Johnny spent some years in school in Geneva. He was the last to go to the USA. There, at 16, he started working in an office in New York and was very unhappy. When in 1914 the war broke out and then his mother died on November 22nd, of heart failure, while climbing the stairs of their top-floor Queens apartment, he decided to go back to England to enlist. Johnny had just turned 18; he left on the Lusitania from New York, working his passage as a waiter in order not to use up his precious savings. Fortunately this was the voyage before it was torpedoed and sunk; he arrived safely in England, by which time he was able to carry four loaded plates on one arm . Andrew arranged for him to be commissioned very promptly. Within a few months, still an immature eighteen year old, he was shipped to Belgium with his regiment, where he survived three years in the trenches before transferring to the Royal Flying corps. During this time he wrote to his father in New York and I shall let you read his letters.
My parents met because my father lost his dog on the top of the Khyber Pass in northern India in the 1920’s. The next people across the pass found the dog and got in touch with him after they found a LOST notice in the post office at Peshawar. Years later he married their niece.
At first Andrew and my father were in the infantry and artillery, both being awarded the Military Cross. Then the air force was developed and both volunteered for it and transferred, Andrew very early and John, after fighting in the Battle of the Somme, to The Royal Flying Corps.
Service experiences, 1914-1926 (as related by my father)
When war broke out in August 1914, I was living with my parents in New York. I was only seventeen at the time, and my Father would not, at first, let me return to England.
At the beginning of December, however, caught up in the wave of insanity that swept the world, I left on the Lusitania and landed at Liverpool on December 12th, having worked my passage from New York as a steward in the steerage of the Lusitania. This was the last trip from New York that she did before she was torpedoed.
I had no passport or paper of any kind to identify me, and I felt quite certain that I should be detained at Liverpool until my brother could vouch for me. As it happened I walked off the boat, bought a ticket to London, and got into the train. It is not surprising that some German spies managed to get into England, when this could be done four months after the commencement of the war.
Owing to my complete ignorance of military matters I was rather at a loss to know what to do. On December 24th, having failed to become an interpreter as the French had just taken over this work, and having tried unsuccessfully to obtain a commission in the A.S.C. (there were then 400 on the waiting list) I enlisted in the Honourable Artillery Company. For this privilege I paid two guineas.
That same afternoon, with the help of an introduction to a colonel in the War Office, I was promised a commission in the Royal Field Artillery, and was gazetted on December 30th.
As I could neither ride, nor shoot, nor do any of the things a soldier should be able to do, I went to the Horseguards barracks in Albany Street, and took riding lessons from a corporal rough riding master who taught me to stick on a horse in less than a week.
I joined my battery at Godalming on January 8th, 1915. It was equipped with old 15pdr guns, and belonged to one of the new Kitchener divisions, the 14th Light Division.
I was billeted on a retired colonel, whose family could not do enough for me. So from a rather ignorant boy I became, in one week, metamorphosed into an officer, owning two chargers, a groom and a batman. All our men and horses were billeted in the village.
Ten days after my arrival the whole divisional artillery was reviewed by Kitchener and the French War Minister Mr. Millerand. We had to march 10 miles in the snow and sat to attention for nearly two hours all of us soaking wet. When the reviewing officers arrived they passed us at 15 m.p.h. and we got lost on the way back to camp.
It is interesting to look back on that extraordinary experience, the creation of a citizen army. My experiences were, of course, shared by thousand of others, but even now, when I think of it, I cannot understand how we succeeded, and how an army gradually grew out of a chaotic mass of military ignoramuses.
Take my own case, for example. I was just eighteen and looked much younger. I had learnt to stick on a horse in a week, and yet, a few days later, I was in command of half a battery and I had to teach my men how to ride. As regards matters of pay and administration, not only did we not know anything about these things, but we could find nobody to instruct us. However in time everybody settled down to their work, and learnt by “trial and error”.
At the end of January, I spent ten days at Woolwich, attending a telephone course. We did nine days theoretical work, on magnets and electricity, and two hours practical work on telephones on the last day. We only studied from 1000 hours to 1200 hours, and from 1400 hours to 1600 hours.
