WHEN Flying, the new weekly paper of all things aviation, started up in England in 1938, amongst the articles and stories and photo features was an illustrative feature called “Heroes of the Air.” It was a full page illustration by S. Drigin of the events surrounding how the pictured Ace got their Victoria Cross along with a brief explanatory note.

Russian born Serge Drigin became a successful illustrator in the UK in the 1920s with his work regularly appearing in such British magazines as The Detective Magazine, Modern Boy and Chums. He is probably best known for his startling covers for Scoops, Air Stories, War Stories, Fantasy and others in the 30s.

From the 4 June 1938 issue of Flying:

LIEUT. W.B. RHODES-MOORHOUSE WINNING THE V.C. AT COURTRAI, APRIL 26, 1915

ON APRIL 26, 1915, No. 2 Squadron received a message that the railway junction at Courtrai was to be bombed to prevent enemy reinforcements from reaching the front. Lieutenant Rhodes-Moorhouse left the aerodrome at Merville in company with three other machines. Each machine carried a one-hundred-pound bomb, the largest in use at that time. When Rhodes-Moorhouse arrived at the railway junction he descended to a height of only three hundred feet. This enabied him to score a direct hit, but it also exposed him to concentrated fire from all the troops who were waiting at the station and from the anti-aircraft batteries defending it. At such close range the odds were all against him. One bullet broke his thigh, another shattered his hand, and a third reached his stomach. Despite the fact that he was dying and in terrible agony he realised the importance of returning to headquarters to make his report. Unhappily he died of his wounds within twenty-four hours. He was awarded the V.C. on May 22, 1915.

FROM the pages of the January 1934 number of Sky Fighters:

Editor’s Note: We feel that this magazine has been exceedingly fortunate in securing R. Sidney Bowen to conduct a technical department each month. It is Mr. Bowen’s idea to tell us the underlying principles and facts concerning expressions and ideas of air-war terminology. Each month he will enlarge upon some particular statement in the stories of this magazine. Mr. Bowen is qualified for this work, not only because he was a war pilot of the Royal Air Force, but also because he has been the editor of one of the foremost technical journals of aviation.

Night Flying

by Robert Sidney Bowen (Sky Fighters, January 1934)

WELL, I note that both of you sparrows are here again. And I suppose that means I’ve got to do some talking and improve your knowledge as to the activities of myself, and other world renowned heroes, during the late unpleasantness.

This time I’ll gabfest on the advantages, disadvantages, and ups and downs of night flying in the days when girls used to marry uniforms.

A Mean Job

To begin with, let me say that next to daylight bomb raids, night flying was about the meanest and toughest job that the C.O. could pass out to you. You seldom saw what you were banging away at, and the other guy wasn’t any better off.

How-the-some-ever, night flying was not originated with the idea of giving pursuit pilots something else to do. As a matter of fact, pursuit ships didn’t begin to take much part in night flying work until along about the last year of the war.

Generally speaking, night flying, simply meant bombing raids at night. Long range assignments with destinations far behind the enemy lines.

The Germans Started It

To get at the idea from a historical viewpoint, night flying in the world war was really first started by the Germans. How, you ask? With their Zeppelins, stupid. Why certainly! The Zeppelin raids on London and Paris were made under cover of darkness.

The reason for that is, of course, quite obvious. A Zeppelin raid in the daytime would be just too bad for the Zeppelin. It would be spotted long before it reached its objective.

No, Alice, this is not going to be a discourse on Zeppelin raids. So tuck in your bib and pay attention.

I spoke of Zeppelins being first used in night flying work to point out the fact that night flying was fundamentally an offensive maneuver.

How come?

Home Defense Squadrons

VERY well, let me explain the difference. In the daylight your air force raids enemy territory, repels enemy raids into your territory, and also reconnoiters enemy territory. In short there is a definite object for every patrol. But at night there were no scheduled patrols for planes on the receiving end. And by the receiving end, I mean territory that was being raided. To make it a bit more clear than that, flights of ships whose job it was to repel night invaders or raiders, didn’t take to the air until the raiders made the first move. Such squadrons were known as Home Defense Squadrons. And that’s just what they did—defended the fireside against invaders. In other words, in the daytime you flew patrols whether the enemy was there or not. But at night you only flew when the enemy came to call.

Rather than frighten the French and English populace, Zeppelin warfare made them all the more determined to defeat Germany.

Not favoring the construction of Zeppelins, or I should say, lighter-than-air-aircraft, the Allies started to hit back with long range bombing raids (Fig. 1) on German strongholds behind the lines. Most of these raids were conducted by the English, and to them should go everlasting praise for their accomplishments.

Not tor the Chicken-Hearted

A bomb raid at night is not a job for chicken-hearted men. To begin with, you’ve got to have a clear night to see things on the ground. Nowadays with blind flying developed as it is, with airway beacons, and all the rest of it, a pilot can fly from here to there and back again in almost any old kind of weather. But in war days a clear night was very essential.

But as even you two nitwits can see, what was a break for the raiders was also a break for the defenders. In other words, if you could see them, they could also see you.

There were no special hours of the night for bomb raids. The time of take-off really depended upon how far you had to fly before you could let the old “eggs” go whanging down. But the dangers of night bombing raids began just as soon as you opened up the throttle.

Today when a ship takes off at night, the runway is bathed in flood lights, and it’s just about as easy as a daytime take-off. But in war days, you did the best you could and trusted to luck for the rest. There were no flood lights, or any of the other fancy gadgets that you have today. The “runway” was simply the best part of your drome, and it was lighted by parallel rows of oil pots (Fig. 2). The ship simply took off between the two rows.

What They Looked Like

And speaking of oil pots, next time you’re out driving with the girl friend at night (you do, don’t you?) and you come to a spot where they’re digging up the road, take a look at those ball-like things that rim the ditch. They look like a bomb full of oil, and burning at the top. Well, those things are what oil pot flares used to look like during the war.

