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Volume 14, Number 11
Indy Squadron Dispatch
Volume 14, Number 11
The story of Capt. Charles Heater appeared in Over The Front, Volume
3, Number 3 in the autumn of 1988. Formatting concerns initially forced OTF to edit some portions of the article, but
it is reprinted here in it's entire, original form. This article is copyright Stephen D. Skinner/Sopwith Motorsports,
1987, and is used by permission of the author.
COMMANDING THE 11th
The Service Career of Capt. Charles Heater
by Stephen D. Skinner
In November of 1987 I first contacted Charles Heater regarding his service
as a pilot with No. 55 Squadron Royal Air Force and the 11th Aero Squadron, American Expeditionary Force in World War I. My
letter arrived in his mailbox just a few days prior to a rainy Veteran's Day in 1987 and caught Heater in a nostalgic mood.
He pondered my letter until the morning of November 11th, then sat down and recorded a 16-page handwritten chronicle... 69
years to the day after the war ended.
There followed a series of rich, informative correspondence that continued
throughout the writing of this article. The letters were clear, vivid memories dating back nearly three-quarters of a century,
yet still they reflected a sense of loss... a tragic loss that Charlie still felt and lived with every day. The following
is a montage of these letters, which recount the service of Captain Charles Lewis Heater, United States Air Service.
I hope the translation of these personal, handwritten letters into print does not eclipse the spirit in which they were
written.
November 11, 1987
Dear Mr. Skinner:
Exactly 69 years ago, I celebrated this date on a muddy landing field near Ligny
in France where I was C.O. of the 11th squadron of the first day bombardment group of the U.S. Army Air Service.
I think the way I got there was most unusual, so I'll start my tale with my
graduation from Purdue in May, 1917. Having applied to the U.S. Army Signal Corps for pilot training in it's aviation section, I
was ordered to report for ground school at Cornell on July 5th. Completing this some eight weeks later, there were no available
flying fields in the U.S. or Canada but we were offered a choice of getting our training either in England, Italy, or perhaps
France. Some 150 cadets from about eight ground schools elected Italy and only 15 or 20 chose England. I was among the
150 looking forward to sunny Italy, who sailed from Hoboken about 20 Sept. on the then well known Carmania, along with some
2,000 regular Army infantry. We got fine treatment on board ship and unofficially we were known as the Italian Detachment.
Our trip was safely ended by our arrival and debarking at Liverpool. We were
glad to get away from several hours each day of instruction in the Italian language under the vigorous Lt. LaGuardia, who
in later years became the famous mayor of New York! We were surprised to have our train trip from Liverpool interrupted
at Oxford where we were marched to Christ's Church College with a small band leading us and the streets lined by cheering
English crowds. Temporarily we were assembled in the historic Wolsley dining hall and there were told that we were going to
stay and get our flying training with the Royal Air Force. 150 spoiled brats finally had to be subdued by an American Major
Biddle who offered the choice of our cooperation or quick trials for mutiny. We quieted down and soon were again going through ground
school with it's endless hours of Morse code and machine gun familiarization. We didn't know we had had a most fortunate change,
for Italy was a bad nightmare for those who had chosen England! After our completion of a slightly shortened ground school,
a few who had had some flying training were sent to training fields where openings were coming up, as England was running
out of young men of their own. The remainder of the Italian Detachment were sent to Grantham to the training camp of
their ground machine gun corps, where we again went through machine guns from piece by piece blindfolded to ground firing
by the hour. But again we were treated like welcome visitors, even to their declaration of a camp holiday on Thanksgiving
Day 1917!
Our next dispersal was to any spot that could accomodate a few stray cadets, and
my roommate since Cornell and I landed at a night flying detachment of six or eight officers at a very small field near the
North Sea coast entitled Hylton, near Sunderland. Their task was protection from Zeppelin night attacks. We saw none.
There was little flying activity here although we got a couple of short rides
in the F.E. 2b early British machines, 'pusher' types with the motor back of the pilot. No instruction was given us.