Immediately after my return from Woolwich, I was sent to Shoeburyness for a month’s course in gunnery. Here I had Sergeant Nelson, V.C., as my instructor. He had just been commissioned, after winning his V.C. with “L” battery R.H.A. in France. One night, when we were out on practice night operations, and were supposed to be digging gun pits, Nelson came along to our group and kept us all enthralled, for several hours, talking to us about France, and the war that seemed so far away. Among our course of thirty officers, one came from Hong Kong, another from South America, and yet another from Durban.
I rejoined my battery at Aldershot, and was promptly posted to No. 2 Section of the Divisional Ammunition Column. This unit had only just been formed, and I commanded it for six weeks, with only the help of one regular N.C.O. I had 150 men, 30 horses, and about 113 mules. I say “about” because the number varied from day to day. Whenever we wished to get rid of a troublesome mule, and many of them were very difficult to manage, we would cut him loose and would quietly replace him during the night with a better one, taken from somebody else’s lines. There was also a good deal of harness “borrowed” from time to time. I used to pay my section each week by the simple process of drawing a cheque on the local bank, although my signature was never officially handed over. As for keeping a cash book, the idea never even entered my head.
In May we heard that the division was going to France and that the column was to be first. We all left barracks for Ash station at different times according to the train in which we were to travel. At the entrance to the camp we found our colonel and his adjutant stopping every wagon and heaving out large quantities of surplus corn, hay, surplus harness and quantities of officers’ kits. We were then told we were not going to France and were to go for a long route march. Meanwhile our colonel inspected our lines. Here he found among other things, two mules, one horse, and enough harness with which to equip a whole battery. The conference which all officers attended that evening was distinctly unpleasant.
We sailed for France on May 23rd, 1915. The Divisional Ammunition Column was one of five units that were to cross the Channel on that day. There were five boats at Southampton, and, as far as I can remember, the embarkation staff placed one fifth of each unit on each of the five boats. Chaos was the result. All the drivers were separated from their horses, which were placed in charge of the gunners. When we arrived at Le Havre, we were forced to draw a hundred wagon poles from the base stores, before we were able to move our heavily laden ammunition wagons. All the poles had either been placed in another ship, or had been left behind. After 24 hours in the rest camp at Le Havre we started to entrain at midnight. It took me over five hours to load thirty heavily laden G.S. waggons onto a French train. My C.O. tackled the horses and at five o’clock when we finally departed we had to leave two horses on the platform.
The whole Division was sent into the line at Dickebusch, south of Ypres. This was a quiet part of the front, to which new divisions were often sent, when they first arrived in France.
Our Artillery, whose officers had each observed the fall of only four shells, before they left England, learned to fire over the heads of their own infantry, often with unfortunate results.
At the beginning of June, my C.O. and I rode twenty miles at the crack of dawn to look at Ypres which was then still burning. Little did I suspect that we were, very shortly, to be in the “salient”, and that before I left this part of the world, I should know intimately every street in the town.
In June I was posted to the 48th Brigade Ammunition Column, in which I spent the next five months. Although casualties in the batteries were usually replaced from officers in the column, I was kept back for a long time, presumably on account of my age and inexperience. I much resented this at first, but as replacements were either killed or wounded with clockwork regularity, I learned to be more patient.
At first, each battery kept a Forward Observing Officer in the trenches with the infantry, but later these had to be cut down to one per brigade.
My unit was camped near Vlamertinghe and I was in command of the mule section. The remaining two sections had horses. In the Ypres salient, mules were more useful. They were easier to feed and did not require so much attention, and did better work in the Flanders mud.
Our “job” was to keep the four batteries supplied with ammunition, and occasionally to fetch a damaged gun and take it to railhead. We also used to send foraging parties into Ypres to bring back bricks for horse lines, chairs, pianos, chaff cutters, and anything else we could find. There was only one road from Poperinghe to Ypres. As seven divisions had to use this road, and it was quite straight for miles, it was often shelled. Ypres soon became congested with G.S wagons, and searching for material with which to make camps. This had to be stopped, and each division was allotted one day of the week, and units were only allowed to send up one wagon. Later the Royal Engineers built a new road, which was called High Street, and ran parallel to the other road.
The Army Service Corps were unable to provide enough food, either for the men or for the horses. We were allowed to purchase locally, so many pennies per man and per horse each day to buy vegetables and fodder. As I was able to speak French, I used to ride many miles out into the country and buy turnips, potatoes and clover from the farmers. In this way I often spent the whole day in the saddle, and then half the night taking up ammunition to the batteries.
