He had the strict and intolerant views about some matters that probably arose from his training as a regular ranker. On 24th January he shot down an artillery-spotting DFW at 12,000 feet. “This crew deserved to die, because they had no notion whatever of how to defend themselves. Which showed that during their training they had been slack and lazy. They probably liked going to Berlin too often instead of sticking to their training and learning as much as they could. I had no sympathy for those fellows.” This was his forty-third victory.
But he could also be admiring. On patrol, he saw a DFW two-seater and led his flight onto it. It was below cloud, at 4000 feet, so he detached his companions to wait above cloud in case it escaped him and went down to engage it. His Vickers was out of action, so he fired his Lewis. For five minutes he fought the enemy down to 500 feet. “At last I broke off the combat, for the Hun was too good for me and had shot me about a lot. Had I persisted he certainly would have got me, for there was not a trick he didn’t know, and so I gave that liver-coloured DFW best.” There was an Albatros with a green tail whose pilot he had often seen in action, displaying great skill and shooting down British aircraft, including some of McCudden’s squadron. One day his flight met a patrol led by Green-tail and McCudden put a burst into him. The Albatros burst into flames. The German pilot had tumbled out “and was hurtling to destruction faster than his machine. I now flew on to the next Albatros and shot him down at once. I must say the pilot of the green-tailed Albatros must have been a very fine fellow. I had many times had cause to admire his fighting qualities. I only hope it was my first bullet which killed him.”
On 16th February he again shot down four. At the beginning of March he was posted home, where he was promoted to major. In April his Victoria Cross was gazetted.
On 8th July he was appointed to command 60 Squadron, one of the best. The following day, when he took off to join it, his engine stopped; and, going against standard procedure, he turned back. The aeroplane stalled into the ground and he was killed. He had scored fifty-seven victories.
Mannock, by this time, with an MC and bar, had spent some months in England instructing, and flying FE2s on wireless testing. On a chance meeting in London with Henderson he had been outspoken about his boredom and frustration. In consequence, he was posted early in March to 74 Squadron, which was working up for the Front, as a flight commander. He set about making himself noticed by organising sing-songs in the officers’ mess, leading at the top of his voice and “playing” with drumsticks on a collection of cans, tankards, pots, pans and glasses tied to the back of a chair.
The squadron arrived in France on 1st April 1918. His approach to fighting was highly analytical and — in keeping with his boring conversational style — he used to subject his pilots to a thorough and helpful analysis of every engagement. He was an inveterate do-gooder and busybody, but kind with it. One of his many concerns about his inexperienced pilots was with the effect on them of seeing aircraft shot down. In those days of easy conflagration and no parachutes, this could rapidly unnerve a new man to the point where he was soon a candidate for admission to one of Henderson’s hospitals for psychiatric treatment; and that was crude enough in itself to excite all sorts of new traumas. Mannock’s own mental state was none too well balanced. He soon became obsessed by the sight and stench of burning aeroplanes and of the men in them. One accident gave his growing insanity a shove closer to the edge of disintegration, and his nose a close-up, when a comrade crashed on the aerodrome and was incinerated.
One evening, after Cairns, a particular friend, had been killed, he was in great distress and mental turmoil. He announced that the mess must give Cairns “a good send-off”. After the usual rowdy games he rose to make a speech. “To Captain Cairns and the last dead Hun. Sod the Huns.” It was probably the best such oration of the war: brief, full of feeling and apposite. Next morning he was jovial once more: classically manic-depressive.
On 18th June, while on leave, he was awarded a second bar to his DSO and made a major. Posted to command 85 Squadron, he went first to say goodbye to 74. In the mess that evening he broke down and cried. It was his frank revelation of his feelings that endeared him as much as it often annoyed.
He found morale on 85 low. His predecessor, Billy Bishop, was a loner instead of a leader. He interviewed each pilot and got rid of those whom he found suspect. Three were Americans, all of whom he kept: Elliott White Springs, Larry Callaghan and John Grider. He began at once to teach his squadron to fight as a team and his pilots were immediately inspired with eagerness. The first time he took them out to fight, he selected three to go with him as decoys. Two other flights followed at different altitudes above. At 8.20 p.m. Mannock sighted ten Fokker DVIIs approaching. He dived with his other decoys and the enemy followed. When he signalled, five of the flight next above also went for the Fokkers. Then the third flight came down and took them by surprise. The fight began at 16,000 feet and ended at 2000 feet. Mannock’s squadron had no losses. The Germans lost five aircraft, of which Mannock shot down two.
