OT: Bloody April

I should have been dead. Two lonely, unescorted Sopwith Strutters against four Albatross DIIIs, piloted by the elite of the Luftstreitkräfte? There should have been no contest. I laughed, giddy to be alive, as I thought back over the mission.

Fritz and I had just returned from a failed artillery spotting mission when our radio broke. I had been Fritz' spotter, barred from piloting while I served my penance for an earlier fiasco resulting in the loss of three planes. There were seven Sopwiths the mechanics rated as flyable, but not enough able-bodied pilots, and my atonement was complete. This time we would pilot two separate planes, and have twice as many radio-equipped planes to range the big guns in on target. The Sopwith is a beautiful plane to fly. It is very stable and climbs decently, though it is a bit slow compared to other two-seaters now seeing front line service.

We had our pick of machines and had selected two that had a modified upper wing. The wing normally blocked the pilot's view directly above him, but these two had a window cut that vastly improved upward visibility. We debated what defensive armament we should carry, weighing the firepower of a twin-gun mount against the lighter weight of the single mount. In the end, we agreed that speed would be our most valuable asset. If we needed the firepower, we were already dead.

Start up and takeoff went off with no trouble. The nice thing about a rotary engine is that it has no radiator that needs to warm up. We roared down the field, the Clerget 9B rotating nearly eleven hundred times every minute. We rose above the small forest on the edge of the aerodrome, then turned northeast as we headed for our destination. I marveled at the sky above me: fluffy white clouds dotted the brilliant blue expanse, with a mild breeze.

The beauty was disingenuous: any of those clouds could be hiding a heavily armed Hun, who would be only too happy to hunt us down and strike us from the heavens above. They had proved their hunger for killing time and again over the last bloody month. When the British Expeditionary Force had kicked off a major offensive in the vicinity of Arras on April 9, the Royal Flying Corps had done our part to help the tiny men down below. We flew photo reconnaissance to monitor German troop movements, spot ammunition and supply dumps, and map enemy trenches and gun emplacements. We delivered and recovered spies from behind enemy lines and dropped bombs on rail yards and other strategic targets at night. Our single seat scouts ranged into enemy territory, searching for trains and convoys of automobiles. Our patrols shot down observation balloons and got into many a good scrap with Jerry.

The problem was, they had the new Albatross. Armed with two synchronized Spandau machine guns, this new scout was tough and powerful. I had tangled with one during my brief time piloting a Nieuport. Separated from my wingmen, I had tried to help out a beleaguered flight of Sopwiths running for home. Before I could assist, my engine was shot by a diving German. I barely escaped with my life, and crashed in a field not far from the site of the battle. New pilots often didn't survive their first flights, while the Jagdstaffels only gained more experience. Intelligence reported that the Bloody Red Baron and his squadron of aces had been moved into the area, and the butchers bill only grew. We morbidly joked that replacements were "twenty-minuters" because that was how long they were expected to last.

I shuddered with my dark thoughts, and realized my mind had drifted from the task at hand. I searched the sky for Fritz, and my plane wobbled a bit when I spotted him a bit low at my 9 o'clock. He was having minor difficulty getting his fuel mixture just right, and the rotary engine wasn't giving him full power. He soon figured out the problem, though, and the engine ran better as he leaned it out. We continued to climb, soon passing three thousand feet. I spotted Arras, the focus of this whole battle. Even though Britain had launched the attack, our losses in the air prevented us from supporting the troops on the ground as well as we could have. They suffered mightily, and had been pushed back to the doorstep of the city by counterattacks. Only days before I had photographed the trenches on the eastern outskirts, and seen the fresh shell holes below.

We skirted west of the city to avoid the concentrations of anti-aircraft batteries from both sides. There was no point to risking getting hit by archie when it only took a few more minutes to go around. Ahead, I caught sight of a major objective: Vimy Ridge. The escarpment gave an elevated view of the surrounding countryside, and the Canadians had been tasked with taking it. The Huns had held on so far. My job was to direct artillery fire on some of their bunkers hiding field guns on the far side of the ridge. The map showed a small forest in square 6B next to the targets. However, the long stalemate in this area allowed the artillery to blast all the leaves and small branches away so nothing was visible from above.

Still, Fritz was a good navigator, and we were soon in the proper position four thousand feet above the targets. There wasn't much archie in the area, but I did see a few black puffs nearby that told me to be careful. I leaned out over the side and peered down at the mud below. It wasn't easy, but I could just make out three bunkers with a small metal snout poking out of each. That would be the 7.7cm field gun protected inside. Behind me, my spotter (some new guy I hadn't bothered to learn the name of) started tapping away at the wireless radio.