WELL, as soon as you’ve taken off, the oil pots are doused, because it’s not any help to advertise the location of your drome to any enemy ships that might be upstairs. And after those oil pots go out, the rest is up to you. If there is more than one ship in the raid, each pilot has got to make sure he doesn’t ram into the other guy. To avoid that they usually flew in follow-the-leader-style. Not only did that permit the pilot to see the exhaust flames of the ship ahead, and thus keep his distance, but it also permitted more effective bombing of the objective. When the objective was reached the first plane would drop its bombs and then bank wide and swing for home. The second ship would do the same thing, and after it, the third ship, and so on.

Naturally, while you are heading for your objective the enemy hears you, and he tries to spot you with his searchlights. And when he does, look out, because you’re going to get a shower bath of archie in the next few seconds. When one searchlight gets you, two or three others swing right over with the idea of “boxing” you—fixing you so’s you can’t dodge either way into the darkness, and escape. At such times, good piloting counts plenty, and how.

Of course, most of the time defending ships don’t wait for searchlights to nail you. They come streaking up, using your exhaust flames as a guide to where you are. And in turn your gunners use their exhaust flames as a guide to where the attacking pursuits are.

The Return Trip

Once you’ve let your eggs go, you can bet your shirt that the enemy is going to try his damnedest to get you. And so the return trip is really worse than the journey out. Besides, you’ve got to get the ship down okay.

When the home drome mechanics hear you, they set out landing marks on the drome. These are oil pots set out in a way that will indicate the direction of the ground wind. There were two signs generally used. One was in the shape of a big L, (Fig. 3) the bottom of the L being at the leeward side of the drome. In other words, you landed along the upright part of the L, toward the bottom piece. The idea being that the area formed by the angle was the smoothest part of the field.’
The other sign were lights in the form of a T, (Fig. 4) with the crosspiece being toward the leeward side of the field. And so you simply landed along either side of the leg of the T, toward the cross piece.

Sounds simple, doesn’t it? Well don’t kid yourself, sweetheart. Those oil pots never did blind you with their light, and it took wonderful pilots (like me) to get down without jarring the other guy’s teeth.

Night Pursuit Flying

To get the idea of pursuit flying at night, just reverse what I’ve been telling you about a night bombing raid. The night pursuit ships (or, bats, as your favorite authors like to call them) simply took the air when enemy bombers were announced. Their job consisted of two things. One, to get the bombers.

And the other, to avoid smacking into one of their own men. I never could decide just which job gave me the most gray hair.

Just one more thing, and I’m gone. It’s about sighting landmarks at night. One tough job, children, unless there’s a moon. About the only thing you can really see clearly, is water—rivers, lakes, etc. The rest you guess at. And here’s an interesting item lots of folks don’t know. It was a cinch for German Zeppelins to find either London or Paris at night. Why? Because both cities are on a river, and their metropolitan areas are exactly between two islands in each river, both the Thames and the Seine. They simply hovered over either of those areas and let go. And speaking of “go,” that means me. too! Good evening.

THIS week we have another exciting air adventure with Rusty Wade from the pen of Frank Richardson Pierce. Pierce is probably best remembered for his prolific career in the Western Pulps. Writing under his own name as well as two pen names—Erle Stanly Pierce and Seth Ranger. Pierce’s career spanned fifty years and produced over 1,500 short stories, with over a thousand of these appearing in the pages of Argosy and the Saturday Evening Post.

Each year Rusty Wade promised himself a real, old-fashioned Christmas, and each year Fate decreed that he be riding high in the air, eating cold sandwiches instead of thrusting his long legs under a table groaning with turkey and the other good things that went with a Christmas dinner. But this year he was determined to have just that with Mary Heath—the prettiest teacher in the whole Yukon country. Until that faked distress call came in from the ice bound Ellen Dow. From the pages of the January 1930 Air Trails, it’s Christmas in July with Rusty Wade in Frank Richardson Pierce’s “Frozen Wings!”

“Hawk” Breed was out to beat him; but “Rusty” Wade made a dare-devil’s landing and pledged himself to play a desperate game!

• Download “Frozen Wings” (January 1930, Air Trails)

THIS week we present an early Flying Aces cover from March 1929 by the incomparable R.C. Wardell. Wardell turned out numerous covers for the pulps in the late ’20’s and early ’30’s for magazines like Under Fire, Flyers, Flying Stories, Prison Stories, Sky Birds, Prize Air Pilot Stories, Far East Adventure Stories, Murder Stories, Murder Mysteries, Zoom! and of course Flying Aces, signing most of this work as “R.C. Wardel.” Here he depicts American Ace Frank Luke, shot down behind enemy lines waiting for the enemy troops to advance and take him prisoner—if they can!

Martyrs of the Air: Frank Luke

A German in name, but a fiery, patriotic American at heart, Frank Luke, the greatest ace that ever emblazoned his name in aviation annals, died as he had lived—a flaming, fighting, fast-winged warbird.

FRANK LUKE!

How much the name means to those few who knew how he fought, and died. And contrarily, how little it means to the vast majority of the great American people who knew so little about him.

Lieutenant Frank Luke’s career was short, hectic, and dynamic. He blazed across the wartorn skies of France like a flaming meteor and with equal brilliance. Very few people ever see the same blazing meteor in its dazzling course across the night skies; very few people ever heard of Lieutenant Frank Luke during his short but sensational career on the western front.

But to those who did come in contact with him, his valorous deeds and manner of dying will ever remain in their memories as long as they live. Frank Luke was the most courageous, the most audacious war bird that ever handled a control stick and pressed the Bowden triggers mounted on it.

Only Eddie Rickenbacker topped him in the final list of American Aces after the war was ended. Rickenbacker was officially credited with 26 victories. Frank Luke had 21. But the comparison is hardly fair to Frank Luke, for Eddie Rickenbacker was on the front for almost six months.

