Hell over Havrincourt: Separating the men from the boys The Diary of Flight Sub-Lieutenant Reginald Capell, No. 9 Squadron, R.N.A.S.
July 1 The morning of the 1st was another soggy one. It wasn't enough rain to keep up grounded, and Mott threw a hodge-podge of pilots from different flights for an intercept at 0545. Six of us headed northeast, north of St. Quentin. We looked for signs of any Huns but didn't see a single trace. Mott decided to take us a little over the lines to see if we could catch them over their territory. Somewhere near the north rail yard we were met with a ferocious storm of archie. Thus far, my experiences flying over enemy territory has been met with underwhelming measures. I have seen the occasional puffs of black smoke and heard them beneath me, but never at this magnitude. Several times my Pup shook violently from the force of one near me. We continued our journey south receiving this treatment for what seemed like an eternity, although it was only 15 minutes. Eventually, Mott turned us back home and we arrived back at Flez in one piece (mostly).
While waiting outside HQ, we watched as some of 24 Squadron's DH5's returned from their mission. A small crowd formed and one took extra time to attempt loops and spins, and circled low over their own hangar. Banbury, Hervey and myself returned to chatting and smoking, when we heard the small crowd gasp and holler. I look up just in time to see the DH5 spinning; a somersault of wing tip to wing tip before it collapsed in on itself into a wreck of smoke and fire behind the hangar out of view. From what we gathered, he attempted to turn sharply to his side one last time but nicked his wing on the telegraph poll above 24's HQ. It set a somber mood for the rest of the afternoon. I felt terrible for the men in that squadron.
The drizzle became more scarce, but the cloud cover increased. This didn't hold back another intercept call at 1400. Both Pierce and Mott hopped in their Tripes and had Hervey and myself accompany. The wind was terrible the entire way. I struggled to maintain formation as the others continued to push forward without effort. We hit the lines west of Cambrai, and it wasn't long before Pierce rocked his wings and pointed downwards. Four Albatri were heading northwest. The Tripes descended so fast I couldn't keep up, and to make matters worse a large, dark cumulus cloud blocked my view. I circled around to find no one. Not a single soul; no sign of a furball. I circled for 25 minutes before I returned back. I was there for 20 minutes when the three returned, holed up and talking loud. Mott made eye contact with me as he walked towards the HQ.
"Capell! Get in the CO's office now!" A hard lump formed in my throat and I entered. Mott kicked everyone out.
He interrogated on where I was; where did I go and why I wasn't behind them in the fight. I explained that my Pup just couldn't keep with their descent and that a cloud blocked my view. I reiterated that I stayed in the AO for almost half an hour before returning. He explained to me that I needed to trust the Pup in a dive a bit more, not to take it too easy. That many other pilots had no problems doing so. I made the mistake of stating that the Pup is keeping me out of the formation; it's more of a struggle; surely I must be refitted with a Triplane. Mott calmed down and took a seat. He also took the opportunity to remind me that we were in France, during a war, and that I was a subordinate speaking to a superior officer, and that demands do not work. I was reminded that I am not back at Cassiobury House and can't demand and receive. Once the dust settled Mott stated that the Squadron Commander would be returning from St. Pol in the next two days, and hopefully that there would be news on that.
Before I exited, he called me one last time, "Oh, by the way, the DFW you shot down was confirmed as yours. The infantry saw a Pup bring it down. I'll break it to Boutillier. The Albatros wasn't confirmed. I'm sure that's still a win for you?" He ended with a smirk. I had my first confirmed kill.
That night was a haze. There was a grog of every liquor in the mess, a proud invention by Simpson. I would be lying if I could say I remember anything beyond the first drinks, and the last memory of myself vomiting on the steps of my berth. July 2 I was shaken awake by one of the air mechanics well after sunlight. Luckily, for the entire squadron, no shows were scheduled at dawn. The weather had broke and it was a beautiful morning. The sun was bright and reminded me of my severe case of dehydration and potential alcohol poisoning. The others laughed as I literally choked down dry toast and tea.
At 0645 we got the call for an intercept over Havrincourt Wood. Pierce told us that reports said that this was a big one. Before I hopped into my Pup I discarded all the contents of my stomach for good measure (on that poor air mechanic's boots) and took off in a hurry north. At 10,000 feet, with me struggling to keep up, Pierce's wings rocked and we began heading down. I couldn't miss the targets. Four Hun two-seaters (most likely DFW's) and seven Albatri. Our flight of six zeroed in. The two-seaters noticed us and dove east in a hurry with no chances of us getting them. The Albatri were circling and prepared for us. The six vs. seven fight began. Iron crosses; roundels; tracers heading in and out; some doing up, some going down. It took a moment to zero in on one and make the solid attempt to get on his tail. He turned too slow and I easily got shots into him. My gun didn't jam this time. He must have been injured because he didn't make any sudden moves, and it wasn't long before his crate was smoking and in a vertical dive. I watched as his wreck created a fireball on the southern edge of the woods.
Hervey gave me a fright as I turned around and saw him on my port side, giving me a thumbs up. We turned back to the remaining Albatros and watched as most of them scattered, our own flight as well. I noticed on Albatros low on my starboard and took Mott's advice and pushed the limits. I touched wood and figured I'd either come out of this alive, or die in the effort to prove to other Pup pilots that the glory is still there. I lined him in my sights and pressed down. This time the pilot was alert and turned hard left. I kept hammering away at him, watching bits and pieces of his wing trickle behind him. He turned sharp right and I did the same. He was taking me low, much lower than I had realized, but eventually I got the best of him. He made the mistake of leveling off and I didn't hesitate. I fired into him until we were both vertical again, and I let go when I saw him wreck in the wood line. Thankfully, Hervey was still above me and providing a security blanket I would never take for granted. We returned back, where I excitedly put in my two claims that Hervey corroborated. The RO informed me he'd let me know when he hears something. I was informed I had only 8 rounds remaining.
The rest of the day I felt elated. I couldn't tell I had been beyond blackout drunk the night before (surely father and mother would be proud of that story).
At 1445, Mott led five of us on a escort mission between Cambrai and St. Quentin. Three RE8's were to photo recon the enemy trenchline. We uncomfortably provided cover at 8,000 feet, dodging more hellish archie as they took their time. Another crate that moves slower than the Pup. I didn't envy those RFC chaps in those recon crates. We returned without any issues, and thankfully without any Hun interference. Some of us had holes about our crates but nothing severe.
As I'm writing this, Pierce knocked on the door to inform me that both Albatri were confirmed from this morning, making my tally 3 in only a few days. Hervey told me he'll let Simpson know to make another batch for this celebration.
I can hear my liver weeping...
I got fired as the door man at a sperm bank. Apparently it's in poor taste to tell leaving customers "Thanks for coming."
