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Description
September 14th 1918 will go down in 13th Aero Squadron history as "The Darkest Day". On that day German Lt. Han Müller and his Jasta 18 shot down four 13th Aero Squadron SPAD XIII's.

One of those shot down was 24 year old 1st Lt George Phillip Kull, flying on his 13th and final mission.

1st Lt Leighton Brewer in his epic WWI poem "Riders of the Sky" described the day like this:

The morning came: dark, glimmering and gray –
The Fourteenth of September; but the guns
Were thudding on the front, and the northern sky
Blinked with heat-lightning flashes: sudden gusts
Of damp wind swirled dead leaves around the courtyard;
Low scudding drift five hundred metres high,
And slanting from the westward streaks of rain.
‘Ground-strafing on the road to Thiaucourt,
And keep your eyes peeled,’ was the Captain’s order.
Already penetration had progressed
Beyond the first objectives; and the salient
At St. Mihiel was straightening, and Mont Sec
Evacuated. Khaki uniforms
With tin hats popped like prairie-dogs from holes,
And field artillery winked like city-lights
Afar from a dark train. But at Beaumont,
Some distance still behind the shifting line,
An earful of unsympathetic sounds
Saluted their arrival: ‘Ick-click-click-click’
Gunfire from the ground, till Stuart Elliott,
Content to serve as target for the Germans,
But when by his own countrymen assailed,
Cursed them for sightless idiots and returned
The compliment; and afterwards Bob learned
It was because their Spads displayed no stars.
Beyond that dun deep-rutted desert tract
Which had for four years marked the border-hem
Of Boche advance, the main highways appeared
Unoccupied, and a few straggling men
Alone were visible; but a staff-car
On some side road espying, Bob swooped down,
And saw his bullets knock paint from its mudguards;
So, hoisting himself in an Immelmann,
Again he raked the roadway, and the car
Swerved to a ditch, and out leaped four or five
Officers with peaked caps to seek beneath
Its bulk a refuge, but Bob back and forth
In figures eight gyrated, dealing out
Steel-coated raindrops till the ticking ceased
And cartridge-belts no longer fed the hoppers.
Then mounting up once more and southward heading
By compass, from the angle of his eye
Bob, no his consternation, was aware
Of four dark shadows sliding down the sky.
It was easy to be brave when flags were flying
And pretty girls were cheering and bands played;
For martial music would arouse desire
To do great deeds – but war was not like that.
There were no drums or trumpets or fair maidens
On the celestial sidewalks to applaud:
He was alone, behind the German lines;
His cartridges exhausted; no avail
His faithful Vickers now; his friends afar,
And four fast-flying Fokkers on his tail.
Then the dark shapes grew darker, and began
That horrid hammering noise that made his heart
Faint, and tomorrow his circles would adorn
The walls of some Boche barrack-room. He felt
The bullets thupping into his top wing –
‘Flip-flip; flip-flip’; a renversement he rolled,
Then instantly another, and before
Those sparking Spandaus spoke again in gold,
He had glided groundward, leveled off his Spad
And bumped the earth: forced down on German soil.
But his motor was still spinning. Over the side
Life-less and limp letting his left arm hang
And head slump forward as the Fokkers roared
Around him spattering bullets in the mud,
He, feigning death, eluded it. Not long,
However, before a musket or Boche bayonet
Poked in his face would wrench a ‘Kamerad’
From his dry lips, and then the war’d be over
For Bob Wainwright, and the quest unfulfilled.
But Fortune in the form of a patrol
Of Nieuports now engaged Fokker attention,
And Bob’s assailants turned off and pursued
The fresher scent. He, glancing around, viewed
A score of tin-pan helmets running up
With rifles; it was not a time for thought.
He gave his horse her head: a mighty roar,
And galloping down the field went Number Three,
And over the heads of the Boche infantry
Up-gazing in astonishment, to soar
On silver wing into the open sky.
Ten wounded stripes on Bob Wainwright’s top wing,
Each with a black cross marked; but Sergeant Nelson
Had her patched up and overhauled and ready
For the four-fifteen patrol
That afternoon
The enemy was strongly reinforced
By many skillful and aggressive pilots:
Pilots who knew no fear, squadrons of aces;
Men who could shoot as far as they could see;
A mighty tide of winged myrmidons;
And when they came, no paltry groups of fives
Or sixes, but like troubles in battalions,
Layer on layer, they swarmed upon the front.
There were shoals of dog-fish Pfalz and Albatrosses,
And the red-nosed Fokkers of the Flying Circus –
A mordant gang of butchers among whom
Were Udet, who already sixty planes
Had downed, and Lowenhardt with fifth-three,
Lothar the Killer, brother of the Baron
Wuesthoff, Rheinhardt, Goering and Sergeant Thom
With a score or two apiece; and many more
Knights of the Iron Cross were flying wedge
Swept from the sky the Allied argosies.

