Richmond Mayson left us quite a legacy.
In the course of researching the aviation history of the Canadian province of Saskatchewan, I recently found in the provincial archives a file on the life of Mayson, an early aviation entrepreneur here. Among the items in it is a 15-page typed account of his time with the Royal Air Force's 74 Squadron as a pilot late in the First World War. References in this narrative suggest he joined it around September of 1918.
Mayson emigrated to Canada at some point in the 1920s and worked in insurance in Saskatoon. When an aero club there was created in the late 1920s, he was an early and enthusiastic member, serving as a flying instructor. In the early 1930s, he and a friend, Angus Campbell, set up a small flying service called M&C Aviation. It did barnstorming, sightseeing and charter flying.
Around 1934, Mayson and Campbell realized that mining exploration businesses had a need for air transportation into the Canadian north, so they moved their firm about 150 km northeast to the small city of Prince Albert, Saskatchewan, from which they began flying charter and, later, scheduled flights. Their firm did well and during the Second World War operated a subsidiary that overhauled training aircraft used by the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan, the Canadian branch of the Empire Air Training Scheme.
Campbell died of natural causes during the Second World War, but Mayson retained ownership of their company until 1947, when he agreed to sell it to the provincial government of Saskatchewan, which wanted to “mate” M&C Aviation with its own small fleet of aircraft in order to develop the remote and sparsely populated northern half of the province.
Saskatchewan Government Airways, as the new Crown corporation was called, lasted until 1966 when it was privatized and renamed Norcanair. Norcanair itself survived many adventures and around 1987 was acquired by Time Air, a subsidiary of Pacific Western Airlines -- but that is another story.
From 1947 onward, Mayson remained actively in the community and seems to have had a fascination with local history as he recorded many other aspects of history in his part of the province, including his civilian flying.
Here's his memoir of flying during the First World War:
On my arrival at 74 Squadron, in 1918, I was met by the adjutant, who introduced me to the CO, Major Caldwell. Then I had to go through the introduction of about 15 pilots of the squadron.
To my great joy, I found two who were at one of the same aerodromes in England as myself, so I was sure of being with friends. The reception they gave me was very good, really. I began to feel rather embarrassed and wonder if I was some crack pilot or a new commander-in-chief.
All the introductions over, I joined with them in dinner. When this was over, we all trouped into the anteroom, where I was initiated into the intricacies of a social evening, which was really a musical evening, and much the same as we had every evening. It was the only way to keep one’s spirits up after a hard day’s fighting in the air.
Anyone wishing to be rude might say it sounded like a house of hooligans, or sound as though the war was over. But really, it was not so. Our pianist would sit down before the piano or be forced there very quickly by half-a-dozen big and honourable men of the Royal Air Force (thank you for the compliment.)
Then would begin a most wonderful assortment of song, starting off with “There’s an Old-Fashioned House” and going on to “Me and My Gal”, then “Dixie” and back again to a sentimental songs like “Perfect Day”. Everyone would stand around singing or shouting at the top of their voices, trying to make more row than the next one. At first, I did think they were a bit mad, but soon I joined in, trying to make a much noise as any. I think I succeeded too.
Sometimes, two or three would get sticks, and each a tin can, then there was a noise of the rowdiest kind, every now and again one wishing to imitate a drum would give a hard kick against the piano or wooden wall, and all but send his feet through it.
This would go on for a while, then they would drop out, one by one, some going to bed, others to read for a while before retiring, then someone might put a record on – of which we had a good selection – on the gramophone.
I was then told some more-hair-raising stories of wonderful fights some pilots of the squadron had had. They were told with more-or-less exaggeration, so I had to use my own discretion in believing them.
Some things I was told were without a doubt quite true and showed that 74 Squadron did hold a good record and had some very remarkable achievements to its credit.
It had got as many as 50 Huns down without a single casualty. Again, it had three very magnificent pilots on its strength -- men of whom you will all have read about in the daily papers.
