Blood and Thunder (45 page)

His father might have made less of a joke of the situation if he had known just how serious his son was. Deighton's mother chased him across an ocean and located him at Eton staying with a former house master.
She found him utterly resolved and could achieve nothing more than a promise that he would wait to receive a commission and not go barrelling into the ranks. He was fully devoted to both England and Eton and she couldn't hold him back. She consented for him to become a British citizen to facilitate his wishes, and at the beginning of November 1914 stood by him at Windsor as he swore allegiance to George V and joined the cavalry.

Deighton transferred to the RFC and was soon at the Western Front until, like many pilots, he suffered a breakdown of sorts. Stationed at Joyce Green in Kent he was grounded and bored and managed to convince the Vickers factory at Brooklands to let him fly their experimental aircraft outside his military duties. On 20 December 1916 he was doing just this when the machine that he was in fell apart in mid air; sadly not a rare occurrence in aeroplanes of the period. Deighton was buried at Crayford in Kent. When it came to settling his army affairs his mother insisted that she was not interested in the pay owed to her son. ‘A devoted old Etonian whose happiest recollections and memories of life were always of his old school,' she wanted all outstanding sums paid to the Eton Memorial Fund
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Experimenting with munitions and developments in aerial warfare also continued to result in tragedy amongst OEs in the flying services long after the death of Reginald Cholmondeley. Fatalities were often random and inexplicable. Arthur Newton was a young Etonian from Dublin and a pre-war pilot who had transferred to the RFC from the Shropshire Light Infantry. He was an exact contemporary of Archibald James at school and they were serving together in 5 Squadron. On 20 October 1915 he had just taken off and was passing over the wireless hut when he gave a standard tap on his wireless key to make sure all was all right. The machine promptly blew up and killed Arthur and his observer, littering the aerodrome with debris. The authorities exhausted themselves trying to ascertain the cause of this freak accident and eventually surmised that perhaps a petrol leak had created a scenario where the spark from the key could have caused the accident. Archibald was still baffled years later. ‘Such a combustible mixture could not have been produced. And if it had been produced, it couldn't have been set off by the spark. But the fact is it did happen, and they were both killed.'

With the many and varied ways that pilots and observers were killed, and the random nature of death, it was unsurprising that many developed a fatalistic attitude or became partly immune to the losses around them. One simply had to move on or go mad. Archibald James was on leave in London and at lunch with two elderly gentlemen when the subject of the 16th Lancers came up. Four Etonian officers had been killed by a single shell on the Western Front. Archibald mentioned it casually in conversation as if it was nothing but was astonished when his hosts became visibly upset before his eyes
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In Britain the population was fully aware of the air war because they were witnessing it first-hand. Henry Dundas had yet to be posted to the front in September 1915 when he first saw one of the Kaiser's dreaded Zeppelins in London. The idea that Britain, secure in her island status and the protection of the Royal Navy for centuries, should now be exposed to attack from the air was staggering, earth shattering. Henry had been in London when three of the ghostly invaders glided over the city following the line of the Thames. The anti-aircraft defences, involving huge naval guns at Marble Arch, boomed into action. The first two shells almost hit one and slowly the Zeppelin turned, pursuing a line, as far as Henry could tell, up behind St Paul's and Tottenham Court Road. It began dropping various bombs (mostly incendiary) and caused several fires, a particularly large one just behind St Paul's.

Henry himself was standing outside Tottenham Court Road tube station when it glided overhead. Everyone had thought that people would flock underground at the hint of an attack but Londoners stopped and gaped at the monster overhead. ‘It could be seen at an immense height … A vague blurred sausage shape – indefinably sinister – and the car lit up like a train.' All around the sound of the guns was deafening. The theatres began turning out in a panic. Henry made his way along Oxford Street, packed with more spectators, towards Embankment. Across the Thames, off to his right, he could see a huge fire on the opposite bank and ‘a most wonderful sight, all the sky lit up a lurid red, and the river molten & shining crimson'. Twenty-five years before the Blitz it was an unbelievable display. ‘The great dome of St Pauls silhouetted against the whole. It looked just as if the Cathedral itself were on fire.'