The Captain was the first to leave the ground,
Himself the leader: this time to escort
The 96th, as bodyguard assigned,
A stalwart band of Breguets that would bomb
Back-areas and railway terminals
From Metz to Thionville. A clearing sky
With wind shifting to northerly as they crossed
The brown by St. Mihiel, and swinging east
Laboured along. Bruce Hopper, Charlie Codman
And Brad Gaylord were members of that crew:
A reunion of the boys from Barrack Four,
For they together hardships had endured
At Issoudun, and strong esprit de corps
Existed among them. Perhaps the Boche
Dare not attack so many: they were strong
Twelve Spads and fifteen Breguets all in all –
Bob wondered, but he didn’t wonder long.
‘Wah! wah! wah! wah!’ his startled heart stopped beating
as though somebody’s hand touched the mainspring:
a scarlet Fokker with a tail of white
and small black Maltese crosses on the wing
came through them like a comet, and he saw
two streams of silver-feathered arrows stab
the plane behind his plane – ‘Wah! wah! wah! wah!’
two more flame-coloured bolts fell from the sun,
and two slow-turning shuttle-cocks with trails
of white smoke wabbled; then a fourth red flash
Struck as a golden eagle strikes a rabbit,
Nor missed his aim; and a fourth Spad went down.
That first one was George Kull in Number Eleven;
Bob knew that he was dead: he saw him crash
At the forest’s edge just back of the old front line.
Poor old good-natured George – it was damn rotten.
Funny, he’d been so keen on hospitals;
He wouldn’t need them now.’
Thin gossamer threads
Criss-crossed and the air clinked with an echoing sound
As ice when struck by iron. Bob spiraled round
As he saw the Captain do, but it made him dizzy,
So, flattening out once more, he scanned the sky.
The hyaline swarmed misty with mosquitoes
Like a caribou-swamp in June; but Spads or Breguets
Nowhere could he discover – they had vanished
Like the Thane of Cawdor’s witches into thin air.
Bob was the last to land; and in the dusk
The field was lit with flares, and those mechanics
Whose planes had not returned, like faithful watchers
And supperless, for their lost pilots waited,
Sharp vigil keeping far into the night
Long after there was any use in waiting.
And in the squadron dining-hall four chairs
Stood empty, and whichever was Bob turned
They stared at him in silent vacancy.
George Kull, Buck Freeman, and Steve Brody were
Among the missing, and plucky Charlie Drew
Who, scarce a week before, when furiously
Assailed by two sharpshooting Albatrosses
Whose first burst cracked his mirror, and whose second
His wind-shield shattered and his helmet creased,
Insult on insult piling, till he became
‘So damn mad’ that he vowed he’d ‘get those Boches’;
And so he did and a D.S.C. as well.

The smouldering damp logs of a wood-fire smoked
In the stone fireplace, and Stu Elliott said:
‘How did you feel today, Bob when you saw
Planes falling all around?’
‘Damn scared, and yet
Somehow I never thought I would be killed.
I think one often gets a premonition
About these things, for instance, take George Kull;
In spite of his good-humour, there always lurked
Death in his mind: he was the first to die.’
‘You’re right, he was. They saw a man will last
As long as he believes in his good luck;
And you believe in yours. With me it’s different:
I’ve figured out the pros and cons, and if
The War ends soon – say by Thanksgiving, then
I may come through, but if it lasts till Spring –
Well, I’ll be pushing poppies with the rest.
And I don’t take much stock in that “other world” stuff.’
‘No, we’re a godless bunch of bums,’ said Bob.
‘You’d think that being so close to death all day,
We’d pray our heads off; but we don’t – just go...
-------

Adobe Illustrator CS2, Apple G5 Power Mac, OSX Tiger.

