Oswald Watt; A Soldier of the Legion

	A photograph, taken from an aeroplane above, of a plane piloted by Lieutenant Colonel (Lt Col) Walter Oswald Watt, seen flying over German territory in 1915.  Lt Col Watt was an Australian who joined the French Foreign Legion at the outbreak of the war and flew with the French Aviation Militaire.
He was awarded the Croix de Guerre and Legion d'Honneur for his service. Lt Col Watt later joined the Australian Flying Corps (AFC) in April 1916, and was Commanding Officer of the No 2 Squadron in France before being promoted to Lieutenant Colonel to command the No 1 Wing AFC.

In the very early days o flying he became intensely interested in the new science. He learned all he could. in Australia, then went to England and joined the Bristol Flying School. That was in 1911.

His father was a rich man. So when Watt had won his wings be was able to buy a Bleriot monoplane. What a crazy old thing it looks compared with modern aeroplanes! But in those days it was very good-and very exclusive. The proud owner took his Bleriot to Egypt, where the weather was most suitable for flying. Then, after many a flight over the desert sands, he took the machine to France. Everywhere in that country were serious faces, whisperings ... the rumblings of a coming war. And Watt was determined to be in it, if it came,

War did come. Beating of drums. Rumble of guns. Villages, towns, burning in the night.

Lieutenant Colonel Walter Oswald Watt's aeroplane in Egypt, seen in front of a hangar flying a Union Jack on the flagpole.  The Bleriot XI two seater was the first British plane and pilot to fly in Egypt. AWM 2799

He sought to enlist in the Aviation Militaire of the Foreign Legion. This was most unusual. For here, standing before the grim recruiting officers, was no fugitive, no criminal - no man who wished to forget. It was not food and clothing that he sought in the Foreign Legion. And if it was adventure he yearned for, the world was before him; be could afford to go anywhere, to do most things. No, this was no ordinary recruit for the Legion of the Damned. But the Legion took him, gladly.

He who was an Australian captain and had been aide-de-camp to the Governor of New South Wales was now but a number, and only a recruit at that. He was "soldat de deuxieme classe," posted to Bleriot Squadron No. 30.

He loved his fellow-soldiers of the air. Grudgingly, then freely, they grew to love him; and in their own rough manner they showed their affection and respect. When the news leaked out that the big Australian was a captain in his native land, they called him "Capitaine."

Watt was transferred to No. 44 Squadron, destined to become famous in the French Army of the Air.  No. 44 had Maurice Farmans, clattering old crates we would call them to-day.

Those early machines of the Great War were so low powered that it was dangerous for the pilot to attack land objectives in them-for the planes could rarely rise high enough to be clear of rifle fire from the ground.  So clumsy were they to handle and manoeuvre that when shooting at enemy machines the observer was delighted at his good luck if he scored a clean hit. And what do you think! They fought with rifles and revolvers in the air! And they used to drop sharp-pointed darts on the troops below; "flechettes" they were called.

How different to the war planes of to-day, with 400 m.p.h. speeds, with multiple machine-guns and cannon and revolving turrets, with armour plate and plane-to-plane radio, with ranges running into thousands of miles, and oxygen tanks and cooking facilities and parachutes! Especially parachutes.

When, in the Great War of 1914-18, a machine was shot down, its crew crashed with it. There was no means of escape. Only the balloon observers had "life belts of the air."

But what grand men were those pilots of No. 44 Squadron, fliers of the Legion. Bearded, mustached, clean shaven. Laughing men, quiet men, grim men. Men of various nationalities, but all with one thing in common-the desire to fight for La Belle France. And Oswald Watt soon distinguished himself. 

This little story cannot tell you all his adventures while be was a soldier of the Legion. It can only touch on a very few episodes, and pass on to his other adventures, only to skim through these and pass on to other great men.

One morning the stalwart young Australian was above the German lines when five German machines dived at him -from all angles. In a whirling dogfight he quickly shot down one attacker and put another out of action. With the roar of a machine diving upon him, with another roaring up from below, be wheeled to fight-when a crashing blow on his bead turned his world to blackness. His machine slipped and, as he fought to regain control, spun earthwards. 

At the last second he did regain control, and his battered machine skimmed drunkenly back over the French lines. When they pulled him from the machine, blood was pouring down his head. But when they wanted to carry him he waved them back. On the arm of a French poilu he walked to a casualty station. The doctor attended the wound, ordered him to hospital. But the soldier of the Legion refused to go. His place, his duty, was with his squadron.