In December, approaching the end of our two months stay, we had a pass for London where on Christmas we were guests for dinner
at the Royal Automobile Club, with a small party and the Marchioness of Tweesdale, and amiable dowager, 'doing her part.'
| Heater with a DH 4 of 55 Squadron, summer, 1918 |
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Amesbury, between Salisbury and Stonehenge in Wiltshire, to begin flying training
on a new field, later to become a combat base called "Boscomb Down" in World War II.
We were temporarily billeted in Amesbury and ate at the George Hotel, but not much
later moved to tents at the field. Our first sight of the elementary D.H. 6 prompted a look to see who was holding the string,
for they looked like box kites in a strong wind. However, they were very rugged and did their job well. I was quite pleased
with my instructor, Lt. Court, who had a ribbon under his wings. I still liked him and he taught me to fly, even though the
ribbon was awarded to him some years earlier as a member of a boy's choir that sang at the coronation of King George! Starting
on the D.H. 6 til we soloed was a preliminary sign that we would not be trained for the more glamorous pursuit flying. It
was a small disappointment, though, for we could see that the demand for replacement of pursuit pilots was considerably greater
than that for the workhorse type of bomber and other special pilots. Of course, that narrowed our field for glory, but at
last, after some six months of waiting, we were learning what we came to get.
My log book shows that after seven hours of dual instruction I soloed with no difficulties
on February 15, 1918. I flew from then on as often as a machine was idle, including slow, heavy, Armstrong-Whitworth early
bombers, and B.E 2c's, a lighter early bomber that was more fun to fly. One episode with a B.E. 2 was when I was flying to
pile up air time, and my engine died with me some 1,000 feet above strange territory! An empty meadow appeared to offer the
only place for a "dead stick" landing, which I did with no damage. Along the edge of the meadow was a barracks-type of building
and a group of perhaps 35 or 40 girls in WAAC clothing who saw me land. When I got out of the plane and took off my coat,
helmet, and goggles, there was a shout "He's a Yank!" and all of them came over the gate and surrounded me. I told them my
problem and that they might help. So with a suggestion from me, while I took off the cover under the motor, they got from
a small locomotive nearby an adjustable spanner (monkey wrench) and a strip of rusty wire. The petrol connection to the carburetor
was easily unscrewed and no petrol came. But one good push with the wire brought a good flow which I promptly reconnected.
I asked the older girl who appeared to be in charge to get into the pilot's seat, and showed her what I needed her to do as
I tried to start the engine, and later to help the girls hold the plane while i got in and ran up the motor to test it's ability
to get me off. Half the group took the lower front edge, and the rest held the tail plane. The engine started after only a
couple of swings of the propeller, and with it idling, I helped my acting pilot out and I got in. Warning them all to hang
on tightly, I ran up enough to encourage me to go for it, then waved them all clear, and they sent me off with a loud cheer.
Miraculously, I cleared the low bushes and shortly landed home. Nobody believed my story then, and many doubt it as I tell
it now.
Training went ahead quite rapidly until I was eligible for my wings, and by the
middle of April I was sworn in as 1st Lieutenant in the U.S. Army. During this training period we were hearing often of the
death of many of our detachment in training accidents, and some from France, where they had joined British squadrons temporarily
as they awaited American forces.
For final advanced training we were sent to Turnberry, near Ayr in Scotland, along
the Clyde sea shore south of Glasgow. Our quarters were in the large resort hotel and were sumptuous! We were there from late
May til mid-June, and though our training was intensive, we still had enough unscheduled activity to use the one golf course
that had not been taken over as a flying field. I was not even a novice, but I became infected by the golf bug that never
left me til a few years ago, when the ninety years caught up with me.
| 11th Aero posing for US newspaper, October 1918 |
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| Note the shadow of photographer at bottom of picture |
There is now a monument on the 13th hole of that course that bears the names of all
the fliers who lost their lives in training in both World War I and World War II. One of these names is Richard Reed, who
was my roommate from Cornell on. He was diving a D.H. 9 and firing his forward guns at a silhouette floating offshore in the
Clyde, and he failed to pull up and was drowned.