Luke’s front line career lasted only a little over two weeks, and even in that short space of time he was at one time the American Ace of Aces and there is no telling what score he would have run up if he hadn’t died. And how he died!

Bom of a German father who had emigrated to this country in the early days, and carrying a German name, Luke was looked upon with suspicion by his squadron mates who fraternized very little with him. Little did they suspect the intense hatred for the Germans that Luke harbored in his breast. He hated the enemy with an intensity of feeling that was only equalled by his supreme courage, and he swore when living that no German would ever take him alive. No German did.

There was another pilot in his squadron who had a German name and was of German parentage, a Lieutenant Wehner. The two, because they were more or less ostracized by the other members of the squadron, teamed up together. And what a team it was. The Germans soon learned to recognize the pair as twin furies of the skies, and would dash for cover as soon as the pair came in sight.

They were such dashing, daring fighters that the Germans gave them a clear sky when they came over, not even bothering to tarry and fight with them. Then it was that Luke originated his plans for bringing down German sausage balloons.

And what a terror the pair were to the German sausage observers—balloon after balloon fell before their streaking tracer fire. Finally, Wehner was killed while holding off an upper flight of German Fokkers who were trying to get at Luke below when he was diving on a German sausage with his twin Vickers guns blazing molten lead. Luke got the sausage, but the Fokkers got Wehner, and from that late afternoon on, Luke was never the same. He loved Wehner like a brother, and the Huns had got him.

“They’ll pay!” Luke stormed, and clenched his fists. “More than one Hun will pay for Wehner’s death.”

And more than one Hun did!

HE HAD been a terror before. After Wehner’s death he became a raving, tearing madman of the skies. Flying alone thereafter, he was the Lone Wolf of the sky trails. He had but one consuming passion; that was to get the Huns and then more Huns. Flying wherever he willed he tore up and down the front lines in search of Hun meat.

He paid no attention to orders and had absolutely no regard for discipline. One night would see his Spad plane bivouaced at some strange French airdrome far from his own squadron. The next night he would be way across France over in Lorraine somewhere. During his flights between he left a path of desolation. The German feldwebels dubbed him the Scourge of the Skies and scurried for cover whenever they saw Luke’s plane skirting down the trench lines.

His own commanding officer never knew where he was or what he was doing. An old army sergeant, one John Monroe, who had charge of an advanced emergency landing field right behind the front lines perhaps knew more of Luke’s movements during his short career on the front than any other man. Luke spent many a night sleeping with Monroe in his pup tent.

The sergeant would service his plane for him each night he landed and make it ready to take off before dawn the next day. Then while the two laid in the tent trying to go to sleep, Luke would tell the sergeant of the events of the day as he saw them from the sky.

Luke’s last day on earth was a spectacular one. He brought down two sausage balloons and one Hun plane, and was himself shot down about five miles behind the German lines near the little town of Murveaux. Luke was not shot to death in the air, but bullets from a Hun Spandau had shattered his propellor and damaged his engine such that he had to make a forced landing behind the German lines.

In addition he had two slight flesh wounds which were not in themselves serious enough to cause death, but they did make him somewhat weak from loss of blood. While the crippled plane was Winging down to a landing with the Hun attackers hovering overhead, Luke spied a cutover wheat-field and by agile manoeuvering, managed to set his plane down safely on it.

To any ordinary pilot, that would have meant the end of the war. But, not so with Luke. A small company of German infantry were stationed at Murveaux not far from the wheatfield, and when they saw Luke’s plane land, they sauntered out to take him prisoner.

When Luke’s plane staggered to a dead stop Luke jumped out of the cockpit on the side nearest the approaching soldiers. His left hand dangled loosely from his-shoulder and blood was on his tunic sleeve. His right hand he kept inside the cockpit, apparently holding himself up, for his knees buckled and he was half slumped to the ground, and so the approaching captors thought.
Luke looked at them and let them come. On they came in sort of a half run with their bayonets fixed. Luke watched them out of the corner of his eyes, and clenched his right hand tighter. His body swayed a little and he reeled slightly, nevertheless he held his feet, and when th approaching Germans got within about 50 feet of him, he snapped his right hand out of the cockpit. In it was a Colt Automatic. Luke leveled it and fired pointblank into the faces of the captors.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Five successive shots rang out. Five of the approaching Germans fell dead, shot through the heart each and every one of them.

More shots rang out, from the German’s rifles this time. Luke slumped over by the side of his machine, dead, his body riddled like a sieve by the German fire.

But think of the cold, raw courage that was Luke’s. In the height of battle man might do that, many of them. But Luke had time to think while his would-be captors approached.

“Surrender, and live through the war? Or die fighting with the blood of his comrade Wehner further avenged?”

Frank Luke died, and how gallantly!

“Martyrs of the Air: Frank Luke”
Flying Aces, March 1929 by R.C. Wardell

“HAW-W-W-W-W!” That sound can only mean one thing—that Bachelor of Artifice, Knight of Calamity and an alumnus of Doctor Merlin’s Camelot College for Conjurors is back to vex not only the Germans, but the Americans—the Ninth Pursuit Squadron in particular—as well. Yes it’s the marvel from Boonetown, Iowa himself—Lieutenant Phineas Pinkham!

When Phineas’ joke on Colonel Guilfoyle gets the Old Man in trouble, he concocts an elaborate plan to try and get Garrity and the Ninth Pursuit Squadron off the hook. From the July 1931 Flying Aces, it’s Joe Archibald’s “Bargains fro Blois!”

It was a dastardly trick! On account of it, Colonel Guilfoyle, G.H.Q.’s weightiest chair-warmer, threatened to bust the Old Man. Somehow connected with it was the Old Man’s promise to make a spark plug-cleaner out of Phineas “Carbuncle” Pinkham. And we don’t blame either of them–do you?