Dick Levett once watched from the steps of the adjutant's hut at Sheerness as an airman managed finally to bring one of these notorious killers down:

I was just watching that very piece of sky. There was first of all a glowing spot in the sky and then it got larger and larger … and became a great blazing mass … floating down quite, quite slowly … we could see the sky light up when the Zeppelin bumped on the ground … All the men cheered and then there were scenes of great joy – but what a death! I couldn't help thinking of the wretched men inside as the envelope became more and more in flames.

Whilst the opportunity to claim a victory over the enemy was limited over home ground, with developments in aerial warfare on the Western Front it had become far more common. Eric Lubbock was one of the first British airmen to begin his tally. He was aloft with Robert Loraine, a famous actor, in October 1915 when they were set upon by an enemy machine. Eric was in a panic. All he could focus on was trying to get his gun working. ‘I heard Loraine give a great shout but felt neither fear nor triumph. Then our machine turned downwards … we were diving. I was standing almost on the front of the body.' The German airman attacked again. ‘Loraine went all out to climb and attack while I put my stiff and aching hands in my mouth, praying for sufficient life to come back to them.'

Finally they succeeded in driving their opponent to the ground inside British lines. The pilot had been shot in the stomach and died before they got him away but the observer was just a boy of 17. He was a nervous wreck, shaking and crying, ‘no wonder, poor thing'. Only a handful of enemy machines had been destroyed or captured at this point and both Eric and Loraine were awarded the Military Cross for their efforts. Their fight had also happened above the trenches which meant that excited troops had watched it unfold. Although they hadn't heard the cheers Eric found that he and his pilot were the talk of the town.

British airmen were not having it all their own way by any means though. With the winter of 1915–16, what became known as the Fokker Scourge arrived to blight the fortunes of the Allied airmen. Archibald James, now a pilot, was commanding part of 2 Squadron. They flew lumbering BE2cs, two-seaters used extensively for reconnaissance and artillery spotting or photography but not designed with aerial combat in mind. They were no match for the single-seater Fokkers. Archibald described their extraordinary rate of climb, which allowed them to get up above their prey and dive down on to them. When they attacked they fired a revolutionary fixed, forward machine gun that sprayed bullets through the centre of the propeller with an interrupter gear that stopped it from shooting the blades off. German pilots merely had to aim the machine in the direction that they wanted to shoot and close in on their target. Lone BE2cs out ranging guns or taking photographs had become sitting ducks.

Thomas Hughes was an enigma in that he actually wanted to remain an observer. He claimed that he would only learn to fly himself if the army gave him the ultimatum of training or a return to the infantry. ‘They can't make a pilot out of me; it would be interesting to see how they would deal with a case of studied incompetence.' Eric Lubbock bypassed the worst of the Fokker menace though because he took the opposite view and began training as a pilot.

He arrived back at the front in mid October 1916 as a flight commander with the brand new 45 Squadron. They were hit very badly in their first weeks. Six men were missing in action and another severely wounded in one day. Two days later another pilot died accidentally and then Eric was struck off the strength of the squadron sick. More men had actually been sent home because they were not of sufficient flying standard and by the end of October it became apparent that flinging them into action as soon as they had arrived at the front had been too much. They were withdrawn further back to regroup and undertake a significant amount of training so that they might be better prepared when they were put back into battle

By the beginning of December they had moved forward again. The authorities had learned from their mistakes and now Eric, as B Flight commander, was forbidden to cross the enemy lines with his men until they became familiar with their surroundings. Eric defied the order on Christmas Eve when he went in pursuit of a pair of German aircraft between Ypres and Bailleul:

I got almost directly below the Hun … Austin, my observer, was able to fire continually while the Hun never got a shot at us. We fired 300 rounds of which far more than half hit his machine and yet he lived. In the end we were some ten miles from our lines so I turned for home … we all came home very pleased with life in time for lunch.

A senior officer turned up on Boxing Day, however, and Eric dubbed him the ‘President of the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Huns'. He was told that he would be sent home in disgrace if he did it again, which seemed rather ridiculous.

