For over three months No. 3 Squadron had been occupied daily in ranging the heavy guns which night after night crept into their allotted positions in front of Albert. On July 1st 1916 the Somme offensive opened with gas and smoke and a bombardment of unprecedented severity. To the pilots and observers in an artillery squadron the beginning of this battle brought a certain relief, for we were rather tired of flying up and down, being shot at continually by fairly accurate and remarkably well hidden anti-aircraft batteries, while we registered endless guns on uninteresting points. On the German side of the trenches, before the battle, the country seemed almost peaceful and deserted. Anti-aircraft shells arrived and burst in large numbers, coming apparently from nowhere, for it was almost rare to see a flash on the German side; if one did, it was probably a dummy flash; and of movement, except for a few trains in the distance, there was none. Only an expert observer would know that the thin straight line was a light railway; that the white lines were paths made by the ration parties and reliefs following the dead ground when they came up at night; that the almost invisible line was a sunken pipe line for bringing water to the trenches, and that the shading which crept and thickened along the German reserve trenches showed that the German working parties were active at night if invisible in the day time. For the shading spelt barbed wire.

Only about half a dozen times during those three months did I have the luck to catch a German battery firing. When that happened one ceased the ranging work and called up something really heavy, for preference a nine-inch howitzer battery, which pulverised the Hun.

When the battle had started the counter-battery work became our main task. It was wonderfully exciting and interesting. Nothing can give a more solid feeling of satisfaction than when, after seeing the shells from the battery you are directing fall closer and closer to the target, you finally see a great explosion in a German gun-pit, and with a clear conscience can signal "O.K." During the battle we were much less worried by the anti-aircraft than we had been before. For some had been knocked out, some had retreated, and some had run out of ammunition, and in any case there were so many British planes to shoot at that they could not give to any one their undivided attention.

Up to July 16th, and possibly later, for I was captured on that day, German aeroplanes were remarkably scarce, and never interfered with us at our work. If one wished to find a German plane, it was necessary to go ten miles over the German lines, and alone. Even under these conditions the Germans avoided a fight if they could.

Shortly after the beginning of the battle, Long, my observer, and I were given a special job. We went up only at the direct orders of our Brigadier and did a continuous series of short reconnaissances as far over the lines as Bapaume and as far south as Cambrai. We had several fights, of which only the last, on July 14th, when we shot down our opponent after a manoeuvring fight lasting about ten minutes, has a direct bearing on our capture. The end of this fight came when, for perhaps twenty seconds, we flew side by side, and at the same time as Long shot down our opponent, he riddled us with bullets, and I was very lucky to get home without the machine catching fire. My machine was too bad to be repaired, and they sent me a second one from the Aviation Park. This seemed a splendid machine, and I can only attribute the failure of the engine, which led to our capture, to a bullet in the magneto or petrol tank, probably the former. Whatever the cause, on July 16th, during an early morning reconnaissance, the engine suddenly stopped dead at 4000 feet. We must have been just N.E. of Bapaume, ten miles over the line, at the time, and I turned her head for home and did all I could; but there is very little one can do if the engine stops. After coming down a couple of thousand feet I began to look about for a landing-place away from houses and near a wood if possible, and told Long to get out matches. Just at that moment the fiery rocket battery near the one sausage balloon, which remained to the Germans after the anti-balloon offensive of July 4th, opened fire on us, and I had to dodge to avoid the rockets. By the time they had stopped firing at us we were about 500 feet from the ground, and I heard a good deal of rifle fire, apparently at us. As my engine showed no signs of coming to life again, I picked out an open field where I thought we should have time to set fire to the machine in comfort before the Germans came up. I was only up about 200 feet or less when I found we were landing almost on top of a German battery, of whose existence I had had no idea. I don't think the position of this battery was known to our people, but I may be wrong, as I temporarily lost my bearings while dodging those infernal rockets. As soldiers from the battery could be seen running out with rifles in their hands towards the spot where we obviously had to land, and as I much doubted whether we should have time to fire the machine, I determined when I was about 50 feet from the ground to crash the machine on landing. This I managed pretty successfully by ramming her nose into the ground instead of holding her off, and we had a bad crash.

I found myself hanging upside down by my belt. I was a bit shaken but unhurt, and got out quickly. Long was staggering about in a very dazed condition near the machine, and the Germans were about 50 yards away. I got a matchbox from him and crawled under the machine again, but found, firstly, that I could not reach the petrol tap, and in spite of the machine being upside down, there was no petrol dripping anywhere; and, secondly, that Long in his dazed condition had handed me a box without any matches in it. The Germans were now about 25 yards off, and I thought of trying to set the thing on fire with the Lewis gun and tracer bullets, but I could not find the gun. I think Long must have thrown it overboard as we came down. We were then surrounded by soldiers—they were a filthy crowd, but showed no signs of unpleasantness. An officer, whose face I disliked, came up, and, saluting very correctly, asked me to hand over all my papers and maps. Rather than be searched, I turned out my own and Long's pockets for him. In doing so, I found to my horror that I had my diary on me! Why, I can't think, as I was always most careful to go up without any paper of importance, and particularly without my diary. However, I managed to keep it from the Germans, and got rid of it about an hour later without being detected. We walked with the German officer to the Gondecourt road, and I was glad to see as we went away, that the machine seemed thoroughly smashed up. The propeller was smashed and nose plate obviously bent badly; one wing and the under carriage were crumpled up. The elevator was broken, and it looked as if something had gone in the fuselage, but I could not be certain of that. Long was thoroughly shaken, and walked and talked like a drunken man. He kept on asking questions, which he reiterated in the most maddening way—poor chap—but to be asked every two minutes if you had been captured, when you are surrounded by a crowd of beastly Huns...! I own I was feeling pretty irritable at the time, and perhaps a bit shaken. It took Long several days to become anything like normal again, and I don't think he was completely right in his mind again for weeks. He was obviously suffering from concussion, and I think that he now remembers nothing of the smash nor of any events which took place for several hours afterwards.