• Download “Bargains for Blois” (July 1931, Flying Aces)

THIS week we have one of the few stories from Fred Denton Moon. Moon was born in Athens, Georgia in 1905 and was a freelance writer. A former staff member of The Atlanta Journal Sunday Magazine, he was the first editor of the Journal’s wire photo service as well as former city editor of the Journal. He was member of Sigma Delta Chi and a retired member of the Georgia Department of Labor.

Galactic Central lists just a handful of stories by Moon in their various directories:

title	magazine	date	vol	no
1928
The Cloud Busters	Flying Aces	November	1	3
1929
The Unclaimed Necklace	The Underworld Magazine	February	5	1
The Phantom Fokker	Sky Birds	March	1	3
The Buzzard Feeder	The Golden West Magazine	April	5	3
Tortured Skies	Flying Aces	June	3	2
Lieutenant Goose-Egg	Eagles of the Air	November	1	2
The Aerial Aim	Flying Aces	November	4	3
1930
The Bear Facts	The Dragnet Magazine	January	4	4
Front Page Stuff	Prize Air Pilot Stories	January	1	2
Gimme a Cigaret!	Thrilling Stories	January	1	2
The Rattler of No Fang	Western Trails	June	6	1

 
Moon died in 1982 at the age of 76.

His first published pulp tale is one of an overly harsh C.O., hated by his men who get no respect for making due with the Army’s worst equipment, who proves his mettle when he joins a bombing raid over enemy lines. From the pages of the November 1928 Flying Aces, it’s Fred Denton Moon’s “The Cloud Busters!”

Hades had spewed up and was spreading all over the map of France. Count von Stratton’s flying circus was the worst bunch of hornets that had ever stung to death the group of able flyers under the disliked Commandant Legarrin—but the Commandant was an old devil who knew his viewpoint so well he tried to stop the war all by himself.

• Download “The Cloud Busters” (November 1928, Flying Aces)

WHEN Flying, the new weekly paper of all things aviation, started up in England in 1938, amongst the articles and stories and photo features was an illustrative feature called “Heroes of the Air.” It was a full page illustration by S. Drigin of the events surrounding how the pictured Ace got their Victoria Cross along with a brief explanatory note.

Russian born Serge Drigin became a successful illustrator in the UK in the 1920s with his work regularly appearing in such British magazines as The Detective Magazine, Modern Boy and Chums. He is probably best known for his startling covers for Scoops, Air Stories, War Stories, Fantasy and others in the 30s.

From the 28 May 1938 issue of Flying:

MAJOR L. G. HAWKER WINNING THE VICTORIA CROSS OVER THE GERMAN LINES, JULY 25, 1915

IT WAS on July 25, 1915, that Major Lanoe George Hawker was on reconnaissance over enemy territory. He was flying a Bristol Scout when he saw a German two-seater. He at once engaged it with such fury that it turned tail and fled. Continuing on his way, he encountered another two-seater. This time he was more lucky, for he sent his opponent down out of control. His third victory that day over yet another two-seater, was gained on the way home. It was almost dark at the time and the German machine must have presented a grim picture as it spun down in flames. These three successes were all the more surprising because Major Hawker, at that time a Captain, was armed only with a French cavalry carbine, while his opponents were armed with machine-guns. For his gallantry on that day he was awarded the Victoria Cross. Notification was made on the 24th of August in the London Gazette, for “ most conspicuous bravery and very great ability on the 25th July, 1915.” This fearless airman finally fell to the guns of Richthofen, but only after a long and bitter engagement which in the end was decided by the German’s superior equipment—as Richthofen himself admitted.

THIS week we have a story by Franklin M. Ritchie. Ritchie only wrote aviation yarns and his entire output—roughly three dozen stories—was between 1927 and 1930, but Ritchie was not your typical pulp author.

After reading “Crumpled Buzzards” I tried to find out a little about Ritchie to include in this post. I thought he had been covered in a biographical piece in Air Trails or Sky Birds, but couldn’t find anything. So I turned to the internet.

In putting in the name some great stuff comes up—letters from when he was a cadet to teachers back at Rutgers; a long letter to the folks back at Central New Jersey Home News where he was reporter before the war; he married fellow Erasmus High grad Elizabeth Farrish before enlisting; and this brief biographical piece from the Perth Amboy Evening News (September 23, 1922)—

All this good stuff was tied to this Lawyer fellow from New Brunswick. He seems to have an incredibly full life, when would he have time write pulp stories? But then I found a letter from Ritchie buried in the April 1929 issue of Sky Birds that explains it all:

Ritchie retired from all that in ‘58, moved out west and become a pastor at a Presbyterian church in Lakewood, California. He passed away at 84 in 1978.

With all that in mind, from the July 1929 number of Sky Birds, it’s Franklin M. Ritchie’s “Crumpled Buzzards!”

Lanky Jeff Dayton, a war bird, saw nothin’ to get het up about in this man’s war, but when he did, he saw red—red streaks of flame jetting from angry guns.

• Download “Crumpled Buzzards” (July 1929, Sky Birds)

FROM the pages of the December 1933 number of Sky Fighters:

Editor’s Note: We feel that this magazine has been exceedingly fortunate in securing R. Sidney Bowen to conduct a technical department each month. It is Mr. Bowen’s idea to tell us the underlying principles and facts concerning expressions and ideas of air-war terminology. Each month he will enlarge upon some particular statement in the stories of this magazine. Mr. Bowen is qualified for this work, not only because he was a war pilot of the Royal Air Force, but also because he has been the editor of one of the foremost technical journals of aviation.

Flying Comfort

by Robert Sidney Bowen (Sky Fighters, December 1933)

SO! SOUND asleep, the lot of you, eh? Well, my pin-feathered buzzards, that suits me just fine. In fact, it’s perfect. It gives me an idea of what to chin about this time. For a week I’ve been lying awake nights, tearing out my hair, wondering what I could talk about that would be close to your dear little hearts, and which you’d all understand.

