Don’t Let Them Bag the Nines: The First World War Memoir of a de Havilland Pilot - Captain F. Williams MC DFC

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INTRODUCTION BY

JAMES COYLE

This book is the product of a manuscript found in an RAF trunk from the First World War. Originally entitled ‘With the Rolls Fours’, it belonged to my wife’s uncle, Captain Frederick Williams MC DFC.

I first became aware of ‘Uncle’s Trunk’ in 1967 when his sister, Jane, stayed with my wife, Janet, and myself. The trunk followed us around to various houses; sometimes the contents would be looked at but not often. It contained various items of interest from Captain Williams’ time in the RFC/RAF, including medals, log books and even bits of his plane. The majority of these are now held by the RAF Museum in Hendon.

Williams was born in Australia to English parents in 1898. The family had a property in the semi-arid area of Queensland, which they were eventually forced to abandon due to a prolonged period of drought, the lack of water and grass making it impossible to feed the stock. They moved to Switzerland, where he and Jane were educated. There he learnt French and German, which was to prove useful in his work in Germany after the war.

Williams joined the RFC in April 1916 and was sent to France in March the following year. He was initially posted to 66 Squadron and later joined 55 Squadron, serving with them until the end of the war. He was described by the RAF as ‘an excellent leader and most able instructor’, and recognised ‘for [his] conspicuous gallantry and devotion to duty during operations. He took part in a number of long-distance raids and photographic reconnaissances, showing great gallantry and skill under difficult conditions. He destroyed three enemy aircraft and drove down two out of control. Throughout he showed great keenness and determination.’

In a letter to his mother, Williams described a mission when his formation encountered twenty enemy planes, declaring, ‘I do not intend to let the boys down I am supposed to guard and if things get too hot may God give me the courage to drive them off or go down fighting for I have never turned my back upon the Hun or devil yet!’

Despite his determination to protect his colleagues, he did not lack respect for his opponents, and in the same letter he observed:

One thing I will say for the enemy they have some jolly stout fellows amongst them, and when it comes to burying our dead they always do it nicely and put over the graves ‘Brave English Soldiers who died for their Fatherland in the fighting by Ypres July 1915’, for example, and what more glorious thing could be written over one’s grave than ‘Tapfer Englischer FLièger im Lufer Kampf gefallen’.

Following the Armistice, Williams was posted to Germany where he was able to put to use his skills in German and French. He was subsequently posted to Mesopotamia with the RAF, where his service was brought to an abrupt halt when he contracted polio. He was sent to a hospital in Egypt and then brought back to England by ship. He settled in Devon and became involved in the development of St Loyes Hospital. He eventually became the superintendent, despite his disability, and was awarded the MBE in 1950. Captain Williams died in 1963 in Devon.

I decided that Captain Williams’ manuscript may be of interest to a wider audience, and with the help of my daughter, Alana, put it forward for publication. I hope you will enjoy this insight into the First World War experiences of one of Britain’s early pilots.

James Coyle, 2019

Uncle’s Trunk: Captain Williams’ trunk containing various items of interest from his time in the RFC/RAF.

1

A PRODIGAL’S RETURN

A message had just come through to say that the weather was fit for flying at Marquise, and the floating-jacketed ferry-pilots were hurrying over from Lympne, hoping to catch the boat back at once, and spend the evening in town.

I had been fortunate enough to spend Christmas 1917 on leave, and was now returning to France. Machine after machine left the ground; at last I secured the services of a mechanic to start my engine, and set off in my SE5.

The clouds were very low, it was dark and misty; I did not like the idea of crossing the Channel at 300 feet, so climbed up into the mist. For the next five minutes I was enveloped in the thick, wet blanket of cloud, but I was not uneasy; we had never heard of ice forming in these conditions. At 5,000 feet I caught a glimpse of very blue sky, and came out above the snowy tablel and, a few seconds later, into brilliant sunshine.

From 10,000 feet, I could see the edge of the clouds in front of me, but they extended as far as the eye could see in every other direction. One thing puzzled me as I approached the edge of the clouds: I could see nothing but whiteness below and beyond. Was the coast of France shrouded in fog? This was hardly likely in so strong a wind. It was not until some minutes later that I realised that the peculiar whiteness was snow on the ground. My compass had served me well, I was right over Marquise. It was bitterly cold, and I was glad to go down and land; the ferry-pilots had not yet arrived.

After lunch Major Ainsley gave me another SE5, which I flew down to No. 2 Aircraft Depot at Candás, where I was then stationed as a test pilot. Six months previously, I had been sent back from 66 Squadron for a rest, after a fall of 8,000 feet completely out of control, owing to the jamming of my flying boot between the rudder bar and the end of the floorboard, during a scrap.

While at Candás I had flown over twenty different types; yet, I had never completely regained confidence as a Scout pilot. At first I wanted to go on Bristol Fighters with Johnny Milne, but when my friend was killed, I asked Major Baldwin to apply for me to go to 55, for I wanted to rejoin the squadron in which I had learnt to fly.

On 7 January I took a Bristol Fighter to Serney, near St Omer; on landing I was told to return to 2 A.D. immediately, as I had been posted away. A fast trip in a Crossley tender over the snow-covered roads, through the starlit night, and I was back at Candás. As I entered the mess, everyone looked at me in silence …

‘Willie, you’re off to 55,’ said Captain Dunn, our C.O., as though delivering sentence of death. However, they gave me a very cheerful send-off next morning.

It was necessary to make a journey of some 200 miles in order to join 55 Squadron, which had now been sent to Tantonville, near Nancy, for the purpose of carrying out bombing raids into Germany. As no machine was allotted to the 41st Wing, to which 55 belonged, I was obliged to go by train, a proceeding that took two days.