A week later he was in the air again. A Taube dived with a roar. Others came at him from all sides. The ambush had 'been set away up in a cloud. Again he shot his way back to the French lines, with the soldiers in the trenches blazing up at the pursuing Germans. He landed safely-with the main spar shot through. A miracle! How the crippled machine had held together in the air puzzled even the experts.

"The Australian leads a charmed life," declared a staff officer.

"Nonsense!" frowned a stiff-mustached old colonel. "He is a man of the Legion! And the devil looks after his own.

Perhaps his most exciting adventure was one day when he did not even have the thrill of a fight. He was soaring above the enemy lines, on reconnaissance duty with an observer. Keenly they observed the battle-scarred country below, seeking bidden machine-gun nests and camouflaged artillery. For from some well-concealed position heavy batteries bad roared into action, playing havoc with the French lines. The country-side was vibrant now with the sullen thundering of the guns. Sudden spouts of earth and debris were hurled up by bursting shells. 

But the special nest of artillery that the lone scouting plane was looking for was now discreetly silent. Now the plane was rocking to the thunderclaps, the ear-splitting crashes of anti-aircraft shells. Ever and anon, above the roar of the engine, came the screeching whistle of fragments of exploded shell. A splinter crashed through a strut, a hole appeared suddenly through the tail of the machine. But still the two airmen gazed down at the enemy lines.

Suddenly, for the crew, came a great, a terrifying silence -the silence of a dud engine. Crash of high explosive and crack of shrapnel could fill the heavens, but for the airmen whose engine had died there was only silence.

"Crash! Crack! Crash!" The ground gunners were getting dangerous. There was nothing for it-the machine bad to be put into a glide. Desperately Watt fought to hold every foot of height. Rapidly, far too rapidly, the battlefield was coming towards them. Would they clear the German lines? Could they? The pilot doubted it. There was no-man's-land pock-marked with shell-boles, staked with broken strands of barbed wire.

With each split second the detail of its desolation was clearer. Grimly, bravely, the pilot fought his losing battle with the forces of gravity. His hands and feet were busy as his keen eyes swept the approaching earth. And he saw a big haystack, surprisingly, still intact.

Now they were hurtling over the top of the German trenches, skimming the very parapets. Astonished faces stared whitely up at them. The airmen heard the startled shouts of officers. Then the plane hit and crashed, her nose in a shell-bole, her tail in the air.

Watt scrambled out and sprang to his observer's side.

"Hurt, old man?" be shouted.

"Don't think so! Winded a bit," gasped the struggling observer.

Watt lent willing hands, hauling him out of the wreckage.

But the brief show was over. Now the enemy was in action again. A machine-gun stuttered, rifles barked. The Germans in the trenches were firing excitedly at this new and unusual target. On the other side and immediately opposite, the French dared not fire lest they hit the men running towards them.

"Put your best into it," shouted Watt, "head down, and go for your life."

Instinctively he was racing towards the haystack. Machine-gun bullets now whistled around them; in moments these bullets would come in a hail. Watt glanced around; the observer was staggering, white-faced, gasping for breath. Watt turned back. The observer waved him away. 

He went back and supporting the observer made for the haystack. They made it and after some scary times were able to get back to Allied Lines. For his courage he was promoted to Brevet Capitaine and awarded the Legion d'Honneur. Later this was to be followed by the Croix de Guerre.

But he was getting itchy feet. The only thing he wanted more than to be among the fighting men in the Legion, and that was to be in the newly formed Australian Flying Corps.

The Legion hated losing him; he was one of them. But, fighting together the good fight, Australia and France were one.

" He is still one of us," said his commanding officer, "and it is but natural that the young eagle should fly with his own home brood. But we hate to lose him."

So the brevet-Capitaine was transferred to the Australian Flying Corps.

With his great experience and proven valour Oswald Watt was soon made a captain and a flight commander. Later he was given command of No 2 Squadron.

They trained in England, and No. 2 Squadron took to Watt as the Legion had taken to him. No one could help liking the man. He was a magnificent character, a splendid officer. His squadron flew from its English base to Saint Omer in France in one day. No British squadron had yet done that. Such a short trip seems laughable when we remember the world -travelling machines of to-day. But in 1916-17 the speed and reliability of the planes were far, far less than they are now.

Under the leadership of Oswald Watt No. 2 Squadron soon made its mark. But as a C.O., Major Watt could no longer fly to battle. His job now was that of the planner; the lives of his squadron lay in his hands.