Well, you yourselves gave me the idea. What subject could you better understand than one dealing with comfort?

And so, I will proceed to raise my usually calm and soothing voice above the stentorian chorus of snores, and bellow at you about the art of flying comfort.

We Were Comfortable

Though it breaks my heart to reveal the truth, my conscience forces me to draw aside the veil and show just how comfortable we baldheaded eagles were in the days when the word German was something that made you jump and jump fast.

As your big sisters have probably told you, wartime airdromes were never located in the middle of No-Man’s-Land. In fact, they were usually fifteen to twenty miles behind the lines. Such being the case, we had no fears of waking up and finding German infantrymen plowing through the room. And so, we could add the old home sweet home touch to our abodes and know that it would all still be there when we got back from a gallant patrol.

Sure! We had hutments to live in, blankets and clean sheets. A mess lounge to get plastered in, too. True, the furniture was not all mahogany or birdseye maple. However, it didn’t fall apart, much. And most important of all, my dears, the grub was good. It wasn’t dropped in the mud, and it was cooked (by a cook) in a real stove. There was usually some sort of a piano that worked. And, of course, the ever-present phonograph.

Now, before I mislead you too much, let me explain that the pilots more or less enjoyed solid comfort only as compared to the men holding the line.

I COULD name lots of places that are heaven compared to a wartime airdrome, and not even exaggerate. So, just keep it in your think-box that I’m speaking of flying comfort as compared to infantry or artillery comfort.

Visiting the Neighbors

And so, we were able to install all the little things that helped to make life enjoyable when not in the air. Usually there was a village near-by, with at least one worthwhile estaminet where we could go between patrols or any time when we were off duty. Also, if the field was big enough, more than one squadron used it, with the result that you had neighbors to visit, etc.

IN OTHER words, while an airman was on the ground, it really was a pretty good war.

In the air, though, it was different. And naturally so, because for us, that’s where the war was—in the air.

But here’s the point—we didn’t confine all our efforts for comfort to the time when we were on the ground. We took it along with us when we went up, providing, of course, it didn’t interfere with air scrapping.

That, of course, was the one essential thing to think about. And as a result, the comfort that we tried to get in the air was in reality a type of comfort that actually helped air performance.

Just a Few Examples

For a few examples of what I mean, unbutton your ears to these.

Straight flying—ordinary patroling between two points—is about the most monotonous thing east or west of the Seven Seas. There’s nothing to do but sit and fly, and then sit and fly some more. On a smooth day your legs and arms and neck get so doggone cramped, that you suddenly’ find yourself praying aloud for a flight of enemy ships to drop down on you.

True, you’ve got to keep your eyes open, to spot said enemy ships ahead of time.

And also you’ve got to keep on the alert so that you won’t slide out of formation position. But after awhile at the Front that sort of thing becomes almost mechanical. Like a sixth sense, you might say.

To permit themselves the opportunity to relax, some of the boys had headrests fitted to the top of the fuselage just back of the cockpit. The headrest was just a leather pad streamlined into the top of the fuselage. On some ships, the S.E.5, for example, the headrest was already there. And to show you how queer war pilots can be, some of the guys had the headrest of their S.E.5
taken off, because they said it cramped their necks! (See Fig. A.)

Every Little Thing Counts

ANOTHER little thing that we added for comfort’s sake, was a little box fitted to a fuselage crossbrace inside the cockpit. In ships that had a Lewis gun mounted on the top center section, the box was already there. That is, there were two boxes in which you carried a couple of spare Lewis drums of ammo. So you simply carried one extra drum—and the other was your box.

What for? Why, to keep things in, dummy. What things? Well—that depended upon the pilot’s likes and dislikes. Me, I used to slip a couple of bars of chocolate in, a cloth with which to wipe oil spatterings off my goggles, a couple of nips of this and that in a flask (in case of a cold, you understand), a picture of the current girl friend to gaze at if I felt lonely, a box of matches, and at least one deck of cigarettes.

Cigarettes?

Ah, I knew darn well that buzzard over there in the corner wasn’t asleep! Sure, we carried cigarettes. Why not? No, not to smoke while we were in the air. Nix! Can do, as a stunt. But didn’t as a regular practice.

No, the idea was, in case we got forced down and taken prisoner. Yes, sir, we were that way. Made sure of our comfort—in case. And if you think that’s a funny idea, go get yourself taken prisoner some day, and find out how many smokes the enemy gives you! Yeah, you’!I learn!

If We Were Captured

AND speaking of being taken prisoner. Some of the lads used to sew a small compass and a map or two in the lining of their flying suits. I once heard of a case where that little stunt was the means of a bird escaping an enemy prison camp. Well, all I can say is, that guy sure was lucky, and then some!

In the first place, the enemy wasn’t as dumb as the newspapers try to make them out to be. They knew a few things about fighting a war just as we did.

And searching a captured prisoner for anything that might help or hinder him was something that the Germans did nothing else but. However, for argument’s sake, let’s say that the searching officer was blind in one eye, couldn’t see out of the other, and both hands were cut off. Well, the hero goes to a prison camp, tells the guard to look the other way, and sets off for home. He uses the compass and starts south. Soon it gets darn cold and he meets an Eskimo. Heavens, he’s been walking all these weeks in the opposite direction.

And why? Because that little compass sewed in his flying suit was long ago sent haywire by the metal and ignition system of his engine.

But to get back to that box—comfort box, you could call it—I’ve told you a few of the things I used to lug along. Other guys used to carry other things. One chap, for instance, used to take along pen, paper and envelopes. Sure! Do his letter writing while waiting for action.

No Identification!