On July 30th 1915 the enemy started his first liquid fire attack against our own infantry. We (the brigade ammunition column) heard about it at about six o’clock and were moved up to a place beyond Vlammertinghe. Our C.O. who was a faint-hearted individual promptly fell sick and went home where no doubt he was promoted to high rank. As I was crossing Poperinghe Square a shell fired by one of the German long-range naval guns passed over my head, hitting a house on the edge of the Square. I remember very distinctly ducking my head and remarking to myself that it was evidently necessary to learn this. I was rather obsessed with the fear of being afraid. For three days and three nights I trotted up and down the Poperinghe-Ypres road, at the head of sixteen limbered wagons, each drawn by a six horse team. Twice I went to sleep on my horse, and after it was all over, I slept, without a break, for sixteen hours, and felt quite fit again afterwards. Later on in the war, I several times went without sleep for over twenty fours hours. This was of course the experience of everybody who took part in the war, but we should remind ourselves occasionally that many things which cannot be done in peacetime are possible in war.
My next contact with real war was during the battle of Loos, on September 25th, 1915. My division was one of those detailed to carry out a diversion in the Ypres sector. This was a failure, owing to a shortage of shells. I took up some ammunition to one of the batteries about six o’clock in the morning. On my way back I passed the colonel at brigade headquarters, and he instructed me to hurry back, and send up as much ammunition as possible. I galloped back the eight or ten miles to camp, but when I arrived with my message I was told that there was no ammunition on our side of railhead, as General Plumer needed all the available supplies for the Loos front. All supplies at railhead were diverted to the Loos front at 0600 hours, and our divisional artillery received no ammunition until late that night. As a result, our infantry, who had attacked at dawn and captured three lines of enemy trenches, were unable to hold these, and were pushed back with very heavy casualties. The official history of the war states that “this diversion did not impress the enemy”.
( read my father’s ‘Letters from the trenches 1915)
In November I was transferred to a battery, B/48th Brigade. We lived in a ruined house, and slept in the cellar. Afterwards we moved several times. We were in the vicinity of Boesinghe, and covered the E29 sector, and had an observation Post in a hedge that we had made out of a sheet of corrugated iron and a few sandbags, which was in full view of the enemy trenches. The F.O.O. had therefore to arrive before dawn and leave after dark. This made the day very long and monotonous, especially as thanks to the shortage of ammunition, we were limited to firing three rounds per gun per day. The only excitement was the shelling, by the enemy, of Talana Farm, which used to take place with great regularity at twelve o’clock every day. This farm was only 500 yards behind our O.P.(observation post), but the firing was usually too inaccurate to worry us. Clouds of red brick dust would rise towards the sky. No doubt he used this as a reference point on which to calibrate his guns.
Later we had an O.P. in a house on the Boesinghe canal. We built a concrete dugout in the cellar, at night, without showing any light. Every bit of the cement had to be carried up to the house, across country, because machine gun bullets made all the roads unsafe. One felt more like a professional burglar than the amateur soldier which one really was. At one time “B” and “D” batteries occupied positions on opposite sides of a road. One day “D” battery was heavily shelled, whilst we stood on top of our dugouts and cheered. On another we ourselves we shelled, and I remember staying inside a dugout and being really terrified. I felt I ought to be outside the dugout doing something, goodness only knows what, but I could not screw up enough courage to go outside. On another occasion I was riding in Ypres one night in the direction of Lille Gate, where our Brigade Headquarters were. A shell burst in front of me on the cobble stones, filling the road with dust. From the noise the shell made I felt sure that the whole street had been blown up. I turned round and fled at the gallop. About half a mile further on I met a G.S. wagon being drawn by a pair of wheelers and mounted by one solitary driver, moving in the opposite direction to me. I felt ashamed of myself and turned round, but could not raise enough courage to do more than ride in line with the two other horses. It was not till we reached the original spot and that I saw that the road was still there, that I left the wagon. Such is the value of example!
In April 1916 the whole division was withdrawn from the “salient” and preparations were made for us to go to Egypt. Lord Kitchener had just returned from a visit to the Middle East, and this was the result. There was great joy everywhere, and we conjured up visions of sunshine, shirtsleeves and dry land, and I even bought a pair of saddle-bags.
