heavier Spad machine following them and gaining on them every second. My blood was up and I considered that I had been badly treated by the red-nosed Boches. I was three miles inside their lines, other enemy machines might easily be about — I had no time to look about to see — and I had just escaped from the worst trap into which I had ever fallen. Yet I could not resist the mad impulse of paying back the three Huns for the scare they had given me.
Though the Spad is faster than the Fokker, the fleeing Huns had a slight start over me and I did not immediately overtake them. One of the three gradually fell back behind the others. The ground was getting nearer and nearer and it was growing much darker as we approached the earth’s surface. At about a thousand feet above ground I decided the nearest Fokker was within my range.
I opened fire, following his tactics as he maneuvered to avoid my stream of lead.
After letting go at him some two hundred bullets, his machine dropped out of control and I ceased firing.
His two companions had never slackened their pace and were now well out of sight in the shadows. I watched my latest antagonist flutter down and finally crash and then awoke to the fact that I was being fired at by hundreds of guns from the ground. The gunners and riflemen were so near to me that I could distinctly see their guns pointed in my direction. I had dropped down to within a hundred yards of earth.
All the way back to the lines I was followed by machine-gun bullets and some Archie. Absolutely untouched I continued on to my field, where I put in my claim for two enemy Fokkers, and after seeing to the wounds of my faithful Spad walked over to the 94 mess for supper.
World History