However, that was just an unusual stunt. Don’t get the idea that it was general practice. And also don’t get the idea that the box was big enough to hold a couple of spare props and
a tire maybe. And also, take it from me, you did not carry anything that would be valuable to the enemy if captured. I carried the girl friend’s picture, but I didn’t carry any of her letters to me.

No, smart guy, not because I was afraid the ship would catch fire! Simply because they were identification, and might contain information of something seemingly unimportant, but perhaps most important when pieced together with what the enemy might already know.

In other words, we carried in the box, or on our person, nothing that would divulge information to the enemy.

I Call It Laziness

MAYBE you’d call this next item comfort, but I call it just plumb laziness. It was a flight leader’s trick. As you know, a flight leader has to keep his eye on the ships back of him, just as much as the other lads have to keep their eyes on him.

So this bird, in order to save wear and tear on his neck, got hold of a piece of looking glass and fastened it near the top of his right rear center section strut. Yup, a rear view mirror for airplanes. And believe it or not, the thing worked swell—so he claimed! (See Fig. B.)

Another idea for comfort, and a thing that was mighty useful in a dog scrap, was a pair of shoulder straps fastened to the sides of the cockpit seat. (See Fig. C.) As you know, every ship had the regular safety belt that fastened about your waist. That was okay for level flight, but should you get hung in a loop, gravity would start to slide you out and pull your feet off the rudder bar.

So we installed two straps; one that came up the back and over the right shoulder and down the left side of the seat, and the other came up over the left shoulder, crossed the other at your chest, and down to the right side of the seat. Thus you were held back by the safety belt, and held down on your seat by the double straps. Naturally, snap fastenings were used, in case you had to get clear fast—like in thr event of a forced landing.

It’s All How You Look At It

Yup, our motto was, comfort east or west of No-Man’s-Land. Of course, it wasn’t like home. We did get our feet wet now and then. However, in case the Grim Reaper ever reached out for us, we kind of planned it so we’d at least die on a full stomach. For the lads on the ground shoving about the trenches, such was not the case. They had to take it on the chin day and night.

Yet, after all, it’s the way you look at it. The doughboy in the trench looks up at the aviator and says, “Cripes, that damn fool up there with nothing to hang onto!” And the pilot looks down and says, “Cripes, that damn fool down there with nothing but mud to sit on!” And, so what? As far as I’m concerned, it’s, so long!

THIS week we have a story from Raoul Whitfield. Whitfield was a prolific pulp writer primarily known for his hardboiled crime fiction published in the pages of Black Mask, but he was equally adept at lighter fair that might run in the pages of Breezy Stories. We’ve featured a number of his Buck Kent stories that ran in Air Trails, but this time we have a WWI tale!

The Thirty-ninth was located pretty far up front, for a squadron field. The enemy had bombed them out of two fields, and the third one that Staff had assigned them was just a little worse than the other two had been. Worse for landings and take-offs, and considerably worse in the matter of camouflaging from the enemy. The Boche had already come over several times to say hi—they didn’t do very much damage, just raised hell in general. But the morale of the outfit took a sharp drop. It was into this humorless squadron that Lieutenant Bill Roberts and his very large sense of humor was transferred and the Thirty-ninth wanted none of it!

From the February 1929 number of Over The Top, it’s Raoul Whitfield’s “The Sky Joker!”

He brought a sense of humor to a hard-boiled squadron, this laughing lieutenant, but it took the squadron a long time to appreciate his wisecracking.

• Download “The Sky Joker” (February 1929, Over The Top)

FOR FOUR successive months in 1933, War Birds ran a series of covers featuring “Strange War Planes.”—those freak planes that were used during the First World War. The covers were by Eugene M. Frandzen—known here for the covers he did for Sky Fighters from its first issue in 1932 until he moved on from the pulps in 1939. The Final freaky ship in the series was the Deperdussin Monoplane!

Strange War Ships:
Deperdussin Monoplane

BEFORE synchronization of machine gun fire was perfected, many strange ways were devised to fire in the direction of flight. The Deperdussin Monoplane, with machine gunner mounted atop the wing was one of these. A rudder attachment kept the gun from whipping from side to side. The ship was armoured and a superstructure of steel pipes formed the gunner’s cockpit. A gunner on this ship had to have a sense of balance equal to an acrobat to be accurate with the gun.

The Deperdussin was the forerunner of the 5pad. This ship and the single place were used extensively on the Russian front. Germany, at that time, considered these ships the most dangerous used by the allies. The single seater had the phenomenal speed of 131 m.p.h. when stripped.

LENGTH . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .24′
SPAN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36′3”
AREA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 226 sq.ft.
WEIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .1050 lbs.
MOTOR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .80 h.p. Gnome
SPEED . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .105 m.p.h.
CLIMB . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .247 ft.per min.

Strange War Ships: Deperdussin Monoplane • War Birds, August 1933
by Eugene M. Frandzen

THIS week we have another exciting adventure in those Hell-skies with Alexis Rossoff’s Hell-Cat Squadron! The adventures of the Hell-Cat Brood ran in War Birds, War Stories and Flying Aces. The Seventy-Seventh Squadron had a reputation of being short on technique and long on defying every regulation in the book. The squadron was the cause of many gray hairs on the pates of the star-spangled ones back in G.H.Q. They flew their merry way like nobody’s business, and played hell with any Jerry who tried to dispute their intention of going places. This bunch of cloud-hopping war birds were known from one end of the Western front to the other as the “Hell-cats”—and sometimes the “Unholy Dozen!”

There was one man responsible for “Silent” Peters’ warped outlook on life. One man who turned a brilliant engineer into a man who hates the world, God and life itself. An Ace who was tall, gaunt and taciturn with the eyes of a saint—and the face of a devil with nothing but hate in his heart! And Silent Peters believed he would find this man in the death-torn Hell skies over Germany and settle the score once and for all! From the pages of the August 30th, 1928 issue of War Stories, it’s Alexis Rossoff’s “Silent Peters—Hell-cat!”