Description
September 14th 1918 will go down in 13th Aero Squadron history as "The Darkest Day". On that day German Lt. Han Müller and his Jasta 18 shot down four 13th Aero Squadron SPAD XIII's.

One of those shot down was 24 year old 1st Lt George Phillip Kull, flying on his 13th and final mission.

1st Lt Leighton Brewer in his epic WWI poem "Riders of the Sky" described the day like this:

The morning came: dark, glimmering and gray –
The Fourteenth of September; but the guns
Were thudding on the front, and the northern sky
Blinked with heat-lightning flashes: sudden gusts
Of damp wind swirled dead leaves around the courtyard;
Low scudding drift five hundred metres high,
And slanting from the westward streaks of rain.
‘Ground-strafing on the road to Thiaucourt,
And keep your eyes peeled,’ was the Captain’s order.
Already penetration had progressed
Beyond the first objectives; and the salient
At St. Mihiel was straightening, and Mont Sec
Evacuated. Khaki uniforms
With tin hats popped like prairie-dogs from holes,
And field artillery winked like city-lights
Afar from a dark train. But at Beaumont,
Some distance still behind the shifting line,
An earful of unsympathetic sounds
Saluted their arrival: ‘Ick-click-click-click’
Gunfire from the ground, till Stuart Elliott,
Content to serve as target for the Germans,
But when by his own countrymen assailed,
Cursed them for sightless idiots and returned
The compliment; and afterwards Bob learned
It was because their Spads displayed no stars.
Beyond that dun deep-rutted desert tract
Which had for four years marked the border-hem
Of Boche advance, the main highways appeared
Unoccupied, and a few straggling men
Alone were visible; but a staff-car
On some side road espying, Bob swooped down,
And saw his bullets knock paint from its mudguards;
So, hoisting himself in an Immelmann,
Again he raked the roadway, and the car
Swerved to a ditch, and out leaped four or five
Officers with peaked caps to seek beneath
Its bulk a refuge, but Bob back and forth
In figures eight gyrated, dealing out
Steel-coated raindrops till the ticking ceased
And cartridge-belts no longer fed the hoppers.
Then mounting up once more and southward heading
By compass, from the angle of his eye
Bob, no his consternation, was aware
Of four dark shadows sliding down the sky.
It was easy to be brave when flags were flying
And pretty girls were cheering and bands played;
For martial music would arouse desire
To do great deeds – but war was not like that.
There were no drums or trumpets or fair maidens
On the celestial sidewalks to applaud:
He was alone, behind the German lines;
His cartridges exhausted; no avail
His faithful Vickers now; his friends afar,
And four fast-flying Fokkers on his tail.
Then the dark shapes grew darker, and began
That horrid hammering noise that made his heart
Faint, and tomorrow his circles would adorn
The walls of some Boche barrack-room. He felt
The bullets thupping into his top wing –
‘Flip-flip; flip-flip’; a renversement he rolled,
Then instantly another, and before
Those sparking Spandaus spoke again in gold,
He had glided groundward, leveled off his Spad
And bumped the earth: forced down on German soil.
But his motor was still spinning. Over the side
Life-less and limp letting his left arm hang
And head slump forward as the Fokkers roared
Around him spattering bullets in the mud,
He, feigning death, eluded it. Not long,
However, before a musket or Boche bayonet
Poked in his face would wrench a ‘Kamerad’
From his dry lips, and then the war’d be over
For Bob Wainwright, and the quest unfulfilled.
But Fortune in the form of a patrol
Of Nieuports now engaged Fokker attention,
And Bob’s assailants turned off and pursued
The fresher scent. He, glancing around, viewed
A score of tin-pan helmets running up
With rifles; it was not a time for thought.
He gave his horse her head: a mighty roar,
And galloping down the field went Number Three,
And over the heads of the Boche infantry
Up-gazing in astonishment, to soar
On silver wing into the open sky.
Ten wounded stripes on Bob Wainwright’s top wing,
Each with a black cross marked; but Sergeant Nelson
Had her patched up and overhauled and ready
For the four-fifteen patrol
That afternoon
The enemy was strongly reinforced
By many skillful and aggressive pilots:
Pilots who knew no fear, squadrons of aces;
Men who could shoot as far as they could see;
A mighty tide of winged myrmidons;
And when they came, no paltry groups of fives
Or sixes, but like troubles in battalions,
Layer on layer, they swarmed upon the front.
There were shoals of dog-fish Pfalz and Albatrosses,
And the red-nosed Fokkers of the Flying Circus –
A mordant gang of butchers among whom
Were Udet, who already sixty planes
Had downed, and Lowenhardt with fifth-three,
Lothar the Killer, brother of the Baron
Wuesthoff, Rheinhardt, Goering and Sergeant Thom
With a score or two apiece; and many more
Knights of the Iron Cross were flying wedge
Swept from the sky the Allied argosies.