When he heard of McCudden’s death he became more neurotic, depressed and full of forebodings about his own end. To assuage his fears he indulged in a week of solo sorties. He attacked every enemy he saw and could reach. After a week of hysterical destructiveness he seemed calmer. He now became obsessive about the neatness of his turnout. He talked openly about having a strong premonition of death: hardly the way to encourage his subordinates.
He invited a friend to lunch soon after equalling Bishop’s score of seventy-two. The friend said there would be a red-carpet reception for him after the war. Mannock did not think so: “There won’t be any after the war for me.” Later, when his guest mentioned a flamer he had shot down, Mannock asked: “Did you hear the swine screaming? That’s the way they’ll get you if you’re not careful.” The RAF has a tradition of black humour, but not of morbidity. “When it comes, don’t forget to blow your brains out.” The reluctant laughter at this gruesome “joke” soon stopped when Mannock described a burning aeroplane: many pilots carried a revolver to commit suicide if they were going down on fire.
He was shot down soon after, with the top RFC/RAF score of seventy-three; and given a posthumous VC.
*
The Escadrille Lafayette was disbanded on 18th February 1918. It took on a new identity, l’Escadrille Jeanne d’Arc, and the American pilots, who were transferred to their own country’s flying Service, were replaced by Frenchmen.
Raoul Lufbery, transformed into a major in the US Air Service, was sent to the newly arrived nucleus of the 94th Pursuit Squadron. It was commanded by another ex-Lafayette, Major John Huffer, but “Lur”, America’s most famous military pilot, at once became its pivotal member. The French were tardy in supplying the aircraft that America had bought. Presently some old Nieuports were delivered: but there were no machineguns for them.
Eddie “Rick” Rickenbacker had arrived in France in 1917 as driver to General Pershing, the American Commander-in-Chief. He applied to join the Air Service, but the general was reluctant to let the famous racing driver go. Rickenbacker had a chance encounter with Colonel Billy Mitchell, the Commander of the Air Service, on whom he made such a good impression that Mitchell persuaded Pershing to release him. In January 1918 he was a newly commissioned lieutenant at Issoudun, learning to fly. Race driving had made him an excellent judge of speed and distance. He proved a natural flyer and soon became an accurate shot. In March he was also posted to the 94th. Among the pilots were Reed Chambers and Douglas Campbell, two names to remember.
On 6th March, two days after joining the squadron, Rickenbacker accompanied Campbell, under Lufbery’s leadership, on the 94th’s first flight over the lines. They took off at 8.15 a.m. and climbed to 15,000 feet. Anti-aircraft shells were soon bursting near them and pitching their aeroplanes about. On landing, Lufbery asked them what they had seen. They had seen no aircraft, and were astonished when he told them that a formation of five Spads had crossed under them before
they reached the lines; another five Spads had passed within 500 yards a little later; four Albatroses were two miles ahead when they turned for home, and an enemy two-seater closer to them at a height of 5000 feet. This was their first, and chastening, lesson in how difficult it was to discern other aeroplanes until one had learned how to fly and keep a sharp all-round lookout at the same time. It was as well they had not had a brush with the enemy: they were still without guns.
There was another American squadron at the Front: the 95th, under Captain James Miller. But the 94th were sent on a course at the gunnery school and by l0th March their aeroplanes had been armed; while the 95th took their turn at gunnery school.
On 13th April Captain Peterson, Lieutenant Rickenbacker and Lieutenant Chambers were ordered to make the American Air Service’s first operational patrol of the war, at 16,000 feet between Pont-à-Musson and St Mihiel. They were woken at 5 a.m. and found a heavy mist. Peterson sent the other two up on a weather reconnaissance. After orbiting the field twice at 1500 feet they saw Peterson coming to join them and they all climbed to 16,000 feet. Before they had reached the start of their patrol line, Rickenbacker and Chambers saw Peterson glide down, assumed that he had engine trouble — they had arranged no signals — and carried on. After going up and down the patrol line twice they turned for home. The area was under fog and they had thirty minutes’ fuel. They now understood why Peterson had turned back. They dived through the cloud and fog, and lost each other. Rickenbacker had to go down to 100 feet to find clear visibility and scraped home with his tank nearly dry. So did Chambers.