On arriving at Nancy, I found the country a pleasant change after the flat plains of the North; everywhere were hills and valleys, pine woods and rivers. I was soon on my way to the squadron in one of the tenders. I felt intensely curious to see my new aerodrome; I knew that it was in a concealed position; yet, even so, I was surprised to see an R.F.C. flag flying beside the road between two woods. When the tender drew up, however, I saw that there were hangars behind the trees on the left and huts amongst those on the right.

I was received in the squadron office by Captain Colquhoun, the recording officer. Having given my particulars, I was taken into the mess for lunch. As both the C.O. and Captain Gray were on leave, I found that I knew no one in the squadron except Captain Waller, who had been a test pilot at 1 A.D., and some of the N.C.S.S and men, who had been with the squadron since it came out from Lilbourne.

As I have already said, our huts were hidden in the wood; they were, however, thoroughly well built and comfortable. I was given a room in ‘The Lion’s Den’, with an excellent fellow called Matthews. There was a certain amount of rivalry between our abode and ‘The Stiffs’ Hut’, which was occupied by the C.O., the flight commanders and a select company of flying officers.

A few days later we heard that Major Baldwin was taking over the 41st. Wing, and that Gray had been given command of 55. This was good news, for Baldwin would still be able to see to the well-being of his old squadron, while our new C.O. was a man who understood the difficulties of the region in which we were to operate.

The next day, Gray came back from leave; we had learned to fly together at Lilbourne, and here he was a Major, while I was still a ‘poor Loot’; yet never once, by word or action, did he ever make me feel uncomfortable on this account.

‘Hullo Willie, I’m damn glad to see you back in 55!’ he said, grasping my hand, ‘you’ll be posted to C Flight, Farrington’s, and you can have my old bus, No. 6.’ It had never been Gray’s practice to let the grass grow under his feet; here was a man under whom I must succeed.

It should have been stated that the squadron was practically out of action owing to the severity of the winter. The ground was deep in snow, the trees and hangars were covered in hoar frost of great thickness, from days of fog; so that, when I reported to Captain Farrington next morning, there was no question of flying.

It was with a feeling almost akin to reverence that I climbed into the seat of Gray’s old machine, the war-scarred veteran of many a raid and reconnaissance, ‘What a responsibility to take her over now!’ I thought; little did I dream what lay before us both.

That night Baldwin came to say goodbye to the squadron; he caught sight of me as soon as he entered the mess, and shook hands, making me ridiculously happy for the rest of the evening. To quote from a letter:

After dinner there was a sort of dance; Puckridge was doing a tango with great skill, when he was tripped up, and sat down suddenly; his partner fell in the fire; but fortunately did not catch alight. After a very jolly evening, ‘Ye Onchant Observers’ Society’ held a meeting in the bar, from which all ‘chauffeurs’ were excluded. The pilots attacked, led by the gallant Colonel himself. Not being able to burst open the door, we turned out their lights, and squirted them with fire extinguishers through the windows. The bar sounded like an inferno as all the perfectly good observers were getting soaked, and shouting and yelling inside.

The tin hat was put on their proceedings by someone throwing a stink bomb in amongst them; they were forced to surrender, and, as soon as the place had been aired, the attackers marched in. I had been sent for more ammunition, and arrived staggering under the weight of several large fire extinguishers after peace had been restored, much to everyone’s amusement. Puckridge too, did not seem to realize that it was all over, for he presently tried to turn his pilot out again; but Collet took a soda water syphon and fired the contents down his neck!

The weather report for the next day being favourable, the celebrations ended at a reasonably early hour.

Next morning everyone was called long before it was light, and our hut soon resounded with shouting and singing. Matthews was dressing, so I got up too, in order to see the raids start for Karlsruhe, some 80 miles behind the Lines.

Next door there was the sound of boots being thrown about, Palmer was endeavouring to wake his pilot.

‘Get up Oscar!’ No reply.

‘Get up Oscar, you’ll be late for the show.’ Another boot landed heavily.

‘Umph?’

‘Oscar, get up; I’m sure you’ll be shot down today, probably in flames, or small pieces.’

‘Umph?’ Oscar did not appear to be very communicative at that hour in the morning.

I was astonished at the cheeriness with which the pilots and observers were setting out on what appeared to me to be a most hazardous adventure.

The departure of the raids was attended with great difficulty and danger, owing to the condition of the aerodrome. This was L shaped, only small strips of grass could be used for taking off and landing, unless the frost was hard enough to make the mud, which formed the remainder, safe for the heavy machines. On this occasion the de Havillands sank almost axle deep into the mud and snow as they ploughed their way across to the grass strip, their engines roaring, mechanics pushing, pulling and even trying to lift their wings.

At last they were all in position, but many of the pilots were very inexperienced and had not flown for several weeks; the start was an alarming spectacle.

Directly they had gone, I went up in No. 6. Just to the east of the aerodrome was a very striking landmark, a walled monastery perched on the top of a precipitous hill, which was known to us as Mount Zion, and to the French, I believe, as ‘Le Colline Sacrée’.

I flew to Nancy, which was remarkably undamaged, considering its proximity to the Line, then down the somewhat indistinct trenches past Lunéville and so to the Vosges Mountains. I could see practically no activity on the ground on either side, while only one other machine was in the air; I took this to be French, as it was well on our side and was not being Archied.

The air was full of a soft haze, but the wide view from 11,000 feet was full of fascination; there to the north and east lay Germany, mysterious and brooding behind the mists; there too, beyond the dark mass of the wooded Vosges, must lie the Rhine … Presently I turned homewards, and managed to