Our artillerists were waiting for that signal: they sent a volley of big shells in response. Of course, they landed short. You couldn't expect them to get it the first try. My spotter tapped away again while I circled over the targets. I wasn't too worried about staying close to Fritz. I kept him in sight, but focused more on giving the boy behind me a good view of the mud down below. The shells marched closer to one of the bunkers, then one landed square on the roof. Dirt and broken logs flew through the air and crashed to the ground, leaving a destroyed cannon buried below: one less weapon hurling fire and death at the Canadians.

I banked around to the north again and spotted Fritz at the far end of his orbit, about a hundred feet below me. My gunner grimly moved onto the next bunker. I tried to remember when he had been introduced to me. They called him Alvin, and his last name began with an I, but I couldn't remember it for sure. Al. What a terrible name. Still, I didn't have much choice but to trust him in the back seat. He was doing a decent job with the artillery (unless they were going off of Fritz' spotter): the shells had bracketed the second target, and just needed to keep on target.

Something sparkled in my peripheral vision. I looked up. A bright white flare was floating to the north of us. I squinted closer and saw it came from our observation balloon to the north. A white flare? Nobody had told me the updated codes, I didn't know what that flare meant. It could be warning the anti-air batteries of a friendly flight that should not be targeted, or perhaps an enemy two-seater that may be coming into range.

It could be an enemy Albatross. I continued to circle the area, but my eyes did not linger on the bunkers as they had before. The Sopwith wobbled as I strained my neck searching the skies. A small black speck in the distance! No, that was a shell burst, not a plane. My scan took me back to the balloon. It was being winched down in a hurry, and there was a string of anti-aircraft shells tracing the path of a distant plane diving in, then a burst of tracers and the balloon caught fire. Thick black smoke marked its fall from the sky, while more shell bursts marked the path of the escaping marauder. I saw no parachutes from the burning balloon. Balloonists were allowed that piece of survival equipment, but it did them no good this time.

I watched closely to see which way the German went. It looked like he would pass to the north about a thousand feet below us. He might spot us, he might not. I turned in my seat and thumped my arm against the fuselage to get Al's attention, then pointed. He seemed shocked at first, but then instinct kicked in. He stopped tapping on the radio and armed his Lewis gun.

Looking back to the hunting Hun, I could see the game was up. I could make out that it was a biplane, with only a single bay on each side. More importantly, I could see nothing of the plane's profile: he had turned head on towards me. He was due west, blocking the shortest route to friendly lines. I turned south toward Arras, to extend out the flight as I climbed. Fritz passed beneath me heading south, his spotter still working the clunky radio, oblivious to the coming threat.

The German was clearly intent on us, but from below and behind there was little he could do as I sped south at one hundred miles an hour. I glanced back and gasped. A second plane was coming in fast behind me! Al was straining to move the Scarff ring that held his Lewis gun. There were two choices: keep running south and trust the struggling Al to defend me, or break and trust to my own skill in a dogfight. That meant only one real choice, since I didn't trust Al (he still didn't have the gun pointing the right way).

I dove right and passed beneath him heading north. It was the right move. My attacker kicked his plane up on its right wing and tried for a shot, but the closing speed was too much for him. He sailed right past me, straining against his control stick, and I saw no flickering flames from the twin machine guns. I could see the V-shaped struts and characteristic wings and tail of an Albatross DIII. The Iron Crosses painted in bold black on the wings were no surprise at this point. The wings were painted blotches of green and brown, but the wooden monocoque fuselage had a yellow strip running down the side, with a yellow nose as well.

The opening move of this deadly game was played. As I eased back into a climb, I spared a moment to glance behind me. Al had managed to swing the Lewis gun around, and squeezed off a few rounds at the nearer Albatross. Both of the Huns were coming after me. The nearest one used the speed from his diving turn to zoom back up at me from 7 o'clock. Just before he could open up on me, I slammed my control stick to the left, kicked the rudder, then hauled back on the stick. My kite rolled upside down and dove, narrowly avoiding a burst of machine gun fire. I could hear the Mercedes inline engine purring as the German followed behind me, while I squeezed the blip switch, desperate to avoid over-revving my engine in the dive.

My heart thundered in my ears, adrenaline coursed through my veins. My mind raced, considering my options in the fight. My machine was slower, and less maneuverable, though it could climb slightly better than the Albatross. Could I leverage that advantage to bring my gun to bear on my opponents? My gun! I had forgotten to get it ready to fire! I leveled off for a second and pulled the lever to cock my synchronized Vickers gun, the forward-firing weapon being my only weapon since I couldn't trust Al.

I spared another glance behind me and my jaw dropped. Pieces of wing fluttered in the air behind me, and I saw one of the German scouts starting to spiral downward while debris streamed behind the remains of his left wings. I spotted the other one a second later, already falling apart as he sped toward his inevitable doom. My dive had unintentionally dragged one Albatross into the other, and the collision had ripped both aeroplanes to pieces!