Instead the division was sent down south, in order to take part in a “push” at Albert. We entrained at Cassel and arrived in Amiens at midnight just after it had been bombed. We were promised a month’s rest in the green fields near Amiens, but after three days in camp were sent up to Arras to take over some more of the line from the French. So twice in a week we were disappointed. The change of plans was due to the battle of Verdun.
My battery took over from a French battery, and my section moved up first. For three days we formed a composite battery of two 18pdr guns and two 75mm guns.
On the night of our arrival, the French officers gave us a fifteen-course dinner, cooked by their Parisian chef. When they left, three days later, we retaliated with steak and kidney pie, and suet pudding, but I do not think they appreciated our food.
The French had remained very quiet on this front, and even kept their officers’ chargers at the battery position. After a month, everything had changed; we always stirred up trouble wherever we went. It is a debatable point, whether our system was any better than that of the French. They lived and let live, until they meant business; we always asked for trouble and invariably found it.
In July 1916 we were told that we were to carry out a shoot with aeroplane observation. To our great annoyance, the target, which was selected for us, was at the extreme range to which an 18pdr gun could fire. Further, it could not be seen from our O.P. The nearest wireless mast was at Brigade Headquarters and so every message from the aeroplane had to be relayed to us by land line.
After much waiting, the order to fire was received, and after another long wait, we heard that we had hit the target. Three times the same result was obtained, in spite of the fact that, after each round had been fired, we purposely altered range and line. On the third O.K. being received, my battery commander refused to waste any more ammunition, and we all retired to the mess, convinced that aeroplane observation was a fraud!
(Addendum: Andrew later became one of the most distinguished Observation/Reconnaissance pilots in the war. He was credited for having discovered that planes could fly up and down the enemy lines and radio the information about where the shells were landing back to our own guns. Before what seems to us a perfectly obvious thought occurred to anyone, planes would fly over the enemy lines, observe where the shells were falling and then fly back to our lines to report. And then back again…Very inefficient)
Have you ever seen an accident take place in an apparently deserted spot, and seen people appear from nowhere? One day an aeroplane forced landed near our battery position. Within three minutes hundreds of soldiers were running towards it when suddenly “whiz-bang” along came an enemy shell. The spectators disappeared even more quickly than they had come, which was just as well, as the “Hun” hit the aeroplane with his fifth round and blew it up with his ninth; as neat a bit of shooting as I have ever seen.
It was whilst we were in this position that my personal troubles came to a head. I was, I suppose, quite an average example of a Kitchener officer. I had had no training, except for one month at Shoeburyness, and I did not know my job. I was also very young and, although very keen to do the right thing, did not know how to do it. I was always late on parade, and was a thoroughly unsatisfactory officer. Unfortunately nobody had the time in war to train bad officers. My C.O. finally got rid of me and sent me off to Trench Mortars. I mention this because I feel that it is a very good example of how necessary it is to give officers some minimum of training. This was of course realised later on in the war and all officers had to go through a cadet college, before being commissioned.
In July 1916 I was transferred to a trench mortar battery. There were three 60pdr batteries in the division, which were brigaded under a captain, and each was commanded by a subaltern.
Although most of the officers were gunners, the conditions under which we worked were similar to those of the infantry, since, when we were in action, we lived in the trenches.
I commanded a battery of four guns, and enjoyed having an independent unit of my own.
We were not popular with our infantry. Our bombs, which were called “toffee apples” were the size of a football, and had a steel “tail” which was inserted into the muzzle of the mortar, the bomb sitting outside. When we fired these into the enemy trenches, the tails would return to our trenches, making at the same time a horrible singing noise. We usually attracted retaliation on the part of the enemy.
The divisional artillery spent fifty five days on “the Somme”, and I once fought a battle, all alone in Delville Wood. I was supported by a battery of 6” Howitzers, but the infantry had all been cleared out of the wood first as we were supposed to attract too much enemy fire so I observed the fall of my bombs, in solitary state, from the front line.
This was two days before the tanks “went over the top” for the first time from this very wood. It is quite true that nobody among the rank and file knew anything about the tanks until the actual day on which they were used. Once again thousands of cavalry were massed behind our lines to await the expected breakthrough. What optimists we all were in those days!
