I recently came across a document written in 1968 by a Canadian WWI bomber pilot. The document describes his last flight entitled "My Last Bombing Raid". I thought it might be of interest on this Armistice Day.

The document is transcribed as written except for the addition of pictures.

My Last Bombing Raid

In World War I the British Air Force consisted of the Royal Naval Air Service and its Army counterpart, the Royal Flying Corps. There was no Canadian Air Force, but early in 1916 the Royal Flying Corps established a branch in Canada. A ground school was opened at the University of Toronto and later airdromes were erected at several locations in Ontario.

In 1916, I joined the ground school and after preliminary training in Canada was transferred to Salisbury Plains in England where I graduated on De Havilland 4's (DH4's). After finishing aerial gunnery at Turnberry Scotland, I went to France and was posted to Number 27 Squadron.

Our airdrome was situated at Vilers-Brettoneux, a small village on the Amiens-Perrone Road, about 4 miles east of Amiens and twenty miles from Perrone.

The 27th, a DH4 long-distance bombing squadron, was equipped with Beardmore-Halford-Pulinger engines (B.H.P.'s). The DH4 was a biplane with the pilot's seat beneath the upper wing between the engine and main gas tanks. A Vickers machine gun was mounted on the cowling and by means of a special gear was able to fire between the blades of the rotating propeller.

A small gravity tank was attached to the upper wing near the pilot's head. This tank was used for starting the engine and taking off, until the pressure in the main tanks had increased sufficiently to supply the carburetor. The observer's seat was in the rear of the fuel tanks.

Attached to this cockpit was a scarf mounting supporting one or two Lewis guns. As the pilot was just behind the engine, he was usually quite comfortable, but the observer was very much in the open and exposed to low temperatures. He was readily recognized around the mess table as the tip of his nose was scarred from repeated frost bite

The average speed of the DH4 was 125 miles per hour, and it carried enough fuel to remain in the air about 5 hours. Each squadron had one airplane equipped with a special carburetor and oxygen for the pilot and observer. This machine could climb to 24,000 feet and the day before the raid would take pictures of the next day's target. There was no danger from attack as the enemy was unable to reach this altitude.

Our targets were primarily railroad junctions, troop concentrations and ammunition dumps. Ordinarily twelve machines took part in a raid, each plane taking off separately. They would then climb to 17,000 feet over the rendezvous previously decided upon. In the case of 27 Squadron, this was usually Perrone. It took about one hour to reach this altitude and when all the machines had arrived they would take up formation and proceed over the front line on their way to the target. Each plane carried eight, twenty-five pound bombs, four on the bottom of each lower wing.

When twelve DH4's were in close formation, there were 12 machine guns firing forward and as many as twenty-four to the rear. The Germans learned to respect this fire power; however, if the formation were broken up or an individual machine became separated from the rest of the squadron, the heavy DH4 bomber was no match for the faster, easily maneuverable German fighter.

In the spring of 1918 the average tour of active duty for a pilot in France lasted six weeks. usually the same pilot and observer continued to fly together. About the middle of March, a new observer was posted to my machine. He was Lord Cecil Douglas, a son of the Marquis of Queensbury of the Queensbury family of boxing rule fame. He was twenty years of age and well qualified to carry on the enviable tradition established by the upper class of his generation in fighting for their country.

On March the 21st the Germans attacked the British sector of the front line and aerial activity became markedly increased. Bombing raids were carried out once or twice daily. On this date the squadron commander's machine was being overhauled and the plane I had been flying transferred to him. I was given "F" which we all recognized as a "lemon".

[Hm-m-m... was someone in the doghouse with the squadron commander?]

On our first day in "F", Douglas and I started on a raid to Busigny but were forced to return because of engine trouble. The next day we were scheduled to bomb Le Cateu. This time an oil pipe burst and we had to return. This was repaired, and on March 23rd we started again, but the pressure pumps failed and we were unable to continue. On Sunday, March 24t, we were to bomb Aulnoy. This turned out to be our last bombing raid.