I was now a bit under three thousand feet, which made me an easier target for archie, so I eased back on the stick, pulling into a moderate climb. Fritz passed overhead and pulled in front of me. Then I heard the chatter of the Lewis gun behind me. Al was shooting at something above me. I looked up and watched a third Albatross following behind Fritz. Tracers flew between the Albatross and the Sopwith. At least Fritz' tail gunner was doing better than mine, but if Fritz didn't move soon, the Albatross would leave another empty seat at the officer's club.

I didn't have enough power to pull up for a shot on the Hun, but whether lucky or skilled, Fritz made the right move. He pushed the nose of his Sopwith forward and dove in front of me. The Albatross followed, still blazing away. Fritz' gunner stopped firing, and he rolled right and dove steeper. Before the enemy could press the attack, he flew right through the ring and dot sight attached to my machine gun. I squeezed off a burst and tracers flew right past Jerry's head.

The German broke left, and I followed, cursing at how stable the Sopwith was. It just would not roll fast enough! Once I had it standing on its wingtip, my plane's large wings carried it through a tight turn behind the Hun. I squeezed the trigger again, but could not hold the plane steady. The stream of hot lead struck the target, but would not hit any critical spot long enough to cause any serious damage. I had never been a very accurate shot, and now it really showed. The German pilot pulled out a flare gun and fired two white flares. He was calling for help. It was time to run.

I backed off the turn while he dipped down to pick up speed in his turn. While I leveled off heading west for Allied lines, he came up about three hundred yards behind me. I lowered my nose a bit to pick up speed. Had I looked at my gauges, I would probably have seen more than a hundred and ten miles per hour, but I was too busy straining my eyes for friendly guns. I didn't have to look behind me to know the Albatross was behind me. I saw the edge of the mud give way to green grass still pockmarked with shell holes, and the Canadian trenches with antiaircraft artillery and machine guns dead ahead. The Hun sent a fusillade of tracers in my direction, but I jinked and dodged, and most bullets missed. I heard a few pings and saw a few rips in the fabric of my plane, and looked back at my assaulter. The distance had opened to five hundred yards, and he was just spraying bullets in my general direction. A fourth Albatross had been circling overhead, but was racing to join in the action.

I reached the Canadian lines and could make out a battery of 13 pounders aimed in my direction. I waggled my wings, hoping they saw the British roundels on my wings. The guns stayed silent. Behind me, the German had broken off, and was climbing to join his fellow as they both flew back across no man's land.

The Germans had backed off, and I had a moment to breathe. I looked around me. There was one plane high and to the left at about 10 o'clock, with square wings painted with roundels: probably Fritz. The Clerget engine sounded good, and the instruments read normal. Behind me there was no stream of smoke from the engine, no fuel from a punctured tank. Al just sat in the back seat, looking back at the tail. I thumped the fuselage, and he turned forward, gave me a sign that he was still in fighting shape. Asides from a few rips in the fabric and a couple holes in the engine cowling, my Sopwith was still in good shape.

My heart was beginning to slow, and my breathing was less ragged. My mind was starting to work like normal again. The rapid, instinctive thoughts of battle were replaced by reason. I started climbing back up while I considered the situation. Four Albatrosses with yellow stripes had just attacked two Sopwiths, and both had survived while two Germans had crashed. One of the survivors was unharmed, and I had shot at the other one. They had put shots into both of us and we had retreated. Normally, when my plane got shot up, I ran home as fast as I could. Most other pilots I knew had similar reasoning: a damaged machine can't survive a fight very well. They would assume we had run for home, and probably would not stick around very long to ensure we didn't return. I had no real damage, so I just needed to wait for them to leave and I could return to finish the mission. Canadian lives were depending on me to destroy those artillery bunkers.

I reached four thousand feet and turned back east. Fritz had turned southwest to return home. I hoped he wasn't injured and his plane wasn't too badly shot up. Landings were dangerous even with an undamaged machine. Ahead of me, the brown scar of No Man's Land stretched. To my horror, I saw our only other observation balloon north of Arras fire a white flare. The winch started to pull it down, and archie put a trail of black puffs up behind the attacker. A stream of bullets followed, but there was no burst of flame and smoke. The balloon made it safely to the ground, but there was no way I could return to my mission with the Hun still around.

I turned south to Arras for a bit. Seeing the clouds of shell bursts over the city, I turned back north. As I neared Vimy Ridge again, I saw no black puffs, and no specks moving across the sky. I turned east to continue the mission, but just as I was halfway across the mud I spotted two planes about a thousand feet above me coming from the east. I took no chances and turned and ran west, thankful that my dark matte green paint would make me harder to spot from above. Those two Germans from earlier were waiting for the balloon to be winched up again so they could continue their attack.