Leaving Turnbury, we were directed to report to RAF headquarters in London where
we were temporarily utilized in ferrying planes from factories to fields, etc. My first job was taking a D.H. 9 from Lincoln
to Lympe, but about half hour on the way, the new engine broke a connecting rod and started to drive holes in the crankcase,
so I had another "dead stick." Again no trouble.
Well! Finally, we got out of England! I said my experience had been unusual, and
here, after all these pages, I haven't started my combat experience!
Upon delivering a plane near Dover, I found a telegram returning me at once to
room 606 of the air ministry, which meant assignment to France. Joining three of my Italian Detachment friends, we chanced
to meet an RAF pilot who had recently returned. On learning that we were D.H. pilots, he suggested that we request assignment
to a D.H. 4 squadron that was fitted with Rolls Royce engines. We did so, and were assigned to 55 squadron of the Independent
Air Force, a corps of the RAF, with some favorable press notices. This unusual group was the one under the command of General
"Boom" Trenchard, formed to perform long distance day bombing of the larger German centers, without the Army having any prior
claim to their service except in serious situations. As a group, there were four squadrons: one, No. 55, with Rolls engines,
three D.H. 9 squadrons with BHP engines (all for day bombing), and one standby Handley Page squadron for night bombing, all
located on one excellent air field south of Nancy.
Since the D.H. 4 plane could remain in the air a little over five hours and cover
distances of 100 miles or a bit more into enemy territory, while the D.H. 9's could not greatly exceed about two-thirds of
that, it meant that 55 had to take care of the long distance work... which they did!
The D.H. 4 was known as the "flaming coffin." The location of the gas tank between
the pilot and the observer may have made it a little more vulnerable to explosive ammunition, but any aircraft powered with
gas engines was, and many were lost for that reason.
The lack of parachutes magnified the hazard to the lives of the fliers. The U.S.
was working on one that would leave enough room in the cockpit for the pilot, but it didn't come soon enough. I heard of German
parachutes, but never saw one. Our trip to the squadron was a series of slow train rides, and a couple of nights with rest
interrupted by Hun bombs, including a couple of narrow misses as we rode a truck to our destination on the night of July 4,
1918. Our arrival was dated July 5th, exactly one year from my enlistment date at Cornell!
The story of our unbelievable lack of preparation for war in the U.S. is one not
often spoken, but it set back our active participation at least six months, which made the war six months longer than it should
have been.
Our orientation was short, but adequate to familiarize us with the local area,
the personnel, and many practice formations where there was constant repetition of the primary importance of tight, tight,
tight formations. This was for protection by each plane firing on attackers of adjoining planes, while they were protecting
you. The Hun avoided close contact with tight formations, but welcomed ragged ones where single planes could be attacked by
several planes at once!
Generally, we encountered enemy aircraft and anti-aircraft fire after we crossed
the lines far enough to be beyond the area patrolled by our pursuit planes. Only rarely were we given escort by our pursuit...
they didn't have a great enough range to go deep into Hunland... from then on we were subject to attack all the time, though
some days it was greater than others. (We encountered) Pfalz, Albatros and Fokkers. At 18 to 19,000 feet they were sluggish,
but still persistent.
My log shows I was present on 14 successful raids and a couple of cases where I
had to drop out, or where we did not reach our objective. This covered the period from July 16 to August 23, 1918. My observer
was always Sgt. Allen, RAF, and he was wonderful. He was killed soon after I left.
Official documents for Heater's 3rd, 4th kills
Lt. Heater joined No. 55 Squadron during a lull in the ongoing air war. From
July 8 to July 15 all but the most skilled pilots remained grounded. Heavy mist, dense cloud and persistent rain flooded the
French soil, making flight dangerous even without combat. On July 16, 1918, on Heater's eleventh day at the front, he went
aloft for his first raid. The D.H. 4's of No. 55 Squadron took off in heavy clouds, which soon brought about a downpour. For
two hours the would-be bombers floundered in the rain, as gusting winds blew them further and further off course. Over 13,500
feet up and hopelessly lost over German-held territory, the D.H. 4's returned home and cancelled the raid. Their rest was
short-lived, however, as they bombed Thionville on the 17th and Oberndorf two days later.