He was lean and tall and firm-jawad, this Yank of the Seventy-Seventh Squadron. That was the bunch of cloud-hopping war birds they called the “Hell-cats,” and sometimes the “Unholy Dozen.” But “Silent” Peters was a lone eagle without a buddie in the squadron. He had a reason for his war—a reason that meant more than life.

• Download “Silent Peters—Hell-cat” (August 30, 1928, War Stories)

THIS May we are once again celebrating the genius that is C.B. Mayshark! Mayshark took over the covers duties on Flying Aces from Paul Bissell with the December 1934 issue and would continue to provide covers for the next year and a half until the June 1936 issue. While Bissell’s covers were frequently depictions of great moments in combat aviation from the Great War, Mayshark’s covers were often depictions of future aviation battles and planes, like January 1936’s thrilling story behind its cover is a tribute to Pan American as it spans the Pacific!

Pan American Spans the Pacific

MAN has fulfilled one of the most ambitious dreams of modern transportation! He has conquered the Pacific. Giant, four-engined Pan-American flying boats now ply in regular passenger and mail flights from California to China, with intermediate stops at Hawaii, Midway, Wake, Guam, and the Philippines. People are flying across the world’s vastest body of water in some 60 hours of flying time, whereas hardly yesterday such a journey consumed the greater part of a month.

To be sure, people now make this momentous flight for the novelty of it. But tomorrow the whole matter will be routine. It will be accepted in the same manner as the rising generation takes airplanes and radio for granted.

It’s possible that the passengers who make the inaugural flights in the clipper ships will be under the delusion that they are pioneers of some sort who possess in abundance that fortitude required to undertake hazardous adventures. Unfortunately, however, they’ll be wrong if they think so, for the real pioneering will have been long since completed when they board the speedy aircraft that will link the Occident with the Orient. In fact, there will be no hazardous elements whatsoever attached to their venture—the real pioneers have seen to it that the line offers the maximum of security.

“Still, we might satisfy the ego of the initial passenger by making a concession. We might, with a stretch of the imagination, term him an armchair adventurer. And when we say “armchair adventurer,” we mean just that. For as the huge China Clipper streaks across the Pacific skies, our friend will be slouched comfortably in an upholstered chair, tilted so that the maximum restfulness is assured. From this point of vantage, he can gaze out of the windows at toy objects thousands of feet below—ships. Or he can read his favorite magazine or book, play a hand of bridge, write a letter, doze off for a nap, or . . . . oh, well, he can do any one of a dozen pleasant things. Be assured that Pan-American has it all figured out.

And our hero doesn’t have to worry about navigation, radio communication, gas consumption, engine control, wind velocity, or any other of the hundred and one things which are checked constantly. There is a first-rate pilot, co-pilot, and radio operator in the control cabin attending to all of these things for him. And those men are the finest of their profession in the world. They have seen years of experience on the extensive routes of Pan-American in the Caribbean and in Latin and South America. They have intensive schooling in flight and theory behind them.

But there are other and more important elements which enter into the picture. The officials of Pan-American didn’t decide overnight to establish a transpacific air route. It is much more involved than that. As far back as early 1931, the project was outlined and experimentation launched. Juan Trippe, president of Pan-American Airways; Andre Priester, the line’s chief engineer, and Colonel Charles A. Lindbergh together conceived the idea of the Pacific run and directed the actual work. There were many angles to be considered—route, type of ship, fueling bases, servicing stations, ad infinitum. By the merest chance, the islands which were the most logical stepping stones for such a flight are in the possession of the United States.

And so the work of fitting out the island stations was started. On March 27, 1934, the steamer North Haven steamed out from the Golden Gate with enough equipment on board to establish five air bases—and the bases were built and in running order in four months’ time. One of the islands—Wake—heretofore has been devoid of human life. Radio and power equipment as well as food and knock-down houses had to be transported and set up. But the work progressed step by step, with the result that in a few months’ time a complete island air depot existed on a speck of rock and coral which had never before supported human beings.

At the same time that the route was being studied and laid out, the problem of the type of ship to fly over it was being considered. A large part of the Pan-American equipment consists of Sikorskys and it was logical that a new Sikorsky be built for the Pacific route. About a year ago the S-42 was completed and given her trial runs over the already established Caribbean routes. When it was decided that the new ship possessed the requirements for a trans-Pacifie run, it was brought to the West Coast and on April 15 a crew headed by Captain Edwin C. Musick took her off the water at San Francisco and headed her for Honolulu, 2,400 miles away. Several test flights over the Pacific were made in the new Sikorsky, and so thorough had been the planning and laboratory work that even these first trips were accomplished exactly according to schedule.

But when regular mail and passenger flights commence, a ship other than the Sikorsky will be put into service. Early in October, Pan-American accepted delivery from the Glen L. Martin Co. of the largest flying boat ever to be built in this country. The ship has been christened the China Clipper and it is this new huge, four-motored flying boat that’will see service on the new route.

AND so it can be seen that if our friend lounging in a comfortable armchair tilted back at the angle which most serves his convenience and gazing out of the windows of the streaking China Clipper has any fears, they are only imaginary. But very likely he will still insist that what he is doing parallels the feats of the pioneers in the early 1800’s. And that’s okay with us and probably with the officials of Pan-American, too.

The real story of the trans-Pacific conquest, to our way of thinking, centers upon the formidable work accomplished in laying the foundations of the line. The real heroes are the squads of men who struggled in the face of many hardships to construct the island stations in order that those who now fly the long route may enjoy the securities and conveniences which are one with modern transportation.

Flying Aces, February 1936 by C.B. Mayshark
Pan American Spans the Pacific: Thrilling Story Behind This Month’s Cover

“HAW-W-W-W-W!” That sound can only mean one thing—that Bachelor of Artifice, Knight of Calamity and an alumnus of Doctor Merlin’s Camelot College for Conjurors is back to vex not only the Germans, but the Americans—the Ninth Pursuit Squadron in particular—as well. Yes it’s the marvel from Boonetown, Iowa himself—Lieutenant Phineas Pinkham!