Major Mannock was one of the flight leaders and had got over 80 Hun machines down before he was shot down himself in flames -- most unluckily, by a shot from some infantrymen on the ground. He had fought in well over a hundred fights. He had always said that no Hun pilot could shoot him down, but that he would be shot down from the ground, and so he was. He gained many honours and awards before meeting his end.
Another pilot, Captain Jones, shot down about 40 Huns. He also was the recipient of many honors and awards.
The third pilot is Captain Carlin. You perhaps have read in the papers a few weeks ago of a one-legged airman being awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross. This was he. He had a wonderful nerve. Though he had a wooden leg and was rather handicapped in piloting his machine, he proved too good for many a Hun whom he shot down. Finally, he was shot down himself only the night before I arrived at the squadron. In fact, I had been sent to replace him. Later, we heard he was a prisoner of war and well.
Our major was a wonderful pilot too and had many Huns to his credit. He held the MC and DFC and later received a bar to his DFC.
There were many days on which we could not fly, perhaps on account of rain or, again, the winds might be too strong -- so strong as to prevent us from going up. The clouds, being very low or a thick mist, were also our enemies, preventing us flying.
On these days, there being nothing to do, we might eat and sleep, but some energetic person would suggest a game of football. The officers play the men one day, and the next day the men play the officers. Owing to my game leg, I only tried to play once.
Again, we have the option of getting a party together and going to see sights of war as seen from the ground. Others may go into the nearest town, probably for their monthly bath, whether they needed it or not, or perhaps for a haircut. Some lazy person might prefer to go to his bed and sleep.
Though we have lots of time to ourselves, we did not let it hang heavily on us. The little pups we had were always a source of merriment to us. Put them on the floor together and they would be sure to start fighting, only in a playful mood. We would watch them, every moment shouting out advice of which they took no notice. One was a very artful little puppy; he would lay down as though dead, then when the other was not looking, up he would jump and spring on his opponent.
Every little incident like this was good for us. It helped to divert our minds from our work, which was both trying and dangerous.
Should a pilot be lucky and manage to live through his many flights for six months, he is sent home to do light duty. In almost every case, by six months they are fully run down and are nothing but a bundle of nerves, which they show in many ways. Captain Jones, whom I mentioned, was sent home after six months; he used to walk about the aerodrome in his sleep, chasing imaginary Huns.
Though our work is hard at times, we get our days of relaxation that I’ve told you of. These are always looked forward.
Getting up in the morning, the first thing to do is to go and look at the sky, to see what the weather is like. Should it prove such as to prevent flying, we remark with a jubilant air, “What a lovely day! What perfect weather!” Should it, however, be a fine day with a clear sky, then we jokingly remark, “What an awful day, never seen such awful weather.”
Such are the times I’ve been having with the famous 74 Squadron.
My first flying trip to the line
One fine day, the CEO suggested he would go with myself and another new pilot and show us the line, or roughly give us an idea of where it was. The CO was leading the way in his machine with red streamers flying, and we two were to follow him, flying about 30 yards behind, each a little to one side of him. Before starting out, we were shown on a map a number of prominent objects that we were to notice. The CO would point to each in turn as we passed over them. We started from La Lovie, about 2 miles north of Poperinge -- an aerodrome we have occupied only two days ago to be nearer the line.
We first flew over Poperinge, a place where there was very little movement, its four churches showing up amongst all the other wreckage like haunted buildings.
From here, we flew east to Ypres, keeping about 2,000 feet high and just on our side of the line.
Ypres is a city of awful devastation. Its buildings are wrecked without exception, its streets are torn up, railways torn up and everything that can be destroyed has met that fate. The white bricks of the city can be seen for miles in all directions and is a good landmark for airmen.
A most wonderful view is given to anyone having the privilege of flying above this town. What makes it look more ghastly is the ground for miles in all directions being covered by millions of shell holes. The earth is terribly torn, hills blown away, leaving huge craters, every tree splintered and not a bit of green grass to relieve the monotony of miles of turned-up soil.