We succeeded in reaching an altitude of 17,000 feet over Perrone but it was evident the engine was not running well. I discussed with Douglas the advisability of returning to the airdrome. Because we had been forced to turn back on the proceeding three days, we were especially anxious not to return again. We finally decided to accompany the rest of the squadron and started over the line. We soon saw puffs of black smoke from bursting anti-aircraft shells. Their guns were located near vulnerable targets or frequently were mounted on lorries. Far below they could be seen speeding along the highway, to stop suddenly, fire, then off again to repeat the performance. Fortunately, at 17,000 feet they were not very effective, although it was not unusual for a plane to return with shrapnel embedded in the wings or fuselage.

It was soon obvious we could not keep up with the formation and after selecting a likely target I dropped our bombs. It was now easier to maintain our position although we had to gradually lose altitude and were soon 3,000 feet below the remainder of the squadron. I was not familiar with the exact location of Aulnoy as routinely we dropped our bombs at the direction of the squadron commander. The first indication I had that we were over the target was when bombs began falling past our machine from the planes directly above us. I could see the other observers frantically waving for us to get out of the way. Fortunately, we were not hit and after dropping the bombs the squadron turned for home.

I had hoped the other machines would throttle down and allow me to remain in formation. This, however, was not forthcoming.

I realized the commander's orders were to bring back as many machines as possible. I decided to keep in contact with the formation but could only do this by losing height rather rapidly.

On this section of the front, northeast of Perrone, there was an excellent landmark. Earlier in the war a huge ammunition dump had blown up and exposed the underlying chalk leaving a large circular white area readily visible from the air for long distances. [Perhaps Lochnagar Crater?, 50.0155, 2.6973 - NW of Perrone] This guidepost had just come into view, and I was congratulating myself that we would be able to reach our side of the line when a burst of machine gun fire ripped through the gravity tank, allowing ten gallons of gas to pour over my head. It would have been relatively easy to elude the German by side-slipping steeply. However, this would mean losing height quickly and thus jeopardizing our chance of avoiding being taken prisoner. British machines were not equipped with parachutes in World War I.

We were being attacked from behind and below the tail and I began sharp "S" turns to allow Douglas to fire on the German fighter. I soon realized the Lewis gun was silent and I was unable to contact Douglas. I had to assume he had been hit by an early burst of fire.

The Germans were using three types of bullets in tandem: the tracer, the explosive, and the regular bullet. By following the flaming tracers, the course of each burst from the German machine gun could be followed. I felt a burning in my left ankle and knew I had been hit. The next burst hit the radiator and the water was lost. Bullets also went through the main gas tanks with the loss of all our fuel.

The danger of fire was one we all dreaded. I realized that, so far, we had been extremely fortunate in that all three gas tanks had been punctured by tracer bullets and this catastrophe had not occurred. The bullets began cutting the wing supports and the engine ceased with the propeller in a vertical position. Realizing that true valor lies between cowardice and rashness, I put the plane in a sharp side-slip. The firing ceased and I pulled out at about 3,000 feet, but the German was still on my tail. I was preparing to side-slip again when two British SE5 fighters appeared. The pilots waved and I felt quite confident I would hear no more from the enemy.

My machine was without power, and as I was now only about 2.000 feet from the ground, I quickly chose a spot which appeared satisfactory for landing; however, on coming nearer, I could see my proposed landing area had been an orchard in which the tops of the trees had been blown away, leaving stumps reaching several feet above the ground. I planned to pancake the plane into soft earth, but when I pulled back on the stick it would not move. Douglas, having been wounded, had fallen and jammed the controls. The vertical propeller hit the earth and the airplane flipped over on its back. Douglas was thrown about twenty feet beyond the machine and my head went through the top wing. I scrambled out, and, as I recall, suffered very little pain from the wound in my ankle.

I crawled over to Douglas and found him alive but unconscious. I succeeded in placing a tourniquet above his knee to stop the bleeding. The lower part of his leg was dangling by only a few shreds of tissue. Except for the bullet holes and the broken propeller, the plane was not extensively damaged but the rear of the fuselage and the tail were covered in blood.

We had crashed about thirty rods from a sunken road, and I began hobbling in this direction seeking medical assistance. I was met by a Frenchman who indicated he was familiar with first aid. He agreed to look after Douglas while I continued to seek help. I was able to stop a British staff car and urged the officers to return to the nearest medical station to obtain help for Douglas. They hesitated as they informed me the German infantry was advancing rapidly. They finally agreed to return to the small village of Millencourt about one mile from the site of our crash.

