Like Father Like Son - Parts One to Five

It took all of Phillip’s strength to pull the plummeting ‘Biff’ out of its hurtling descent. A glance at the airspeed indicator showed him that they had touched 200 miles per hour. Phillip closed the throttle and the roar of the engine subsided. The controls were unbelievably heavy and the airframe seemed to groan in protest as he hauled the stick back into the pit of his stomach. It seemed like an age before they had sloughed off sufficient speed for the plane to respond. The nose came up with agonising slowness and at last the shrieking of the wires began to diminish. Some of the weight came off the stick and they levelled out, the speed dropping away. Phillip looked back at Henry. He was still crouched over his guns, white-faced but watchful. 

They crossed the British lines at 4,000 feet, dodging between the sheltering banks of cloud. Phillip took the opportunity to do a visual check on the damage. The starboard wings were riddled with bullet holes. Patches of fabric had stripped away leaving the wooden ribs exposed. There were holes, too, in the fabric of the fuselage behind Henry’s position. Phillip thanked their stars that the engine had not been hit. The Rolls Royce Falcon was running sweetly. Apart from the stiffness of the ailerons, the plane seemed to be reasonably all right. Even so, he was mightily relieved when the familiar shape of Bellevue came into sight in the patchwork of green below them. He fired a flare to indicate they were damaged and eased the Bristol down onto the sweet grass.

Phillip cut the engine and sat for a few moments in the cockpit feeling utterly drained. The other survivor had already landed so the squadron already knew the bad news. He hauled himself out of the aircraft like a bent old man. Henry waited anxiously for him to dismount.

“Are you all right, old man?”

Phillip nodded. His mind had gone blank. He tried to think of something to say to his young observer, something that might ease the pain of what had happened, but no words came. The squadron commander and the adjutant were beside them, worried faces hovered in Phillip’s vision. He waved a hand, a gesture of desolation. Pushing back his goggles, he rubbed his eyes like a man who hasn’t slept for days. Henry gawped at him, concern and bewilderment chasing each other across his freckled face. Suddenly, the rage and frustration flared in Phillip once more.

“Like fucking sitting ducks!”

He glared around him, seeing the faces recoil in shock at his vehemence.

“We were like fucking sitting ducks up there. Flying around in a nice little circle, made it even easier for them, didn’t it? But they couldn’t fucking well hit us when I actually flew the bloody thing, could they, Henry?” 

“How did you get away, Phillip? Andrew Cavanaugh says you were surrounded by Huns when he had to head for home.”

Phillip laughed, a bitter, savage sound. 

“Gravity! I put the kite into a steep dive and headed for the clouds. Do you know, we touched two hundred on the ASI before we pulled out?”

“Impossible! You’d have pulled the wings off!”

“No. Not impossible. That’s the whole point! The ‘Biff’ is as strong as they come. You can really fly this plane.”

Henry supported him, his eyes huge in his youthful face.

“Phillip certainly chucked it about up there, sir. And I reckon we hit at least one of them with the Vickers. Only four chased us down, the other headed for Hunland.”

The squadron commander exchanged glances with the adjutant.

“You were out before, weren’t you, Phillip?”

“Yes sir, I was, as an observer last year.”

“And you used the ‘Lufberry’ then?”

“We did, sir, we didn’t have a choice. But it stopped being effective when the Albatros first appeared. They get high and dive on you, sir. Two or three come at you at once and then the others follow up as they zoom away. They divide the defences and pick you off one at a time. The only hope we’ve got, sir, is to use what the ‘Biff’ can do. It can fly like a Scout, sir. It isn’t weak at all. I would never have got away with what I did in most kites.”

“Andrew said it was Jasta 11, that bloody man Richthofen.”

“I suppose so. One of them was painted all red and the others all had some red on their machines. Anyway, the red plane got two of us and the others got another two, including the Captain.”

“You’re quite sure they all went down?”

“Sorry, sir, but yes. No doubt at all, I’m afraid.”

“That’s what Andrew said. Bloody business, Phillip.”

“You can say that again!”

Four replacement crews arrived two days later. Another two Bristols were lost, again trying to fight in the ‘Lufberry Circle.’ Phillip raged and seethed that they were still so reluctant to trust the aircraft. His own machine was repaired and he and Henry were sent out on a ‘contact patrol’ on the 9th, the first day of the Arras offensive. Flying low over Vimy Ridge, they were attacked by two Rolands. Phillip flew like a man possessed, throwing the ‘Biff’ around like he had once flown the Sopwith ‘Pup’ at Gosport. They drove down one German out of control and the other fled, trailing smoke from a damaged engine. That was Phillip’s first victory as a pilot. 