July 20, 1918, was a Saturday. After the torrential rains of the past weeks, such
a clear and crisp morning was a welcome sight. In the half light of early dawn, 24 pilots and observers wiped their eyes
and pulled on their flight gear, while Rolls Royce engines droned outside warming up their D.H. 4's. Dawn flights weren't
something to look forward to, but at least it wouldn't rain on them today. Pilots, observers and bombs loaded, two flights
from No. 55 Squadron lifted toward the eastern horizon at exactly 5 am. They crossed the lines at 14,000 feet heading toward
their objective in Stuttgart. Their bombs were intended for the Mercedes aircraft engine factories, but fate had something
else in store. A strong wind had kicked up and was slowing their progress. Flight leader Billy Williams was forced to swing
across the Black Forest to Oberndorf in order to conserve fuel. He selected the Mauser rifle factories and the railways at
Oberndorf as alternative targets. After their bombs had fallen, the 12 D.H. 4's had the advantage of a tailwind as they tried
to stretch their fuel supply across the Rhine and back home. As the two formations turned west, 15 specks appeared over Freiburg.
At 17,000 feet the enemy clearly had a height advantage and were overtaking the D.H. 4's quickly. The specks grew larger and
larger and soon materialized into Albatros DV's. No. 55 Squadron's formations tightened up while observers checked their
Lewis guns and waited for the inevitable.
The Albatros formation broke up and attacked, and immediately Lt. Christopher
Young's D.H. 4 began to slip from its left rear position. As it fell over on its back, greasy black smoke poured from the
main petrol tank. Lt. Young and his observer, Lt. R. A. Butler, jumped to escape the flames. One attacking Albatros zoomed
past the left side of No. 55 Squadron's formations after pulling out on it's run on Young and Butler. Sgt. W. E. Baker swung
his rear Lewis guns into action and in seconds the DV burst into flames. With Baker's guns occupied, a second Albatros latched
onto their unprotected tail, raking the machine across the fuselage. Baker was killed instantly and the pilot, Sgt. F. E.
Nash, fought to pull the D.H. 4 out of it's uncontrolled dive. With the control panel instruments shot away, Nash finally
leveled out a few feet above German soil. He sideslipped into the ground on landing, ripping off the landing gear and lucky
to be a prisoner. It was twenty-five minutes past eight.
The remaining D.H. 4's tightened formations on the way home, and conflicting
reports claimed an additional two DV's went down. At 9:20 am, ten D.H. 4's returned to their base at Azelot field.
Two days later a rested Lt. Heater and 55 Squadron were flying
again. Climbing to 16,000 feet, their bombs fell on Rottweil factories. Direct hits on factory munitions sent 200 tons of
high explosives up in great columns of black smoke, witnessed by ground observers 60 miles away.
Twenty-one days and four raids later, on August 12th, 55 took part in what
Mr. Heater has described as possibly the most vicious dogfight of his career. Their target: the Prussian banking center at
Frankfurt.
By the time pilots and observers began to climb into their machines shortly
after 5 am, it was readily apparent that a beautiful day was in store. The sun was up twenty minutes later as Capt. Duncan
Mackay, DFC, and Capt. Ben Silly led two flights of D.H. 4's eastward. Crossing the lines at 16,000 feet they soon reached
Badon Viller, where German archie batteries opened up with full vigor but to no effect. Although the route to Frankfurt required
the bombers to pass some major centers of aerial defense, they somehow avoided enemy aircraft on the journey there. From three
miles in the air, the D.H. 4's dropped their explosive cargo on Frankfurt and turned west. The trip home would be more difficult.
As 55 passed west of Mannheim, they began to appear. There were so many that
they had to be counted by flights, as the sheer numbers were staggering. Over 50 Fokker DVIII's, Albatros scouts and Siemens
Schuckert DIV's stood between Charlie Heater and freedom. In the initial pass, Capt. Silly found a lone Albatros making head-on
for him. Pressing the trigger, Silly's Vickers ripped into the Albatros. Its pilot apparently dead, the Alb went into a series
of wild gyrations and spun through the center of the formation, crashing in the woods below. The enemy persisted in attacking
in flights of ten or more aircraft at once, searching for a straggler. But 55's formations held tight, and when a second fighter
approached within range, it's fuselage was torn apart by tracers from 2Lt. C. W. Clutson. It disentigrated in the air; pieces
burning all the way down.