The Jerries thought themselves lucky, when Lieutenant Phineas “Carbuncle” Pinkham crashed within their lines. But that was before they were acquainted with this ace of practical jokers. Poor Fritz!

• Download “Rock-a-Bye Jerry” (June 1931, Flying Aces)

THIS May we are once again celebrating the genius that is C.B. Mayshark! Mayshark took over the covers duties on Flying Aces from Paul Bissell with the December 1934 issue and would continue to provide covers for the next year and a half until the June 1936 issue. While Bissell’s covers were frequently depictions of great moments in combat aviation from the Great War, Mayshark’s covers were often depictions of future aviation battles and planes, like January 1936’s thrilling story behind its cover portrays one of the means by which military action might be applied against Italy, whom the League regards as the aggressor in the Italo-Ethiopian conflict by the other League of Nation members!

Legions of the League

FOR the first time since the inception of the League of Nations, members of that international body have combined in an effort to restrain a member State from pursuing a “war of aggression.” The invocation of the Covenant’s dreaded Article XVI sets a decided precedent, and those peace-loving inhabitants of the earth who place their faith in the League are proud of the fact that at last a united exertion of power has been mobilized in opposition to conquest by the force of arms. The League Covenant states that a member may not go to war, either officially or unofficially, against another member for the purpose of annexing territory. If an act of war is committed in defiance of the Covenant, the other members have the right to punish the offending nation with a view to ending hostilities. If economic and financial sanctions fail to provoke an attitude of cooperation on the part of the aggressor, then the only course open for the League is the application of force. In other words, the League may declare a war to end a war.

This month we have portrayed on our cover one of the means by which military action might be applied against Italy, whom the League regards as the aggressor in the Italo-Ethiopian conflict. The ominous shadow of the powerful air forces of the three leading members of the League—England, France, and Russia—might prove in itself to be a threat of sufficient force to curb Italy. On the other hand, it might not.

Italy is rightly a proud nation. More than once in the course of her colorful history she has been the most powerful nation on the face of the earth, and the Twentieth Century finds her among the world’s first rank powers. However, the consensus is that Italy cannot afford to resist such military sanctions as Britain, France, and Russia could array against her.

Thus far, Italy has turned a deaf ear to the dangers of economic and financial sanctions. As this is written, the League has just applied boycotts on Italian exports and has barred the import of key products. This drastic move is designed to cut Rome’s vital sales by 70 per cent, thereby putting millions of Italians out of work. Common sense tells us that if this move is effective, Italian resources will be strained to the limit if Rome intends to continue the African war. However, the likelihood of her immediately withdrawing her troops seems remote, however effective the League boycott may prove to be. It is with alarm, therefore, that we view the future if present sanctions fail to force peace. As has been said, the only recourse is the application of armed force—unless the League backs out.

If an actual conflict between Italy and the League members comes to pass, it is difficult to say whether it would take place on the Continent, in Africa, in the Mediterranean, or all three. The present concentration of Italian troops in Libya forces us to imagine a bloody slaughter on the rolling sands of north Africa. On the other hand, Italy’s fortification of her own borders is stronger than ever.

But wherever the struggle takes place, the fearful hum of League planes over the boot of Italy would be inevitable—providing such a fracas actually begins. And that is the picture that the League will attempt to force on the minds of those it blames for the continuance of current hostilities in Africa. For it is only with the realization of such opposition that Italy will retreat.

Of course it is ridiculous to suppose that a gigantic League air force would advance on Italy and bomb a helpless civil population. Only points of military importance would be marked for annihilation, but, as in all conflicts, the invading force would not be held responsible for damage done to civil property. And in the end, of course, the civil population always suffers the most.

Air raid drills for the protection of the populace are already being held in Italy. By posters, apparatus, and demonstration, the people will be taught how to face gas attacks from the air. Undoubtedly, this is throwing a scare into the entire Italian population, but the people are being assured that there is no chance of anyone finding a new gas against which they cannot be protected. That, however, must be taken with a grain of salt.

But all of this may not come to pass. The desperate peace overtures now being pushed by the League may be successful, with the result that the general mobilization moves now in progress all over Europe will come to a halt. Yet the tension that exists as this is written is greater than at any time since 1914. Each government involved in present negotiations hardly desires to retreat or give quarter for fear of losing international prestige. And prestige is something that is coveted by every country. But a way out may be found. If a treaty contains provisions for Italian expansion, very likely peace will ensue.

A parting word concerning the attitude of our own country, the United States: An arms embargo is now in effect and provisions are being made to halt the export of key implements and products to the belligerents. It is obvious that our nation does not want war. The likelihood of our remaining free of the conflict is possible only if we show a disposition to steer clear of the brief and dangerous profits that invariably ensue from an armed contest. It appears that we are taking adequate measures to prevent menacing foreign entanglements.

THE three planes on our cover are symbolic of the air forces the League might call into action. The British ship is a Handley-Page “Heyford” night bomber equipped with two Rolls Royce “Kestrel” engines. It is a single-bay biplane with dihedral on both wings. Automatic slots are fitted to the upper wing, giving lateral control and added stability. Three gun positions are provided, being so placed that the gunners are afforded excellent arcs of fire.

The French ship is a new style Breguet bomber and is touted as “the fastest bomber in the world.” It has only recently been adopted by the French Army, hence no details on the ship are available.

The Russian ship is an Ossaviachim Air 7. It is a low-wing monoplane and is classed as an attack ship. Figures on the performance of this plane are likewise unavailable.

Flying Aces, January 1936 by C.B. Mayshark
Legions of the League: Thrilling Story Behind This Month’s Cover