He could not rest when his patrols were out, not until his young flying men were safe home again. His men had a deep and a real affection for him; he was the personal guardian of his officers and men, Not only did he plan their battles but, day and night, he looked after their health and comfort. He insisted that his flying officers should go to bed early, and that they should not be called unless it was absolutely necessary to disturb them. When the squadron was in action there was no rest for Oswald Watt-none until hours after they had returned and been tucked safely away to bed. On one of many worrying days a young officer had failed to return on time : Watt could not rest. Fourteen hours later they brought him a wire; the lad had crashed, but was safe. Watt threw his cap in the air in sheer joy and relief. Then and then only he went to rest.

He was now a rich man, but be lived as simply as his youngest officer. He could have had every military comfort and more. But what was good enough for his young eagles was good enough for him. His was a splendid code.

These written words of an officer who lived and fought under him will tell you more of Oswald Watt:

"He possessed every quality to make him a great leader of men. Courage, determination, an immense capacity for work, a stern and just sense of discipline, unfailing courtesy and thoughtfulness for all his subordinates and, above all, that greatest factor in leadership, a genius for endearing himself, without conscious effort, to all who enjoyed the privilege of serving under him. Only too many of us found in him a friend such as we had never found before, and such as we shall never find again."

That, too, is what his own Australian men thought of him. No wonder the Legion also had loved him.

In 1918 he was promoted to be Lieutenant- Colonel and was sent to England to command the Australian Training Wing. It was now very near the Armistice but no one knew that then. Watt immediately set himself the task of training these Australian fledglings to the stern job ahead. What a joy-loving, heedless, skylarking crowd they were. Firmly but kindly Watt supervised the training that was to turn these lads into cool, quick-thinking men who would prove a winged scourge to the enemy.

The Australian Training Wing was situated in the heart of a fox-hunting county where fox hunting for centuries has been not only a sport, but a solemn rite. One day a great hunt was in full swing over the placid English country-side. Stirring notes of the horn. Mustering of the bounds. The red coats. The Lords and Ladies and gentry on their beautiful horses. "Tally-ho !" And the fox was away.

Three young Australian pilots joined in the hunt from the air. They thought it glorious fun. They zoomed down with a roar, cheering on the fox. What sacrilege! And what complete confusion! Horses bolted in all directions, hurdling hedges, leaping ditches, galloping madly. Terrified, the hounds scattered. In whooping delight those madcap Australians carried on with the hunt in which only themselves and the fox were left. 

That fox had the race of his life with three roaring aeroplanes swooping at his tail, over hedges and roads, zooming down over the fields with wheels almost touching the earth. You can imagine how that fox sprinted! But be got away. And the young Australians wished him luck. They thought it was great fun when, in the mess, they told the story of the hunt.

Oh. but what a row! The hunting people were frightfully angry. Such a thing had never, never happened before. One of the heads was a Duke and what be didn't say on paper against those Australian pilots was just too bad! He dispatched a fearsome letter post haste to the Air Ministry. And the Air Ministry, in turn, wrote a terrible letter to the O.C. of the Australian Training Wing. That letter demanded the names of the culprits, and hinted at dire punishments.

Colonel Watt smiled. Then his face grew grim. What had been sheer fun was now a serious matter. The lads really had been at fault-but after all they had not understood.

The colonel shielded his men, refused to give their names. Instead, he went to the duke. At first His Grace was unbending. But Colonel Watt was very patient, very understanding. He knew that the Duke and his friends had a very just cause of complaint, but he wanted them also to realize the Australian side of the question. And as quietly he admitted the justice of the complaint, so the duke began to listen-and presently was completely won over by the charm of the Australian officer. 

They ended up by shaking hands and enjoying a good laugh over it. So the duke withdrew his letter of complaint, the Air Ministry lost its ferocity, and the young offenders, like the fox, escaped with a whole skin. But first they were ordered before their colonel. What he said must have been very effective. For never again did any one from the Wing join in a fox hunt ... in an aeroplane.

After the war, Colonel Oswald Watt, one-time a plain soldier of the Legion, returned to Australia. But his heart was still in the air and with the men be had commanded. A wealthy man, he helped his war birds to employment, helped them in many ways. As President of the New South Wales Aero Club, and in other activities be did great work for civil aviation.

Big business interests soon chained him to the city. But be still loved the bush. He seldom could get far away, but be had a lovely week-end camp at Bilgola, on the coast north of Manly. Here it was his delight to relax with axe and spade in garden and bush. He loved too, the surf on the pretty little beach.

One morning, he went for a swim. He never came back. But be left behind an imperishable memory.