With unprecedented tenacity, the German pilots followed No. 55 Squadron
across the lines until the British airfield was almost in sight. Along the way two more Germans paid the ultimate price, one
of which was shared by Lt. Heater and his observer, Sgt. Allen. It was almost 10 am when every single D.H. 4 touched down
safely at Azelot field, the sole loss being 2Lt. E. R. Stewart, DFC.
Although they had all returned, the 4 1/2 hour flight had done such severe
damage to the machines that they could not carry out any more raids the following day. But by the 14th of August the unit
was ready to have a go at Offenburg, where they encountered another 25 enemy scouts. They successfully dropped their cargo
and sent four enemy scouts down on the way home.
By August 23rd, Heater was a grizzled veteran and duly assigned as deputy leader
for the day's raid over Treves. Twin flights of D.H. 4's climbed to 17,000 feet, emptied their bomb racks and encountered
only four German fighters on their return.
| Heater's Distinguished Flying Cross made official |
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On the Treves raid I was deputy
leader in the second formation... the leader had to drop out, so I became the leader. It was fortunately an easy raid, so
my good fortune prevailed.
We generally went over in two formations of six planes each, which facilitated
easy maneuvering. French practice used ten or twelve planes, as did a few American squadrons, but the British liked the smaller
units best. At 55 Squadron we had four-bladed props. Once I came home with bullet holes at the base of very blade! (When
a synchronization gear failed, the machine gun would not cease firing to allow the propeller to pass in front of the muzzle.
More than one pilot actually shot himself down in this manner).
Around the end of August (actually the 14th) I was told to report to U.S.
(officials) at Colombey-les-Belle and take command of a new U.S. squadron. I found it was an artillery observation
squadron, so I was told to await a day bombing appointment (instead). On September 1, I was visited by Col. Sir Robert
Lawrence of the RAF, to inform me that I was one of nineteen U.S. pilots who were being awarded the British Distinguished
Flying Cross! I really felt that I didn't deserve it compared to it's normal award to an RAF pilot, but I was told that it
would create unpleasant reactions in high places, so I quieted down. I have never had occasion to wear it.
In mid-September I was recalled from a couple days leave, and when I reported back
to Colombey, I was told to go to Amanty, near Ligny, to take command of the 11th Squadron of the 1st Day Bombardment Group
of the U.S. Air Service. Their C.O. and five machines were shot down in a stormy raid during the Argonne fight, with only
one machine returning.
When Heater took over the 11th, he found the squadron at it's lowest ebb. On
September 18th, the day before his arrival, six machines were wandering through dense clouds and scattered rain looking for
an opening through which they could drop their bombs on Lauchausee. Gusting winds and miserable weather had prompted the C.O.,
Lt. Thornton D. Hooper, to mutter as he fastened his goggles, "I know this is murder, but the swivel-chair commanders don't
know it... so all we can do is go out and trust to luck." But Hooper's luck never came. Every time their formation passed
through clouds, it emerged broken and loose on the other side. Just as the 11th came out from one of these cloud formations,
eleven German fighters pounced. Two D.H. 4's flamed in the opening seconds of the melee. As the remaining four machines dodged
from one cloud to another in a running fight for the Allied lines, they were picked off one by one, unable to establish a
proper defense. Only one D.H. 4 returned home at dusk, hopelessly riddled with bullets, to relate the disastrous story. This
was the sorry situation in which Heater was supposed to take command.
| 11th Aero, 11,000 feet over Buzanzy, Oct 30, 1918 |
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| Heater was not on this raid; he flew his last mission four days later. |
I found a group of good fliers who were most dejected, who thought their next raid
would be their last and that the D.H. 4 would never bring them home. I told the group C.O. that the squadron could not be
ready for a flight the next morning, which he refused to believe. He was a converted cavalry regular and was replaced the
next day.