Day after day, the skies over the front were filled with aircraft. The RFC suffered horribly. The outdated BEs and FEs, that still made up the majority of the aircraft at their disposal, were no match for the Albatros DIII. Another Squadron of Bristol Fighters arrived at the front. They, too, learned the hard way. Flying the ‘Biff’ like any other two-seater was to surrender the advantage to the enemy. Gradually, other pilots started to follow Phillip’s lead. When flown aggressively, the Bristol was a match for any Hun. The observer’s Lewis guns could protect the tail while the forward firing Vickers could be used to take the fight to the enemy. Phillip shot down a second German, an Albatros this time, and Henry claimed a share of the destruction of another. A Canadian ‘Biff’ pilot on 11 Squadron shot down three enemy planes in a single patrol. The High Command, which had been on the point of withdrawing the BF2 as unsuitable, started to take notice. 

48 Squadron’s morale, so severely dented after that first disastrous patrol, recovered quickly once the new tactics were approved. The losses slowed rapidly and the ‘Biffs’ were soon giving better than they got. Confidence in the strength of the machine replaced the previous doubts. It was soon apparent that the Bristol could take a lot of punishment and still get you home. Elsewhere, however, the carnage continued. Manfred von Richthofen alone was to shoot down thirty British planes during April 1917; the majority of these were the elderly types, totally outmatched by the Albatros Fighters. The RFC hung on grimly. As always, it was the inexperienced pilots and crews that suffered the heaviest casualties. Life expectation for an RFC pilot was a paltry nine days during that bloody month. 

April 23rd 1917

It was four o’clock in the afternoon when the telephone call came from 4th Army Head Quarters. An urgent reconnaissance was needed; the advance had stalled near Quincy. Phillip had already flown two patrols that day. He was desperately tired and his head ached abominably from the accumulated strain. When the adjutant called him and asked him to undertake yet another mission, he groaned inwardly.

“Terribly sorry, old chap. ‘B’ Flight have been told off for an evening patrol and yours is the only ‘A’ Flight machine ready to go. Go and round-up young Henry and get back here pronto, there’s a good chap. HQ are in a bit of a flap.”

Phillip and Henry climbed wearily into their plane. The adjutant’s briefing had been short and to the point:

“Get over there, have a look-see at what’s holding them up and get back here sharpish.” 

They made their way northeast, pushed along by a stiff westerly wind. For this patrol, they were carrying a dozen twenty-pound Cooper bombs in racks under the lower wings. Once over the target area, the reason for the delay became obvious. A German strongpoint, heavily armed with machine guns, had succeeded in enfilading the British advance. The Machine gunners were able to sweep the open ground with deadly effect and Phillip could make out the all too familiar ragged khaki bundles that bore witness to the failed attack. He wished that his aircraft was equipped with a radio so he could call up an artillery strike on the Hun defences. As this wasn’t possible, he decided to attack the strongpoint with the Cooper bombs and machine gun fire.

Phillip dived the plane towards the German position. He levelled out a scant hundred feet over the battlefield and began to rake the strongpoint with the Vickers. When he judged they were about fifty yards short of the target, he pulled the bomb release wires and rippled off the Coopers just as he pulled back on the stick to send the ‘Biff’ into a climbing turn. Henry opened up with the Lewis guns as they climbed away, watching for the flashes of the bombs as he did so. Only two out of the twelve bombs actually struck the German position, the remainder falling short of the target. He shouted this information to Phillip who promptly decided on one more pass before returning to base.

This time the Germans were ready for them. As he turned back towards the German lines, a storm of anti-aircraft fire burst in the air ahead of them. The big Bristol was thrown about like a leaf in a gale. Shrapnel peppered the machine from nose to tail. Henry thought he heard Phillip cry out and the plane lurched alarmingly for a second, one wing dropping low. Then it was back under control. Phillip became aware of a warm feeling and glanced down to see the front of his flying coat turning black with his own blood. He was taken completely by surprise, he had not been aware of being hit. He tentatively felt under his coat with one hand. He appeared to have been wounded in the left side, just above the hip. Nothing serious, he thought. He pulled the scarf from round his neck and pushed it under his coat against the wound. There was no pain yet but he knew that would come later.

He dived once more towards the Hun position, firing a long burst from the Vickers towards the huddled grey figures below. Once more the plane was seized by a giant hand and flung on its side as another ‘archie’ shell burst directly beneath it. This time Phillip felt the shell fragments smash into his legs. Pain seared through his every fibre as he kicked the rudder to skid the machine left and right in an attempt to confuse the gunners. Henry, too, had been hit in the arm but he still managed to get off a final burst one-handed as the ‘Biff’ staggered away. 