This trip is especially interesting because tomorrow the first of the big “pushes under the King of the Belgians is to take place. These attacks eventually will turn the Germans right away from Belgium.
I take particular notice of the ground the infantry will have to advance over. It will be terribly hard for them, no tanks are to be used because it is impossible for them to advance over such ground. Every one of the millions of holes is filled with water. Many poor fellows down there will meet their death tomorrow in trying to get across that ground.
These are my thoughts as we head over Ypres and turn north to Houlthurst Forest. A few miles away, we notice the flooded area of Belgium, covering many square miles of country. It has been a great help for the Belgians in the defence of the last little strip of country, that little corner of Belgium, that they have held onto for four years of war.
We turn here and fly back over wipers, passing Zillebeck Lake on our left and Dickebush Lake on our right, landmarks that have proved of great assistance to airmen in finding their way about this part of the country. Continuing our flight south, we pass by Mount Kemmel, a place of very much hard fighting. Messines Ridge is on our left as we continue farther south.
Passing over these places brings back memories of 1915. The ground I am flying over is well known to me. I can pick out many places I think of them now and then. Never did I think at that time as I saw them that, three years later, I would be doing the same. Many buildings that I had known three years ago and which were all right are now nothing but a bundle of wrecked wood and bricks.
Turning west, we fly to the Nieppe Forest -- another favorable landmark of the airmen. Then towards Bailluel we point our machines and as we fly over it, I think again of 1915, when it was full of civilians, shops open and doing good business, many happy homes and not much to worry about. But now it is the worst wrecked city I’ve seen after Ypres.
This is war; nothing but kill and destroy. Bailluel is the last of our objects to notice, so back we go to Poperinge and on to La Lovie aerodrome.
As we land, some mechanics run out and guide our machines in. “Have we seen any Huns?” they ask. No! We’ve just been having a look at the horrors caused by war.
A few thrills
About 3 o’clock on Saturday morning, the 28th September, 1918, I was awakened by a terrific din. I jumped out of bed, went outside and saw a wonderful spectacle. The big battle had begun and for miles in all directions the sky was lit up by flashes from thousands of guns, both large and small.
The sky was also lighted up by red rockets sent up by the Germans -- a signal for help.
At 5:30 a.m., the boys are to go over the top, but just before they do, the rain commences to come down in torrents. What a pity it should start just then. I learnt afterwards that the rain did not stop our infantry in any way whatever for they advanced eight miles in places before that day was finished. There was a great concentration of our aeroplanes in the morning. They did great havoc amongst the retreating foe, bombing and machine-gunning the enemy transports and infantrymen.
The heavy rain caused us to lose a number of our machines. Their propeller got broken beating against the rain, so were forced to land in the German lines.
I went up in the evening on my first active patrol. Two others and myself went up to protect our balloons from any enterprising Hun who wished to come over and force any of them down in flames. Every time I saw a machine, I was wishing it would be a Hun that we might have a fight. Unfortunately, the trip proved uneventful and we didn’t meet any enemy aircraft.
The next day, we did not go up until the evening, as the weather was very bad. It cleared up a little after tea, so up we went on an offensive patrol, taking two bombs each. However we were not up for long when a thick mist came over. It became very difficult to see each other, so the leader gave the disband signal and we all came home again.
A few days later, we had a very busy time. It was fine and clear, so the activity in the air became greater than it had been for some time. I went on three patrols this day, just short of two hours each patrol, so by night I was very tired indeed.
My first two patrols were along the line. Our work was to fly low over our troops to prevent Hun aeroplanes from machine-gunning them. No Huns just came over, so we must have frightened them away by our presence.
My third patrol, which was in the evening, was much more interesting than the others. A dozen of us went in one formation and carried two bombs each. We climbed steadily after leaving the aerodrome. We passed over Ypres and flew on east till we came to Courtrai. By then, we were about 12,000 feet high. Some trains were moving into the town as we arrived, so our leader flew over them and gave the signal to “Drop bombs!”