The beginning of the year was frustrating. Activity was quite low, but as the weather improved suddenly 45 Squadron was overwhelmed. Eric was their most experienced aviator and had become something of an expert on aerial photography. At home his mother was frantic. In her diary she noted that on 6 March 1917 the newspaper reported ‘36 Aeroplanes Down!' That evening Eric had taken his flight out. On their way home they were approached by what he assumed to be three Nieuport scouts. They turned out to be German machines, which promptly started shooting at them. Two of the 45 Squadron machines were downed quickly and the Germans set upon Eric and the other; diving on them from above and behind. He eventually managed to put down near the aerodrome with a spluttering engine, but it had been a close call.

Two days later Eric's mother noted another headline: ‘56 machines down in two days.' She hadn't heard from him for nearly a week and he was due home on leave. On 11 March she scribbled off a letter, ‘When are you coming home … I love you my own so very, very much.' It was returned.

That day, 11 March, was an extremely busy day as far as German aircraft were concerned, with nearly one hundred of them being sighted through the day. The retreat to the Hindenburg Line had commenced and up and down the entire Western Front the Allies were just as active, observing 102 separate targets. Three of 45 Squadron's machines set off on a photographic mission in the morning, including Eric's. One dropped out with mechanical failure but Eric continued on with his remaining companion. Shortly after 11 a.m. they were attacked by two Albatros scouts in full sight of the British trenches. Eric's two-seater machine was no match for this foe and both he and the other British aeroplane were shot down and fell just behind the British lines. All four men were killed, Eric's observer, Thompson, reportedly falling out of the plane on the way down.

Eric had first pondered the possibility of his own death when he got up from his smash with Robert Loraine with a face full of dirt. He was adamant that it did not scare him, whatever it turned out to entail. His mother had his attempt to console her in the form of a letter he had left behind. ‘At its very worst it is … absolute blank and therefore why fear it?' It would be, he told her, ‘just like going to sleep and dreaming nothing'. He also penned a note to his younger brother, Maurice. ‘Help mum and look after her. Do not let her grieve too much, try and keep her interested. I hope you will never see this letter.' Within a month it would be unheard of for 45 Squadron to let any less than half-a-dozen machines fly together for additional protection when crossing the lines. It was a lesson learned too late to save 23-year-old Eric Lubbock, the young Etonian who had looked out on the bank holiday crowds at Ramsgate the day after war was declared.
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Notes

  
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  BK gave up his appointment with the RFC because he thought it his duty to go back to the 2nd Grenadier Guards. He was killed in May 1915 at the age of 30 and laid to rest at Le Touret Military Cemetery. His younger brother Victor travelled in the opposite direction, joining the RFC from the Grenadiers. He was killed (accidentally) nine months after Basil at the age of 28. Their youngest brother, Aubrey, educated at Radley rather than Eton, had already been killed in September 1914 at the age of 24 with the Oxfordshire & Buckinghamshire Light Infantry.

  
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  Deighton's younger brother John also took to the air, serving as an ensign with the United States Navy's flying services.

  
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  The incident occurred on 21 February 1915. Major Arundell Neave, 39, Captain Edward Radcliffe Nash, 26, and Lieutenants Nathaniel Walter Ryder King, 27, and Rowland Auriol James Beech, 26, are buried in a row at Ypres Town Cemetery.

  
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  Captain Eric Fox Pitt Lubbock was buried at Lijssenthoek Military Cemetery. A year later Thomas Hughes joined him. The cemetery now contains fourteen Old Etonians, four of whom served with the RFC. The other two are Arthur Victor Newton and Alwyne Travers Loyd.

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‘Am I Going to Die?'

The air war was becoming completely unrecognisable to the pre-war pilots who had survived long enough to see it into its latter stages. Arthur Rhys Davids KS was still at Eton, and captain of the school, in the summer of 1916. He epitomised those boys, now young men, that had witnessed first-hand the birth of the aeroplane and since 1914 there had been much coverage of airborne conflict in the national press. The thought of becoming a pilot, one of these chivalrous knights of the air, waging war above the battlefields, was tantalising for ambitious young Etonians just leaving school. When, at 19, Arthur got his wings and was sent to join his squadron with famed pilots such as Albert Ball he declared that he was in ‘the land of the Gods' before his feet had even left the ground.