After my little battle I packed up my guns, and started to walk back to Meaulte, which was about fifteen miles behind the line. At two o’clock in the morning I was picked up in Fricourt, by a Royal Flying Corps major, who, I discovered later, was Major T. W. C. Carthew, D. S. O. He had been visiting some of his batteries.
I was in the front line on August 24th when our artillery supported an attack made by the infantry of the 33rd division. I saw them go “over the top”, and was never so glad that I was not in the “P.B.I.”
I walked along a communication trench, a few minutes after it had been captured; all along it were our own men, stone dead, some standing, others sitting, and several lying in various positions on the ground. They all looked like waxworks in Madame Tussauds.
I was hit that day on my helmet, by a shell splinter. The force of the impact knocked me over and split the steel of my helmet but did not penetrate my forehead. My only feeling was one of intense anger, and a strong desire to lose my temper, but I certainly had a bad headache later on.
Three or four times during the Somme battle, I went over to Hennencourt, to visit my brother, who was a flight commander in No. 4 Squadron. He flew me several times and, as a result, I put in an application to transfer to the Royal Flying Corps. My application was turned down owing to the shortage of Gunnery officers, and we all went back to Arras to the coldest winter I have ever experienced. All the railways broke down in France in the winter 1916/17 and we lived for a fortnight on bully beef and biscuits.
(NB. One interesting point about my father’s account of his war experiences is that he does not mention being awarded the Military Cross, the second highest award for outstanding bravery after the Victoria Cross.
Temp. Sec. Lt. J.G. Walser, R.F.A.
For conspicuous gallantry during operations. When the wire from the observation post was destroyed, he made several attempts to mend it, and on failing to do so went through the hostile barrage of the trench mortar position and opened fire. It was due to his fine example that the fire was kept up during a heavy hostile bombardment. He has done other fine and gallant work.
Andrew was awarded both the Military Cross and later the Distinguished Flying Cross)
One evening we all went out on to the aerodrome to watch my brother go off on a night bombing raid. This was not only his first night raid but also his first night flight. I sat beside Major Carthew on top of the small bomb dug-out until he returned safely.
I thought it was time for a change, and transferred to the Royal Flying Corps early in 1917. In February 1917 I was sent to Hesdin for an interview, and home to Brooklands for a month’s course in observer duties. This included firing twenty five rounds out of a Lewis gun.
From there, I joined No. 8 Squadron at Sombrin, about April 5th but did not stay with them long, as I came home within a fortnight on a stretcher, with a septic arm. I rejoined the squadron at Boiry Saint Martin at the beginning of July, and became my flight commander’s observer. We lived together in half a Nissen hut which we called “Quirk Manor”.
It is doubtful if we shall ever get the same cooperation between pilot and air gunner as was achieved between pilot and observer. These lived together and got to know each other very well.
I spent a lot of time on the range practising with a Lewis gun and invariably cleaned my own gun.
I once observed for a 12” Howitzer battery: the time of flight was 55 seconds and the explosion of the shell made an enormous crater which made observing very easy. It was after we had been up for over three hours that I was “caught napping” by an enemy pilot. In my squadron the observer still did the work of observing whilst the pilot only flew the aeroplane. I had two Lewis guns, bolted together that fired over the tail of the aeroplane as well as over the head of my pilot. Suddenly I heard the “rat tat tat” of the enemy machine gun; I jumped up so violently that I went right through the bottom of the fuselage, with both feet, and stuck with my knees level with the floor. A truly Heath Robinson picture for the enemy pilot who must have seen my feet sticking out!
On August 14th 1917 I went home to learn to fly, and after a month at Reading, where I rowed on the river every morning, I went to Thetford in Norfolk. I left this aerodrome after only one week, having completed my four hours, solo, on Morris Farmans. I then went to Narborough. A fortnight later I had completed twenty hours solo on large and small Armstrong-Whitworths.
From there I joined No. 87 squadron which was in the process of forming. It was to be equipped with S.E.5s, but at that time only had Avros.