Phillip’s world contracted to a dim hazy centre surrounded by a tunnel of black. There was a dream-like quality to the flight home. The ‘Biff’ seemed to be floating in a darkening sea, rocked gently by unseen waves. The field at Bellevue appeared as if at the bottom of a well. He felt peaceful as he angled down towards the landing ground. His arms were heavy and he had to concentrate hard to keep his eyes open. The urge to dip into sleep was almost overpowering. He tried to push the rudder bar but his feet would not obey him. His eyelids drooped. The big plane skidded in its final turn. The watchers on the ground knew instantly that the pilot was wounded. The ‘Biff ‘ was crabbing sideways, undulating slightly as Phillip tried to line up the landing strip. They landed heavily, rounding out about six feet too high and simply dropping to the earth as the plane lost flying speed. It bounced twice before the undercarriage collapsed. The wooden propeller snapped off with an audible crack and the plain lurched to a halt.

They lifted him gently from the wreck. A Crossley tender drove up and they loaded him aboard. Henry, ashen faced from his own wound, made his report. The tender drove slowly, torn between the need for speed and the comfort of the wounded pilot. Another tender dragged the wrecked Bristol out of the main landing area. All the while Phillip slipped in and out of consciousness. Once he tried to rise, consumed by the need to see the adjutant. They hushed him, pushing him gently back onto the stretcher. The Medical Officer met them as they lifted Phillip down. He cut away the leather coat and fug boots. The doctor worked quickly, methodically, ignoring the anxious faces gathered around. His priority was to stop the bleeding from the severed femoral artery. He applied pressure and then a tourniquet. The other wounds could wait.

They took Phillip to the Casualty Clearing Station behind Arras. He was seldom conscious during the journey. He woke briefly in a tented hospital and was surprised to see the worried face of Peter Riley gazing down at him. He opened his mouth to speak but slipped from consciousness before he could frame the question. Peter had been brought to the hospital for treatment on a broken wrist sustained when his DH4 had collided with some trees on take off. He had been lucky, the pilot had broken his neck in the resulting crash. 

Phillip woke in the night. It was dark outside and the dim light of paraffin lamps gave a soft illumination to the hospital tent. Peter still sat beside his cot. One arm was in a sling. He looked drained and exhausted. Phillip’s mind was all clarity. He knew with absolute certainty that he was dying. There was no pain, simply a vague feeling of being cold but even this was remote, distant from him. Peter was trying to smile but it looked remarkably like there were tears in his eyes.

“Peter?”

“Don’t try to talk, old chap, save your strength.”

“No Peter, this is important. I’m dying, Peter. No. Don’t try to kid me. I can feel it. It isn’t at all bad, you know.”

He lapsed into silence, seeming to drift for a while. When he spoke again his voice was weaker. 

“I want you to do something for me. Please make sure they take me home. I want to be buried in Dorset. Bethan will know the place, tell her.”

“Anything you want, Phillip, you know I will do it.”

“And Peter?”

“Yes, Phillip?”

“Take care of Bethan and the baby for me. It would mean so much to know that they’re in good hands.”

“Of course, old man. But don’t worry. You’ll be able to do it yourself in no time. You’ll see.”

“Sorry, won’t…”

Phillip’s head slipped back to one side. His eyes closed and a tranquil calm settled on his features. He thought he heard someone sobbing as he quietly slipped away.

November 11, 1919

Peter and Bethan stood on the bare hilltop. A recent gale had blasted the remaining leaves from the trees in the wood below them. In front of them was a rectangle of amber marble; the gold lettering stood out brightly:

Lieutenant Phillip Worrell Welford-Barnes MC, RFC. 

The church clock struck eleven and eleven times the bell tolled. The haunting notes of the ‘Last Post’ drifted upwards in the still, crisp air. Down in the village, traffic came to a halt. A driver climbed from the cab of his lorry and stood in mute tribute in the street. Peter reached out a hand and took Bethan’s, squeezing it gently. She didn’t look at him but gave an acknowledging squeeze of her own. The silence stretched out, a thing of poignant sorrow, touched with pride. Next to Bethan, Beatrice Welford-Barnes wept quietly, her one-year-old grandson cradled against her bosom. William stood beside her, back straight, head bowed. The tension in his posture spoke of barely suppressed emotion. The silence lasted for eternity. 

Down by the new War Memorial, where too many names were lovingly carved, the bugler blew ‘Reveille.’ The silence ended. People drifted back to their work, slowly, unwilling to let go of the moment on that, the first Remembrance Day.

To be continued…