About 7 a.m., as far as I remember, a staff car picked us up and took us to Le Transloy. We were taken to one of the houses and given a couple of chairs in the yard. The place was apparently an H.Q., but what H.Q. I could not find out. I had seen about twelve English soldiers under guard as we came in, and after waiting for about two hours, we were marched off with them under escort of half a dozen mounted Uhlans. It was a pretty hot day, and we were both of us in very heavy flying kit and boots. Long was still much shaken, and walked with difficulty; in fact, I am doubtful whether he could have walked at all without my help. I amused myself talking to the guard and telling them how many prisoners and guns, etc., we had taken. After a march of several hours we reached Velu, very tired indeed. One incident which happened on the road is perhaps of interest. A woman waved to us in a field as we went by. I waved back, and this harmless action was instantly reported by one of the guard to an N.C.O., who rode back after the woman; but she, knowing the Germans better than we did, had disappeared by the time he had got there.

We had been at Velu for an hour or more when a crowd of orderlies learnt that we were officer aviators. They collected around us and assumed rather a threatening attitude, accusing us of having thrown bombs on to a hospital train a few days before. This was unfortunately true as far as Long was concerned, but as the train had no red cross on it, and was used to bring up troops as well as to take away wounded, we had a perfect right to bomb it, and anyhow could not possibly have told it was a hospital train. However, this was not the time for complicated explanations, so I lied hard for a very uncomfortable ten minutes. Just when things were looking really nasty an officer came up and took us off. We got into a staff car with him and were taken to Havrincourt to a big chÂteau—the H.Q. of the VI. Corps, I think.

A young flying corps officer who spoke a little English came to question us. He seemed a very nice fellow, and was full of praise for the audacity of the R.F.C. and most interested to learn that Long had dropped the wreath for Immelmann. This wreath had been dropped on a German aerodrome a few days before, as an official token of the respect which the R.F.C. had felt for a great pilot.

On our journey to Cambrai we had three or four guards in the horse truck with us, but as it was a hot night the sliding door was left half open on one side, and about a foot on the other. If we had made a dash for it, we might have got clear away, but after discussing the scheme I rejected it, as Long was quite unfit for anything of the sort.

Some time before midnight we entered Cambrai fort. In Cambrai station I saw a train crammed with German wounded, and there were no red crosses marked on the train. The condition of the wounded in this train was very bad—extremely crowded and dirty.

We remained in Cambrai five or six days, and were rather uncomfortable and rather short of food, but a kind French lady in the town sent us in some of the necessities of life—tooth-brushes, shirts, socks, etc. The sleeping accommodation was not luxurious, but the blankets were not verminous, which was something to be thankful for.

Whilst we were at Cambrai a German Intelligence officer took me to his room and had a long conversation with me. I refused to answer questions, so we discussed the war in general—who started it, the invasion of Belgium, our use of black troops, war in the colonies, about which he was particularly angry, quite forgetting, as I pointed out, that they began it by instigating rebellion in South Africa. He suggested that the Somme was an expensive failure, so I said, "What about Verdun?" Although I made one or two hits, he had his facts more at his fingers' ends than I had, and I think honors were about even!

Next day he took Long and myself off in a car and showed us over the Fokker squadron at Cambrai. The two pilots next for duty sat in their flying kit, in deck chairs, by the side of their planes and read novels; close behind them was a telephone in communication with the balloons, who notified them when the enemy aircraft ventured far over the lines. It seemed to me a pretty efficient arrangement, but of course suitable only for defensive and not for offensive tactics.

After we had been five or six days at Cambrai, and the number of prisoners had increased to nearly a thousand men and about a dozen officers, we were moved by train, the officers to GÜtersloh, and the men, I think, to MÜnster. I cannot remember how long the journey took—about thirty hours, I believe. I am sure we had one night in the train, and I remember a good feed they gave us at a wayside station. I also remember remonstrating with a German officer, O.C. train, because he insisted on keeping shut the doors of the horse trucks in which the men were, causing them to be nearly suffocated with heat. During the journey I was rather surprised to find that we were nowhere insulted or cursed—very different to the terrible experiences of our early prisoners. Only in one station a poor devil, just off to the front in a crowded cattle truck, put his head in our carriage window and cursed the "verfluchte Schweinhunde" who were traveling second class and smoking cigars. After a reasonably comfortable journey we came to the prisoners-of-war camp at GÜtersloh.