Here my war service ended abruptly with a bad crash and I spent the next two years in hospital, except for a short period just before the Armistice, when I was doing light duty at No. 8 Wing Headquarters in Duke Street, St. James. Here, although I had an absolutely stiff leg, I persuaded Captain Beanlands, the wing examining officer, to test me for flying. He put in a report, strongly recommending that I should be trained to fly Snipes and proceed to France without delay. At the time we were very short of people to train as pilots, I was permanently unfit for even home service, and spent the whole of armistice morning trying to find my medical papers in order that I might go before the standing medical board and have my medical category changed. Nobody was more depressed that I when the maroons sounded, announcing the Armistice. I promptly went back to hospital for another year, leaving it in August 1919. I was too late for a permanent commission but obtained a S.S.C. in the first list. I was sent to the C.F.S. to make part of the Officers Squadron, which was a complete failure. The officers were to do everything, but actually spent months in doing nothing except scrubbing floors. In December I obtained three months leave to go and visit my people in America, and on my return went to Netheravon where I did the first peace time F.T.S. course.
Just before I left No. 8 squadron in France, a Bristol Fighter was sent to us for trial as an Army Cooperation aeroplane. I went up with Major E. L. Gossage, who completed a “shoot” in record time. The squadron reported very favourably on the aeroplane, but unfortunately no Bristol Fighters could be spared before the end of the war.
As one of the chief duties of fighter aircraft is the protection of army cooperation aeroplanes I suggest that we are on the wrong track, when we equip the army cooperation pilot with an inferior type of aircraft, and then “protect” him. Surely it would be better to give him the best aeroplane, and then let him protect himself.
I spent the whole of 1920 at Netheravon attending the first post-war flying training course. I took a long time to learn to fly, as I was suffering under the strange delusion that I could fly, and only required a refresher course.
It was not until I was threatened with instant dismissal from the service that I really tried; I then had little difficulty in learning.
After serving two months at Duxford, I was posted to Old Sarum, where I remained until I sailed for India in March 1922. At Old Sarum I was one of the two instructors of the first peace time Army Cooperation course, and helped to produce the syllabus. I obtained a P.C. in December 1921. The whole of this period (1919-1922) is marked by a cloud of anxiety which hung over myself and my pals, all of us waiting for the same thing, and gradually dropping out, one by one. The service lost a large number of first class officers during this period, officers who could not afford to wait indefinitely for an uncertain Permanent Commission, however keen they were to stay in the Royal Air Force.
After eighteen months at the Aircraft Park, Lahore, where I carried out the duties of pay officer, and later those of adjutant, I was promoted and posted to No. 31 squadron which was stationed at Dardoni, in Waziristan.
I was in India from 1922 to the end of 1925 . As pay officer I took over a cash deficiency of 5000 rupees. The last three pay officers had been dishonest! In spite of all my efforts and of numerous courts of enquiry, I handed over this deficiency to my successor in July 1923. The airmen had been allowed to overdraw their accounts to the extent of 12,000 rupees. This I reduced to 1600 before I left. We did not have an officers’ mess at Lahore in those days and I messed with one of the married officers. He built a hydroglissier with a 90HP R.A.F. engine and an aeroplane propeller. On this we made many trips and once went 80 miles down the Ravi river where we shot duck for 10 days. L. later sold this boat to the river department at a large profit and built a bigger one which would do over 45 knots. For a year I ran a tennis club in the cantonments. I took it over at the request of the brigade commander who said to me, “Walser, I have known this club for 16 years, it has always been in a mess, is in a mess, and always will be in a mess.” The club was heavily in debt, half the members did not pay their bills, and the club itself was being robbed right and left. After a year’s hard work I left the club financially sound and in good condition. Six months later it was back in the same position as when I had taken it over.
In 1923 I went to Baltistan (Little Tibet) to shoot Ibex, and in 1924 I went to Kenya for three months’ shooting. On promotion to Flight Lieutenant in July 1923 I was posted to No. 31 squadron which was stationed at Dardoni, in Waziristan. I joined the squadron on the last day on which live bombs were dropped but took part later on in the evacuation of the Jandola-Razmak road.
During a period of three days the squadron put up patrols continuously over the columns which were marching north and south. Not a shot was fired by the tribesmen.
Our patrols flew low along the river beds, and on one occasion I received the shock of my life. I was on patrol and turned up one of the tributaries of the Tak-i-zam. I discovered too late that the river bed was steeper than I was able to climb, and that the valley was so narrow that I could not turn back. I eventually found a place just wide enough to turn back but not before I had had my engine on full throttle for nearly five minutes. I was very frightened.