The Captain was the first to leave the ground,
Himself the leader: this time to escort
The 96th, as bodyguard assigned,
A stalwart band of Breguets that would bomb
Back-areas and railway terminals
From Metz to Thionville. A clearing sky
With wind shifting to northerly as they crossed
The brown by St. Mihiel, and swinging east
Laboured along. Bruce Hopper, Charlie Codman
And Brad Gaylord were members of that crew:
A reunion of the boys from Barrack Four,
For they together hardships had endured
At Issoudun, and strong esprit de corps
Existed among them. Perhaps the Boche
Dare not attack so many: they were strong
Twelve Spads and fifteen Breguets all in all –
Bob wondered, but he didn’t wonder long.
‘Wah! wah! wah! wah!’ his startled heart stopped beating
as though somebody’s hand touched the mainspring:
a scarlet Fokker with a tail of white
and small black Maltese crosses on the wing
came through them like a comet, and he saw
two streams of silver-feathered arrows stab
the plane behind his plane – ‘Wah! wah! wah! wah!’
two more flame-coloured bolts fell from the sun,
and two slow-turning shuttle-cocks with trails
of white smoke wabbled; then a fourth red flash
Struck as a golden eagle strikes a rabbit,
Nor missed his aim; and a fourth Spad went down.
That first one was George Kull in Number Eleven;
Bob knew that he was dead: he saw him crash
At the forest’s edge just back of the old front line.
Poor old good-natured George – it was damn rotten.
Funny, he’d been so keen on hospitals;
He wouldn’t need them now.’
Thin gossamer threads
Criss-crossed and the air clinked with an echoing sound
As ice when struck by iron. Bob spiraled round
As he saw the Captain do, but it made him dizzy,
So, flattening out once more, he scanned the sky.
The hyaline swarmed misty with mosquitoes
Like a caribou-swamp in June; but Spads or Breguets
Nowhere could he discover – they had vanished
Like the Thane of Cawdor’s witches into thin air.
Bob was the last to land; and in the dusk
The field was lit with flares, and those mechanics
Whose planes had not returned, like faithful watchers
And supperless, for their lost pilots waited,
Sharp vigil keeping far into the night
Long after there was any use in waiting.
And in the squadron dining-hall four chairs
Stood empty, and whichever was Bob turned
They stared at him in silent vacancy.
George Kull, Buck Freeman, and Steve Brody were
Among the missing, and plucky Charlie Drew
Who, scarce a week before, when furiously
Assailed by two sharpshooting Albatrosses
Whose first burst cracked his mirror, and whose second
His wind-shield shattered and his helmet creased,
Insult on insult piling, till he became
‘So damn mad’ that he vowed he’d ‘get those Boches’;
And so he did and a D.S.C. as well.

The smouldering damp logs of a wood-fire smoked
In the stone fireplace, and Stu Elliott said:
‘How did you feel today, Bob when you saw
Planes falling all around?’
‘Damn scared, and yet
Somehow I never thought I would be killed.
I think one often gets a premonition
About these things, for instance, take George Kull;
In spite of his good-humour, there always lurked
Death in his mind: he was the first to die.’
‘You’re right, he was. They saw a man will last
As long as he believes in his good luck;
And you believe in yours. With me it’s different:
I’ve figured out the pros and cons, and if
The War ends soon – say by Thanksgiving, then
I may come through, but if it lasts till Spring –
Well, I’ll be pushing poppies with the rest.
And I don’t take much stock in that “other world” stuff.’
‘No, we’re a godless bunch of bums,’ said Bob.
‘You’d think that being so close to death all day,
We’d pray our heads off; but we don’t – just go...
-------

Adobe Illustrator CS2, Apple G5 Power Mac, OSX Tiger.