The Hun is a Tricky Cuss: Aerial Combat in August 1918

In August 1918, First Lieutenant J. Darby Kenyon of Wauseon, Ohio, a pursuit pilot with the 148^th Aero Squadron, reported home the results of his first aerial dogfight with the Germans.

    "A pilot’s first dogfight is rather a milestone in his life because you congratulate yourself on coming back at all," he wrote his parents. "After you’ve got out of your first one altogether, you have some hopes, a world of experience, and are several years older. I am afraid the devils would be somewhat of a bore because it was very like all of them that you read about all the time. The Hun is a tricky cuss, believe me, and you’ve got to watch him, but I am beginning to believe that they are just as yellow as they are painted. I have been mixed up in several fights since then and have not fared worse than having a few bullet holes in my bus. So far, so good."

    Lieutenant Kenyon's luck wouldn't hold much longer, but he had no way of knowing that when he wrote these confident notes to the homefolks. Kenyon's letters were originally printed in the September 20, 1918, edition of the Fulton County Tribune. 

Lieutenant J. Darby Kenyon is among the pilots at Cappelle Airdrome near Dunkirk, France, preparing for a daylight raid raid on the German trenches in this image of the 148th Aero Squadron dating from August 6, 1918. Flying British-made Sopwith Camels, the squadron moved to Allonville Airdrome near Amiens on August 11th and soon found itself in the thick of the fight. Lieutenant Kenyon, attached to A Flight of the 148th, flew numerous missions from Allonville until he was shot down September 2, 1918 and captured. His squadron, badly outnumbered, tried to protect a flight of artillery spotter planes and was jumped by a nest of Fokker tri-planes which eventually shot down all five planes, including Kenyon. His war was over less than a month after he entered combat. 

Allonville Airdrome, Amiens, France

August 14, 19, and 25, 1918

          I came back from an early patrol this morning to find a letter from dad and a nice warm breakfast, good things for me to come back to, believe me. We don’t keep track of the days out here and I really don’t know what day this is as it is hard enough to keep track of the date, one day is much the same as another. There wasn’t much doing this morning except that Fritz’s “Archie” or anti-aircraft guns were better than usual. Coming back, we flew low over No Man’s Land; the dead horses, still unburied, the little groups of crosses and the utter destruction in general is by no means an appetizer, but that letter cheered me up and I’m feeling right chipper now.

          I am sitting in a wood where we are quartered and it reminds me of Crystal Lake near Frankfort, Michigan except that up there we didn’t hear guns raising the devil in the distance. There’s a funny tree here, too, that is very tall and its foliage resembles ferns. I don’t know what it is. A whole lot of experiences have been crowded into the past week both pleasant and otherwise, but I’m afraid there isn’t anything I had better write about. One thing though; I took my initial trip to the front-line trenches, my first and my last. I’m not going again unless I have to. They say that men get used to shells bursting and singing over their heads and all the other unpleasant things about a front-line trench, but I don’t think I ever could as once is quite enough.

          The past week has been another full of events. One in particular was my first regular flight in the air and a pilot’s first dogfight is rather a milestone in his life because you congratulate yourself on coming back at all. After you’ve got out of your first one altogether, you have some hopes, a world of experience, and are several years older. I am afraid the devils would be somewhat of a bore because it was very like all of them that you read about all the time. The Hun is a tricky cuss, believe me, and you’ve got to watch him, but I am beginning to believe that they are just as yellow as they are painted. I have been mixed up in several fights since then and have not fared worse than having a few bullet holes in my bus. So far, so good.

          I am feeling a little down in the mouth today for yesterday [August 24^th] one of my best friends in the squadron “went west,” that is I think he was killed for he never came back from the lines. We were doing ground strafing and have been for the past few days and I tell you it is hell. You go out in pairs or alone, drop your bombs, and shoot up anything you happen to see if the roads or in the villages while they make it darned hot for you from the ground with machine guns, field guns, and Archies not to mention tractors, Pom-Poms, and flaming onions. About the only thing they can’t do to you is gas you.

          On my last trip yesterday I was all alone and I met a Hun Two-seater observation plane. I dived on him and opened up both guns, his observer returning the compliment. After I had fired only a short burst both my guns jammed and I had to break off and head for our lines as fast as I could go. When I got back, I found that he has put a burst into my engine but luckily hadn’t hit anything important. I was never quite so put out in my life as when my guns failed for I certainly had cold meat in that Hun. I had the advantage in position and height and it would have been right nice to get a two-seater all alone.

          I think I had best cut this short for I expect a call anytime to go over a drop a few pills on Fritz’s transport or something. To be right here and see the war is like trying to comprehend space or infinite time. I wonder if it really is going to end someday.

          Darby’s war ended shortly after he wrote this letter. On September 2, 1918, Darby was flying one of five Sopwith Camels from his squadron when the flight was jumped by a large number of German Fokker fight planes. Darby was subsequently shot down and captured by the Germans. He survived his imprisonment and returned to the U.S. in 1919.

 Source:

Letter from First Lieutenant Johnson Darby Kenyon, 148^th Aero Squadron, Fulton County Tribune (Ohio), September 20, 1918, pg. 1