That morning I lectured my crew on the primary importance of close, tight formations,
and also my confidence in the D.H. 4, although I had not flown one with a Liberty motor. So I had one brought out, and after
finding my way around the strange instrument board, I took off. Of course, the whole squadron watched as I zoomed up after
a short take off and for 25 or 30 minutes I let all 400 horses move me around in actions that I had never tried before. It
helped a lot, and I later overheard one of the mechanics comment that "the old man has got it!"
Practice formation flying was the order every day that weather didn't make it impossible.
Our first raid, like all we made, was a short one (compared to the long distance efforts of No. 55 Squadron), and
I went along notifying every pilot that if he left enough space between him and the plane ahead of him, I would move in. I
started at the rear and twice moved ahead and landed just behind the leader. Never again, though.
I took part in only four of the squadron's raids, ending on November 3rd. They
were led by our flight commanders, who were excellent, and our morale and confidence were very high.
The changes that Lt. Heater made in the
11th began to take immediate effect, and as James Hudson remarked in HOSTILE SKIES, "Except for the arrival of this remarkable
young air officer, the morale and effectiveness of the squadron might have been shattered for the remaining months of the
war." Lt. Heater, groundbound by administrative duties, did not fly with the 11th until September 29, when he and his observer,
Capt. Peabody, participated in an uncontested raid over Grand Pre. On October 10th, Heater received a promotion to Captain.
With the doom of the Central Powers imminent, Capt. Heater and the 11th took
part in a joint effort of the 20th, 96th and 166th Aero Squadrons to drop propaganda over Bayonville on October 18th. Their
raid was briefly interrupted by four German scouts who could not penetrate the bombers' formation. Thanks to a huge number
of bombers, plus the protection of American SPADs, all of the 11th's D.H. 4's returned safely. The last serious action for
the 11th Aero Squadron was on November 4th, when two D.H.'s fell in a raid over Montmedy. One of the losses was Lt. Cyrus
Gatton, an outstanding pilot who was well liked and respected by his fellow fliers as one of the truly fine men of the 11th.
Gatton had served extensively with the French Escadrille Br 127, flying Breguets,
prior to transferring to the 11th. He had 24 bombing raids to his credit (tops for the squadron), the French Croix de Guerre
with Silver Star and was a flight commander under Capt. Heater. Having just returned from leave, Gatton was anxious to see
action and had requested to go on the raid earlier that morning. His D.H. 4 was hit by German ground fire while he was separated
from the rest of the formation. For whatever consolation could be gained, three German fighters went down in the Montmedy
raid, one of them in flames.
The following day was the last raid for the 11th, when they set out for Mouzon.
Due to engine trouble, only one of the D.H. 4's reached it's target, which is just as well, for six days later the Great War
came to an end.
The entire squadron personnel was exceptionally fine, for most of them had enlisted
hoping to be a pilot or observer. If the war had gone on for another year, several of them would have.
My last flight was returning the last of 11 Squadron's D.H. 4 planes to the Colombey
depot. I have never piloted a plane since... I'm still alive! It's too bad you are too young to enjoy flying as we knew it
- no regulations, no crowded skies, open cockpits - real freedom!
My life after the war was a good one. My business was in the railway equipment
field, and let me retire in 1960 with comfort, if not affluence.
At the end of World War I, Capt. Charles Heater, DFC, No. 55 Squadron RAF and
commanding officer of the 11th Aero Squadron USAS, had ventured over the lines a total of 17 times, won the British Distinguished
Flying Cross and was credited with four confirmed victories over enemy aircraft. Mr. Heater lived in retirement in Irvine,
California until his death on January 23, 1989. Humble to a fault, Charlie would write for hours to share his
memories with a person on the other side of the country that he had never met. For that I will always be grateful.
"Another cross, another star... oh flag, what you mean to me now." - Apples
Special thanks to Jack Eder and thanks to Capt. Charles Heater for his letters,
his help, and most of all, for his service.
Bibliography:
Members of the 11th Aero Squadron, History of the 11th Aero Squadron, 1922.
Morris, Alan, First of the Many, London, Jarrolds Publishers Ltd., 1968.
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