Our aerodrome was nine miles from the Afghan frontier, and we had no women within fifty miles. In consequence, we were a very united and efficient squadron. We always had three different games going at night and we got twice as much work done by the men. Our average serviceability for twelve aircraft was in the region of 11.9.
I had an officer in my flight who had been flying over the mountains of Waziristan for over a year. These flights had affected his nerves in a peculiar way: whenever he landed he complained of some defect in his engine or airframe. Eventually I had to forbid him to make any alterations to his aeroplane without my permission.
We had a small aerodrome and when landing in the direction of the prevailing wind we came in over a ditch and down the short arm. Pilots were in the habit of using their engines when landing and in order to check this bad habit, we started a “rumbling club”. Under the rules of the club pilots were fined one rupee each time they used their engines, after shutting off to glide into the aerodrome. The standard of flying improved very much but finally one of our pilots crashed on the aerodrome because he would not “rumble”. The club was then closed.
Flying over and alongside mountains which rose up to 20,000 feet [6,100m] and more revealed some of the finest scenery that I have ever seen. Range after range of snow white mountains stretched far into Afghanistan.
We were 150 miles from Peshawar and civilisation. It took us less than an hour and a half to fly there although it took a whole day by road. Whenever we felt a bit stale we would fly over to Peshawar for a weekend. The Army envied us very much. During a two years’ tour of service on the frontier an army officer often only gets away from Waziristan during his three months’ holiday in the summer. For the rest of the time he is cooped up in uncomfortable camps, miles from nowhere, and so to many of them, service on the frontier is most distasteful.
On the other hand, R.A.F. officers who serve on the frontier look upon this part of their duty as something to be sought after. They have not the same feeling of being buried alive without any chance of getting away for months at a time.
When we take over the defence of the North West Frontier we shall be able to carry on with much less hardship and discomfort.
In April 1924 the whole squadron flew down to Ambala, exchanging stations with No. 5 squadron, where we resumed our normal duties of army cooperation. We worked with army units at Ambala, Sialkot, Delhi, and at many other places all over the Punjab.
We also did a great deal of night flying. We found it hotter flying at night than in the daytime. All the heat seemed to hang just above the ground, and it felt as if one was flying in a furnace.
Like most other things in India, army cooperation training is five years behind the times. The Delhi manoeuvres were very disappointing from the Air Force point of view. All communications broke down on the first day and a large part of our work was wasted.
In February 1925 I performed at a searchlight tattoo, at Delhi, spinning and looping a Bristol Fighter, which was illuminated by sixty small electric lights and also by flares. I was given three and a half minutes and found that I had to do an enormous amount of stunting to fill that time.
The whole of the summer 1925 I spent in the hills as adjutant of the R.A.F. Hill Depot at Lower Barian. This Depot is only opened during the summer months. Each unit sends a third of its airmen to the Depot for two months at a time in order to give them a change from the plains.
They do musketry practice, some drill, and a great deal of education. Every effort is also made to give them plenty of games and to make their stay as pleasant as possible with the help of concerts and other entertainments.
After spending another month in hospital and having two more operations on my leg, I returned to England in May 1926, travelling via Singapore, China, Japan, Honolulu, and the United States.
(NB. My father does not describe the suffering he endured with all the operations on his leg and arm but he must have told my mother, because she passed some of it on to me. By 1918 his hair had turned completely white as a result of the pain but not his moustache or eyebrows. With his high colouring, he must have presented an unusual sight. My mother told me that after nine operations on his leg, he was more or less sent off to die in a hospital somewhere in Norfolk. At this point his brother Andrew intervened and undoubtedly saved his life. He booked John into the Edward 7th hospital in London and then in full uniform, sporting his five rows of medals, including the MC and DFC, he went to the Police station in the town, engaged the help of a policeman to accompany him to the hospital where John was dying. When they arrived he commandeered a stretcher and transferred him onto it, ignoring the protestations of doctors and nurses. With the Policeman carrying the rear of the stretcher they marched to the station and when the train arrived placed the stretcher on the floor of the guards van where Andrew sat until they reached London. History does not relate how he got John to the hospital but he was operated on almost straight away and lived to tell the tale.)