I was able to arrange for medical help and ambulance to care for Douglas. I was then taken by sidecar to a nearby airdrome. When we arrived, the first aid station was vacant as the medical personnel were on the landing field. One of the pilots was in the air without his undercarriage and they were standing by to help when he landed. Fortunately, he did not crash and the first aid sergeant was free to dress my wound and give me a hypodermic, which I now realize was an opiate. I was again placed in a sidecar and we retraced our course through Millencourt and by the field where we had landed. By this time, the ambulance was leaving with Douglas on its way to the hospital.

Following this I remember very little until I awoke about 4:00 p.m. on a field which had been set up as a casualty station. At dusk I was placed in an ambulance with five other wounded soldiers and after travelling most of the night, over shell-pocked roads, arrived in Doullens and was admitted to the third Canadian hospital. Apparently I was given considerable sedation as my memory of what happened in the hospital is very vague.

Early the next day I was placed in a hospital train for Boulogne. This was a long and painful trip. We were able to travel only a short distance before being shunted to a siding to allow a long string of freight cars, loaded with guns and ammunition, to go by their way to the front. Our train arrived in Boulogne late at night and I was admitted to the eighth British Red Cross hospital.

On the third day, I was operated on by a British surgeon who removed pieces of boot, sock, and explosive bullet from the wound. two days later I was placed on a hospital boat for Dover. I was then taken by train to Waterloo station in London. About 4:00 a.m. I was picked up by ambulance and taken to the Prince of Wales Hospital, which had been Marylebone Station Hotel before the war. Inasmuch as there was a Zeppelin raid on London that night, I spent the remainder of the morning in the hall. I was confined to bed for about three weeks and then allowed out of bed on crutches.

I was fortunate in being under the care of Dr. Low [perhaps Dr Hugh Lett], one of the leading younger surgeons in London. I was interested to read in later years he became President of the Royal College of Surgeons. His skill in repairing my Achilles tendon was responsible for my complete functional recovery, although I was unable to resume flying for about seven months.

It was not until May 4th that I learned that Douglas had been hospitalized in Etaples and far from the English Channel, about twenty miles south of Boulogne. He had been transferred there by ambulance and was critically ill for several weeks. It had been necessary to amputate his leg shortly after admission. Soon after I received this information, Douglas was transferred from Etaples to Victoria Hospital near Buckingham Palace.

On my first visit I began to sympathize with him about the loss of his leg. He silenced me and said his wooden leg would soon be ready. When it was fitted he would go to his home in Scotland. As he was fond of tennis, he could be found on the courts surrounded by a bevy of beautiful girls. If he noticed them whispering to each other, he could be sure they were questioning why a husky young man was not in the military service. They would assume he lost his nerve. He would disprove this by drawing his revolver and firing a bullet through his leg without flinching. Needless to say, I did not mention this subject again.

Following the war, Lord Douglas entered the export and import business, and I became a physician. On visiting England in 1954, my wife and I had the pleasure of having lunch with Lord and Lady Douglas at the Ritz Hotel in London. It was quite nostalgic to reminisce about our "Last Bombing Raid of 1918" --- now fifty years ago.

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annual observance - 50 (what???) years ago this year

I believe I mentioned somewhere along the way that some of my early aptitude tests indicated I'd fit being a navigator on a Great Lakes freighter. One of my grand-uncles was a lakes ship captain and an uncle was in the US Navy in WWII so perhaps there was a bit of sailor in me. If so, that has long since dissipated.

Still, my roots are in Michigan and there's no avoiding the lakes' influence on me. Nor do I wish to avoid it.

Gordon Lightfoot died in 2023. The bells at the Old Mariners Church rang 30 times when he died.

The 1842 Anglican church sits off Jefferson Ave at the mouth of the tunnel (head of Randolph St) about 500ft or so from the river. The annual ring for the Fitz ended in 2006 but the church will once again honor the tragedy this year: "The bell will ring once more. The city of Detroit and beyond will be invited to participate in this worship service, pausing in their work day, to remember and reflect on the day of the 50th anniversary."

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originally posted by Jean - Feb 20, 2010
perhaps suggested as a result of "Bob B."