Back on the Allied side of the lines, I flew south to pass the time until the Germans cleared out. Arras loomed ahead of me. Little black puffs filled the sky around the city. Withing the shell bursts I could make out several moving dots. Four, five, six, seven machines at least, and several streams of tracers lit up the sky. Someone fired a red flare, calling for help. No matter what the odds were in that fight, it was no place for me to be. I turned back north away from the city. Going to Arras would take me out of the frying pan and into the fire, a place I distinctly did not want to be.

On my way up north, I saw the two enemy scouts from before heading toward the city. They must have seen the flare and were going to join in the ruckus over Arras. Again I was below them, and they did not see me. This was my chance: they were gone, at least for a bit.

It wasn't long at all before I was back over the last remaining bunker. Al tapped out a quick message, and the 4.5 inch quick-fire battery assigned to us boomed out in response. In only a couple minutes the wood and dirt bunker collapsed under the heavy shelling, and I turned west for safety and home. To my great surprise, a second Sopwith appeared next to me at that moment. The pilot waved at me, and a white streamer trailed from his right wing. That was where Fritz always flew his identifying streamer.

My friend latched onto my wing and escorted me the whole way back. We turned southwest and cruised over the fields and forests of the French countryside, past small hamlets and villages. A river branch loomed in the distance, a good navigation marker. We made a correction slightly west southwest and the ground became more familiar below us. The copses of trees, the dirt roads and paths, and soon enough the aerodrome came into view. The hangars and tents of Soncamp Farm were similar to other aerodromes, but this one was mine and I knew it.

My landing was a bit shallow, and at the last second I cranked the airbrakes to help bleed off speed. I must have been a bit early because my wheels hit dirt in a rough spot on the very edge of the field. My machine lurched forward and the propeller struck the ground, shattering into a hundred wooden splinters. Still, I bounced up and glided a hundred more feet, bounced again, then rolled to a stop. Fritz circled once, then pulled off a perfect landing and taxied up to the flight line. The ground crew had to run and collect my plane from where it rested. The mechanics berated me for breaking a propeller and carefully inspected every rip and tear in the fabric, including a particularly nasty one behind the observer seat. The wooden structure was intact, the engine unharmed. This machine, they pronounced, would fly again with a new propeller.

The other pilots and officers asked about the mission. They had received a telephone call telling them the artillery mission was finished, but wanted to hear about the battle. I ran through the hour-long flight once more. I hadn't shot down anyone, but Fritz and I had survived against four crack Albatrosses. The yellow stripe marked them as pilots of the Black Haze Jasta, an elite group that had been operating extensively a bit north of Arras. They excelled at balloon busting and picking apart unescorted two-seaters. When I described the aerial collision, the older pilots laughed. They all knew why I had been removed from pilot status, and found the irony of a pair of aces falling victim to the same maneuver that I had.

Fritz explained that his gunner had been wounded. He raced home to set his damaged machine down. No sooner had the ground crew pulled the injured man from the plane than Fritz hopped in one of the other planes sitting on the flight line and waved another gunner over. He still hadn't seen me return, so he sped off searching for me, hoping he wouldn't see any new wreckage down below. He found me and joined up just as the last bunker was destroyed.

Al stayed quiet the whole time. He didn't seem to be much of a talker, but he hadn't done bad in the fight. I could wish for a bit more accuracy, but then again I proved I wasn't a very good shot myself. He performed well with the radio, quickly and efficiently ranging the big guns onto the targets. I still didn't trust him, but he was better than some rookie observers, who were likely to shoot your tail off, or fall out in the middle of hard maneuvers. Overall, I decided he wasn't bad. He could fly with me again.
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This AAR is based on a mission I flew while participating in the Bloody April IV community event, a series of 12-hour battles every Saturday in April commemorating the April 1917 Battle of Arras. I wrote this up for Kotori, who is currently on a submarine and couldn't make it. Fritz is my fellow =TM= squadron mate Fritz Flipitz. Many thanks to Black Haze Squadron pilots (in order of appearance) Target, Hawkeye, Navy Jake, and thedudeWG for keeping my flight interesting. Al, of course, is the AI gunner. The penance I mentioned in the beginning was the two hour respawn penalty for dying in the fiasco cited in the same sentence. Earlier in the day I suffered a midair collision with another Sopwith Strutter at the start of a 3v2 fight. When the third Sopwith flew through the tumbling wreckage and struck a broken piece of wing, the destruction of all three planes was complete. I'm not an expert historian, so I'm sure I got some of the details wrong. Despite that, I hope you all got a taste of what Bloody April was like for me. I hope to see you all in the skies over France next year in Bloody April V. Now this event is over, I can start focusing on Invincible again.