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William "Billy" Bishop: World War I Canadian Ace Fighter Pilot
An aggressive pilot and a crack marksman, the young Canadian became a legend and inspired a new generation of aces.
By Rich Thistle Major William Avery "Billy" Bishop was in his element for what he knew would probably be the last time in World War I. The powerful roar of his SE-5a's Wolseley Viper engine filled his ears. Damp wind buffeted his head and face over the short windscreen. Bishop's keen blue eyes searched all quadrants for what he desperately hoped would be there, but while the heavy drizzle that had started that morning had abated somewhat, he did not actually expect to meet the Hun today.
Bishop was scheduled to leave the aerodrome at Petit Synthe that same day -- June 19, 1918 -- at noon, less than a month after he had brought his new command, No. 85 Squadron, Royal Air Force (RAF), known as the "Flying Foxes," to northwest France and 14 months after his first successful combat sortie with No. 60 Squadron. Having promised to lend his support to the formation of a proposed Canadian Air Force, he could hardly argue the point when he was recalled to England. But that did not stop him from being mad as hell during his last sortie. He had written to his wife, Margaret, in London: "I've never been so furious in my life. It makes me livid with rage to be pulled away just as things are getting started."
In less than six months of actual flying time, Bishop had downed 67 enemy planes. He was proud of his success and had relished the game of collecting victories. He was also enjoying the notoriety his victories brought him in Britain as well as at home in Canada. Bishop was by now the top-scoring ace of the British empire, but in his heart he knew this was it, his last combat flight. What he could not have known that morning of June 19 was that history was about to be made.
A few miles over the lines in enemy territory, Bishop dropped out of the clouds to check his position. It was 9:58 a.m. He recognized the landmark of the Ploegsteert Wood, south of Ypres, and he also immediately identified the three aircraft flying away from him to his left at about 300 yards -- Pfalz D.IIIa scouts. This solidly constructed German single-seater carried two Spandau guns internally in the front fuselage and had proved to be a steady platform capable of absorbing a great deal of battle damage. It could be dived harder and faster than the Albatros and had played more than a small part in the revival of German air superiority in the early spring of 1918. Three Pfalzes together were not a threat to be taken lightly.
Having spotted Bishop, the German scouts began to turn, and Bishop followed them. By the time he had drawn a bead on one of the three, they had come halfway around the circle. Suddenly they dived on him, guns blazing. Bishop saw the tracers tear through his lower left wingtip as he got in a short burst himself. The three fighters slipped beneath him. Banking to the left to bring his machine to bear again, Bishop took a quick look behind him. Two more Pfalz scouts were diving on him at high speed. His instinctive glance had probably saved his life.
Now time was of the essence. Deciding to make a quick attack on the original three before the other two could enter the fray, Bishop opened fire quickly from what was for him an unusually long range. One of the three aircraft was struck instantly and its pilot killed. It fell away, out of control. The other two began to climb while the two newcomers, still diving and finally in range, opened fired on the SE-5a. Bishop pulled up into a steep turn, and the two German scouts passed beneath him. Then the two that had been climbing toward the cloud layer collided. Both aircraft disintegrated in a shower of wood, metal and fabric.
Turning his attention to the remaining two Pfalzes now climbing toward the safety of the clouds, Bishop sent tracers into one of them at 200 yards, starting the enemy aircraft spiraling toward the ground, only 1,000 feet below. The fifth Pfalz escaped into the clouds.
With the ceiling down to 900 feet, Bishop continued his patrol somewhere between Neuve Eglise and Ploegsteert. He was beginning to think of returning to base when out of the misty drizzle appeared an outline with which he had become very familiar in recent months -- a German two-seater. Without being spotted, he slipped into the blind spot beneath and behind the reconnaissance aircraft and, raising his nose, sent a short burst from both guns into its belly. It shuddered, seemed to hesitate in the air and then fell toward the ground. With the pilot struggling desperately to regain control of the aircraft and the observer slumped lifeless in the rear seat, the two-seater smashed into the ground and went up in flames.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Bishop was alone in the sky again. He hardly realized it at the time, but this had indeed been his finest achievement in the air. During his final sortie he had downed five aircraft in the space of 15 minutes. It was a fitting way to end a remarkable combat flying career.
The young Canadian who would one day become Canada's ace of aces was born in Owen Sound, a small town in Ontario, on February 8, 1894. Blond, blue-eyed William Avery was the third son in William and Mary Bishop's family of four children. His father, the Grey County registrar, held conservative views typical of middle-class fathers in the late 19th century. Young Billy became the target of teasing when he was sent to school dressed as a miniature bureaucrat in gray suit and tie, but he quickly learned to stand up for himself -- and often for his younger companions. His fists usually did the talking.
Although Billy Bishop did not like team sports such as football and lacrosse, he did enjoy individual pursuits like shooting, riding and swimming. He was handsome, intelligent and charming, but he was always an indifferent student. In fact, he came to hate school, cutting classes in high school to play pool downtown. His teachers rarely succeeded in hiding their low expectations for him. Realizing he would never excel academically, he refused to apply himself to his studies.
Bishop did, however, show great determination to perfect the skills he enjoyed. One of these was shooting. When his father gave him a .22-caliber rifle for Christmas and offered him 25 cents for every squirrel he bagged, Billy -- who had a great eye and steady hand -- turned his marksmanship into entrepreneurial success at home and throughout his neighborhood. He became a crack shot.
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