Down went my hand to a small lever on my right -- a pull and down fell my “two pills”. These “pills” that we carry each weigh 25 pounds. They are not to be taken with water, so we administer them to the Germans in the only way they can be digested.
From each machine, I can see two bombs dropped and go down, down. I cannot watch where they fall; the leader has turned so we have to pay our attention to the formation and keep our place.
The Germans think we ought not to be allowed to come and drop bombs and go away without returning the compliment in some form or another, so they immediately begin with their anti-aircraft guns -- this gun is nicknamed “Archie” -- Archie is a fairly good shot at times, but still we don’t pay much attention to him.
Of course, we must not fly straight on or he will get us, so the leader commences a number of turns. We do likewise. All the time, we must keep our place in the formation.
This is my first reception by “Archie”.
I hear a “Wonk!” above the roar of the engine. My heart almost leaps out my mouth. I look to my instruments, thinking something has gone wrong with my engine -- I also see visions of myself landing in Hun-land and having to spend the rest of my time during the war in a prisoner’s camp.
I look up and see a big puff of black smoke. I realize than that it was only our friend “Archie”. Thank goodness I can have my dinner tonight at our own aerodrome and not in Hunland. A few more “wonks “ and puffs of black smoke appear round about. They do no damage.
After flying for about 2 hours, looking for Huns and dodging Archie, we turn our machines west and in a long glide we go home. I feel quite pleased with myself having dropped two bombs.
Nothing occurred of importance during the next few days beyond moving back to our old aerodrome at Clair Mairia near St. Omer. The French want this one. They can have it with pleasure. It’s so small that every time we land, we almost run into the dyke on the other side. Sometimes, we have to take off quickly or run into the dyke and smash the machine up, perhaps ourselves too.
My next thrill occurred on October 9, though at the time it was actually happening I had no time to think of anything but what I was doing.
This was a fight with 5 Huns. By the way, this is my first fight and the first time I have seen any Hun machines. Our patrol of three machines left the ground at 8:20 a.m. Captain Smith was leading and following him was Lieutenant Bardgett and myself. (Perhaps you noticed in the Mid Cumberland Herald of about three weeks ago, a picture of Lieut. Bardgett, Royal Air Force, of Penrith, reported missing. It was from this flight that he was missing.)
Before leaving the ground, we were told there were lots of Huns flying along our front so prospects of a fight were good. We climbed steadily from leaving the aerodrome until we were above the line about Rouhlers. By then we were about 10,000 feet up.
Almost as soon as we arrived above Rouhlers, we noticed another of our formations diving on five Fokker biplanes -- they made an awful mess of it, as their formation got split up and the leader was shot down, but fortunately landed on our side of the line with nothing more than a severe shaking up.
Just as soon as our leader got into position, he dived down with Lieut. Bardgett and myself following him. Until one gets used to these fights and the sight of lots of other machines in the air, they have difficulty in recognizing the EA (enemy aircraft) from our own.
As we dived down, all I could make out were lots of machines doing various stunts around each other and machine gun bullets flying about. I saw Bardgett driving down, but did not watch him. I was too busy. This was the last seen of him. Most likely, he dived too far and the Hun turned and dived on him in turn and shot him down. He did not return and nothing has been seen or heard of him since.
Diving down into the fight, I saw one of our machines on the tail of a Fokker. I got my sights on to this Fokker as I was above. I shot, but missed. Then I saw another Hun going down to get away. He was doing a sort of half-spiral and half-spin to the right. He then flattened out. I did the same as he did and came to him head on.
Can you imagine two machines, each traveling at between 150 to 200 miles an hour and coming head on? And yet I never realized the danger of it. I don’t think he knew I was in front of him until I began to fire and bullets began to hit his machine. He then seemed to go out of control -- or did so purposely to get away.
By this time, which by the way had only been a few seconds, I was so very close to him and he was just a little higher than I was that had I tried to zoom I should surely have crashed into him. So I had to put my nose down and dive under him. Then I pulled up and looked around for him.
He was nowhere to be seen, so I can’t say if I shot him down or not. I may have done so or he may have gone down out of control purposely to get away.