I genuflect
and wobble.
Incense stings my
throat.
Holy water splats
on her coffin.
Old voices, chanting,
float around me.
Dark, polished, hard wood
pews and walls.
Air is orange glow from
candles by the altar.
October cold, hiding
in the shade of the canopy
at the church cemetery, watching
Dad at the edge
of her grave.
Shoulders slumped. Looking down.
The last to leave her.
Three years later, December snow.
I hold his triangle-folded flag and
am the last to leave him
at the same cemetery.

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I don't often mention real names here of people I've known, but I'll make an exception here.

Bob was a good friend of mine. Met him late in life through a friend of a friend. The first friend has disappeared into the dim past but Bob and I hit it off. For that matter, I hit it off with his wife-to-be; they were just starting to date when I met them.

This pretty much describes Bob.

We were at the edge of a cliff overlooking a river in the Cascades outside Seattle when some guy came up in a truck and for some reason - beer? - laughed at us and threatened to drive us off the cliff. Bob said something or another and the guy appeared mad enough that it seemed he was heading our way to do just that. I don't go into the wilds unarmed ... so that stopped that.

Bob was born rich in Philadelphia. He told me he blew his inheritance of some $3M dollars on a cute girl in Steamboat Springs while in his early 20s. Told me once he didn't care about the money; the times he had with whoever was worth every penny. I gather she disappeared when the money did.

Now Bob could tell a good story so I doubted at first but as we got to know each other better, I believe his tale was true.

Bob had a sister in Australia who was a botanist. I forget the details but by some manner, she had a particular rose formally named after her. I have the details somewhere around here but probably buried deep in a box I've not looked through in a while.

Bob and Diane got married in 1990. The day of their wedding happened to be the day of the basketball playoffs between Chicago and Detroit. Game 7, series tied. The wedding was put off until the game was over. Detroit won.

Bob liked to do things in style. Bob rented the Steamship Virginia V for the wedding reception. Bob never acted or lived like he had money ... but one could tell he was used to being around it. I never did ask him how he paid for all this; that just isn't done.

During the festivities, Bob introduced me to some of his friends:
"DT", he says, "let me introduce you to Lenny Wilkins"
"Hello. Pleased to meet you", DT says with a blank look on his face.

I don't follow basketball; I was probably the only person around who had no idea who Lenny Wilkins was.

I had bought a house south of Seattle; closer to Puyallup. When it was time to leave the area, Bob wanted to buy it. I cut them a deal but Bob was "negotiating". Diane finally told him to shut up; she wanted the house and was afraid I'd just put it on the open market. I made money on the deal, he bought it for much less than market value. Win, win.

Bob and Diane came down from Seattle to where the soon-to-be Mrs DT and I got married; the last of three times. The party wedding. Well, the festivities lasted late, Bob got a bit toasty, so I drove him and Diane to their hotel. The clerk took his credit card, charged the room, then refused to give him the key. With no other solution at that time of night, B&D spent the night with us (and a few others). About 8 guests in our little 600 sq ft apartment on our (last of three) wedding night. The hotel later denied it ever happened.

Bob truly tried to help people. Being familiar with Washington's welfare system, he tried to develop a company to aid in easing applicants through the bizarre procedures of the state. The state didn't like the competition and shut him down. Maybe that was the beginning of the end.

Bob became an alcoholic. He knew he was an alcoholic, he told me he didn't care, he'd keep on drinking. He developed some sort of blood condition that caused him to have one of his lower legs removed. The amputation didn't heal; they kept cutting until they had to amputate above the knee. It still didn't heal.

I had moved far away so I wasn't able to keep up with his (lack of) progress. I last visited him and his wife Diane in 2013 or 2014 when I ended up having a medical problem myself and had to stay a day or two in a Seattle hospital.

I didn't know it was the last time.

Diane called me in August 2015 to tell me Bob had passed; his condition exceeded what could be cured. Did alcohol play a part? Perhaps, but the condition itself was not alcohol related.

I thought about driving up to visit his grave - it's been 10 years now - but what's the point? His marker is not a headstone but a small slab of marble set in the ground. I'd go up, drink a beer over his grave, turn around and come home. I can toast a friendship gone by here as well as there. I haven't seen Diane since.

So why this ramble? Bob would have been 75 today.

How in the world did it happen that my friends became my grandparents' age?

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Thune "Willing To Give Democrats All The Things They Want" As Friday Shutdown Vote Looms

Why even bother with two parties?

%%^^&& all of those (*(&%^^&%^*.

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