Looking about, all I could see out of the 15 machines of the flight were two of ours, myself, and one lucky Hun. He tried to get behind me to shoot me down. I dived under our leader, who chased the Hun away. This Hun then dived east and went home as fast as he could.
Often, I wondered what I should feel like in my first fight, but now it had come I really had not had time to think of being afraid or of anything else but shooting that Hun in front of me down. After it was over, which had only been about three or four minutes, I felt thankful for being safe and quite thrilled that I’d been in a fight.
All during the fight, I’d had two bombs under my machine. Had a bullet hit one of these -- well, I guess that would be another chapter to write about. Not wishing to meet any more Huns while having these bombs on, I flew over Rhoulers, released the bombs and down they went.
Nothing further of importance happened until today, when a great deal happened. October 14th, another big attack took place in Flanders between Menin and Dixmude by the Belgians and the British 2nd Army. The southern part of the front attacked was the part we have to patrol from Lille north to Tourcoing, then on to Menin and Rhoulers.
We began our patrols at 6:35 a.m. -- we were to have three during the day -- the morning was very cold. One had difficulty to keep warm on the ground, so what will it be like by the time we get to 17,000 feet? I wish I was on low patrol today.
Two other pilots and myself are to fly at 17,500 feet on this first patrol to hinder or prevent any Huns diving on all our other machines, who are flying about 5,000 feet below and which are going to drop bombs before looking for guns.
After reaching 15,000 feet, I had great difficulty in keeping up with the other two owing to engine trouble. I kept climbing, but slower than the other two. I had to keep looking upwards to keep them in sight.
Soon, looking up again, what was my consternation not to see them anywhere. (I learned later these two had dived away after a Hun.)
I began to turn right, first one way and then another, looking for them, when to my surprise I saw two Huns diving towards me at a great speed. Before I noticed them, they had got within easy shooting distance. They got behind me too, the worst possible place I could have them. Had I been about two seconds later in noticing them, they would have got nicely into position behind me -- then with all their guns would have sent a long burst of bullets into my back. I would not have known I was hit. It would have happened so quickly -- you see, I came within two seconds of meeting my end that time.
I had to do something and do it very quickly. Almost before I had time to think, I gave a very quick turn and went down, engine full on, my speed well over 200 miles an hour. I should think about 250 was more like the speed.
Often, I had planned what to do in a case like this, so I put my plan into execution. I dived down and under our other machines that were below. At the same time as I was putting myself into safety, I expected these Huns to follow me. They did for a while, but then left me. They must have realized my intentions. Had they followed, they would have come right in front of our machines below, who could have concentrated about 20 guns on them and easily shot them down, though it did not succeed this time.
The same ruse succeeded later in the day when one Hun got shot down.
I’d only just got into formation behind our other machines when I saw a Hun coming down vertical from above. He was the one that my two friends up above had dived on. He might have been wounded and fainted and come to later, or he may have done this to get away.
However, he came down vertical for about 7,000 feet and then flattened out and flew east to his home. This one had no sooner disappeared than 10 others appeared on the scene. A nice little scrap followed, but only one fell, to the credit of our major. I couldn’t even get a shot in this time. A short while after, we returned to our aerodrome.
Our second patrol was uneventful. I dropped four bombs.
On our third patrol, we again saw much fighting. Again, we carried four bombs each in our formation. I was acting deputy leader. The leader led the patrol with two on his right and a little behind and two on his left, also a little behind, making a sort of V upside down. I followed directly behind the leader, only at the tail end of the formation.
While on our way over, we got heavily “Archied”. The gunners fired at the leader. By the time of the shell got within the vicinity of where the leader has been, the formation had moved on and I arrived with the leader had been, with the result I was in a very dangerous quarter. “Wonk -- wonk -- wonk” -- they were bursting all around, one finally exploding very near sent a piece of shell for my top plane, breaking one of the control wires. Luckily I was all right while I had lots of speed, but just as soon as I lost speed, the controls dropped down. Had that piece of shell been less than 2 inches forward, it would have broken one of the main spars and the wing would have crumpled up. Then down I’d have gone.
I kept on flying and when the leader gave the signal, I dropped my four bombs. No sooner had we dropped our bombs than 5 Huns appeared above, but above them we had 6 more machines about the Huns have not seen.
One Hun left his formation and flew in front of us. He wanted us to dive after him, thereby breaking up or formation so the Huns up above could single out any machine and shoot him down.
We did what they wanted us to do, so that they themselves would break up their formation and our 6 machines higher up could dive down and concentrate on them.
We were taking an awful risk doing this. I nearly came to grief myself, but it was worth the risk.
Always, the machine above will shoot down the one below before the lower one can get away, providing he is a good shot.
I followed our leader at about 200 miles an hour and dived on the single Hun. He got shot down, then we zoomed up and I saw the other Huns coming down on us.
I saw one coming for me. I had to do a half roll and dive down, again carrying out my little stunt of putting myself into safety and decoying the Hun. I went underneath one of our machines with this Hun after me. Our machine turned and shot him down before he could realize what had happened.
In the meantime, our 6 machines above were coming down to our aid. They shot one down, so out of those five, only two got away. The little trap they set for us was turned on themselves. Other Huns must have seen this scrap as 10 more appeared out of the sky. After one of them being shot down, they disappeared and nine more appeared on the scene just as our machines began to make for home, the two hours being almost up, so our machines couldn’t stop to fight then.
While we were fighting the last 10 machines, I chased one down almost to the ground, but he got away.
While I was down there, the German infantry began to fire on me, but succeeded only in putting one bullet through the tail. I then flew west to our lines, as it was unsafe for me to climb to our machines, which were about 8,000 feet higher up while over the German lines.
During the day, our squadron shut down 5 officially, three others shot down, could not be confirmed. However, it was a good day’s work.
During the day, we had done between five and six hours of flying, so by night we were dead tired, thoroughly worn out and ready for bed. This work is very nerve trying for the whole time you are up, your nerves are continually on edge. Looking for Huns and trying to avoid being surprised and, at the same time dodging “Archie “, I can now understand why an airman cannot last much more than 6 months out here.
A few incidents of our work
One morning, as we flew over the line, just after a battle had begun, I looked down to see something of the war. The scene I looked down at was very pretty. Along the whole front of attack -- which was about 20 miles -- I saw a huge cloud of smoke, snowy white, as though it might have been a mist. It must have been two or three miles broad. This had been put forward to cover the attack of our troops.
Nothing on the ground was to be seen but, here and there, the tops of trees showing above the smoke like many little islands scattered over a lake. From both sides of the smoke, one could see flashes of flame from the hundreds of guns hurling destruction to many. Shells could be seen exploding and a big black cloud would jump in the air.
Though it was a pretty sight, it must have been ghastly down below. I was thankful I was not down amongst it.
One particular day I remember began very misty, so we could not go up. Nothing could be seen a hundred yards away; the mist was only about 30 feet high. However, in the afternoon, it cleared up a bit. It went to a couple of thousand feet and hung about in patches.
Still, it was not good enough for a flight of machines to go on patrol. One or two might go and dodge around, so my flight commander came to me and suggested we should both go up and do a line patrol, which means flying along the line, forward and backwards, to stop Huns from crossing our line. Many a time, I had to fly within about 15 yards of him to keep him in view. We could not see another machine of any description anywhere, but after a while, a big German captive balloon popped its nose above and missed about 3 miles behind his front line and directly above Lille, so for a little while, we had some very interesting sport.
We began to stalk it, intending to get right up without being seen, then dive on it, fire a few rounds from our machine guns and see it go down in flames. Though we were not fortunate in getting near enough to shoot it down, we had some good fun stalking it.
From one cloud to another, we flew, going in a wide circle and trying to keep the balloon in view, but not to be seen ourselves. We had almost reached it when a thick mist came over and nothing could be seen even 10 yards ahead. I turned and flew back and saw the other machine had done the same. That balloon was lucky; the mist came in time to save it.
Another day, three of us were doing a similar patrol and almost at the same spot, we saw another balloon. We did not go after it as we saw a Dolphin machine (that’s an English machine) trying the same ruse as we tried, stalking it. He was more successful; he got right above the balloon in the clouds, then dropped out like a stone, firing his gun as he dropped. Down went the balloon in flames -- reporting next day’s paper – “One enemy balloon shot down”.
Do you ever realize what the word “missing “ means? We read in the papers each day of probably 6 or 8 flying officers “missing”. A story could be written of every one of these cases. I’ll tell you briefly of what happened to some who were missing from our squadron.
Lt. Sanderson (a Canadian) I had trained with both at Stockbridge and Tanmere, I knew him very well. I was very sad to see him go. Always, he had hung back and not kept to the formation, falling probably 100 yards behind the rest.
This is just such a chance the Huns wait for. They fly above, mostly amongst the clouds, then when anybody lags behind, down they come on him. He is shot down before he realizes what has happened and they keep on diving, going east so we can’t catch them and won’t follow them.
They go right back to Hun aerodrome or miles back, then climb high and repeat the same performance one another opportunity occurs. So it was in Sanderson’s case. He lagged behind and then came the Huns behind him. He wouldn’t even know anything had happened, he went down in a spin. The last seen of him, it was said smoke was coming from his machine, which meant in a minute or two it would burst into flames and he would go down amongst this flaming mass. The one thing every airman, without exception, does fear is going down in flames.
My flight commander one day lost sight of me in a scrap. A machine went down in flames in front of him and he told me after that it made him feel very ill for the moment seeing this ghastly sight because he thought it was me.
Another officer -- Lt. Bond -- was reported missing “having failed to return from patrol”. Four of us were to go up early one morning. Owing to my machine not being in running order, I could not go; the other three did and they ran into 9 Fokker biplanes. They saw the enemy aircraft attacking some of our bombing planes, so down they went on them.
Three to nine was not very good, but they managed to shoot two down. They dived on the Huns, shooting all the while, then kept on diving and making for our lines. The Huns did not follow, neither did Bond. Instead of following the leader after shooting, he zoomed up again. That’s just what the Huns had done too; the last seen of him, he was dodging about in the center of a ring of Fokkers. It could not last long. He received a bullet in a vital place and went down in a spin to the ground and crashed.
Every time we go out, someone is detailed to dive down and fire on any enemy balloons seen. Lieut. Hagenbruck of the American Air Force was detailed this particular day.
He saw a balloon, so down he went in a steep dive. He dived too far and went underneath the balloon. Some Germans with machine guns on the ground got their sights on him as he passed under. He must have been hit. The last seen of him he was flying to our lines, but he never reached them.
Going into the mess one night, I was greeted with a shout -- “Why, you are reported missing!” It appears that three of us were to go on patrol that evening; again, my machine not being in good order, I did not go. The patrol leader and the other one did. As they approached the line, the one left behind the leader and went on his own. He did not get back until long after the leader, who reported him as not returning. He gave my name in as it was thought I was the one that went up, so my name was sent in as “Missing “. He forgot until next day to cancel with the report so you very nearly received the King’s telegram saying how sorry he was that I was missing.
We have to look on the bright side of things every time, so when I found out no telegram had been sent through, I thought it was a great joke. An amusing incident occurred one day. On coming back from patrol, one pilot jumped out of his machine.
“Oh! I’m wounded!”
We could see where the bullet had passed through his sleeve, apparently through his arm and out again out of his sleeve.
Very gently, his sleeve was rolled up so that the wound might be dressed. But when no wound could be found, he had felt the bullet but it only just touched him, not causing any wound at all.
A big howl with laughter went out. That pilot tried to hide himself for a day or two until the incident was forgotten.
This transcription of Mayson’s account of squadron life is as typed by Mayson, though edited to reflect modern spelling and grammatical practices.