Campbell and Alan Winslow had been detailed to stand by from 8 a.m. until 10 a.m. Soon after Rickenbacker landed a report was received that there were two enemy aircraft in the vicinity. Campbell and Winslow took off. Winslow shot one down in flames and Douglas Campbell forced the other down. Neither enemy pilot was badly hurt. The US Air Services’ first two victories brought the successful pilots telegrams from home and telephone calls from England and several Allied flying formations in France.
There were six members of the squadron who had been trained by foreign air forces and had already shot down five or more aircraft each; Lufbery, Baynes and Putnam, flying with the Escadrille Lafayette, Warman, Libby and Magoun with the RFC. But Campbell had done all his service with the USAS and been trained by it.
Later in the month Rickenbacker and James Norman Hall, a former Lafayette, intercepted a Pfalz and dived on it from 1000 feet above. Rickenbacker moved to one side to cut the Pfalz off, while Hall attacked. The surprised Pfalz turned for home, whereupon Rickenbacker fired and killed the pilot. On their way back to base they met flak. Rickenbacker would have turned away, but Hall flew on, so he followed. They then stunted for ten minutes among the shrapnel, in the euphoria of their victory. Rickenbacker’s delighted comment on the congratulations of their comrades was “No closer fraternity exists than that of air fighters in this great war.” It was extraordinary that a pilot with only four months’ flying experience should shoot down a hostile aircraft so late in the war, when they were a great deal more difficult to hit than the BE2 or DFW B1 had been, or the Voisin or Taube. The French wanted to award both Americans the Croix de Guerre with palms, but American officers were not at that date allowed to accept foreign decorations.
Rickenbacker said that the 94th was most anxious to prove its worth, because everyone suspected that the British and French, with three years’ fighting behind them, looked on American pilots with amusement and polite contempt. This was sensitivity: few experienced pilots would adopt that attitude. Everyone recalled his own novice days.
On 2nd May, the 94th suffered their first loss. Captain Peterson was on patrol with three others, among whom was Chapman, when they fought five Pfalz. One of these shot Chapman down in flames.
Lieutenant Elliott White Springs was one of several US Air Service pilots who were sent to serve with the RFC and, as it had become when he joined in April 1918, the RAF. He was on 85 Squadron, under Billy Bishop, and wrote enthusiastically in his diary about his welcome to England. “It is surprising how well Americans are getting on over here — much better than I expected. Everyone that has come in contact with the British swears by them. And the British will do more for you than they will for their own troops. Every club in England that is open to English soldiers is open to Americans. If the English soldiers are entitled to special prices, so are we. We ride on their trains at half fare and we are entitled to anything we want from their canteens. Yet when the American commissary was opened up in London, the first rule they made was that no one could buy anything who wasn’t in American uniform. As for me, I’m for the British and I don’t care who happens to know it.”
On 19th May he was one of the three Americans who went to France with Bishop, flying the SE5A in a formation of nineteen. These long flights were still fraught with uncertainty. One pilot dropped out with engine trouble after fifteen minutes. He took off again, crashed, and started once more with a new aircraft next day. Another crashed soon after crossing the Channel. A third made a heavy landing and broke his aeroplane. The squadron had, in addition to the Americans, two New Zealanders, two Australians, six Canadians, two Scots, one Irishman and six Englishmen.
On 4th June Springs landed on an aerodrome occupied by an American squadron near Dunkirk and said of it: “These boys are certainly down in the mouth. They think the Hun has won the war and are worrying about their baggage and girls in Paris. I asked some of them to dinner, but they haven’t much transport and have to account for every drop of petrol. I offered to send a car for them, but they didn’t show much enthusiasm. I gather that Uncle Sam is pretty stingy. Me for the RFC. There’s one thing about the British that I like — they realise the importance of morale. The British try to build it up, the Americans try to tear it down.” What he meant was that the RFC had learned the value of loosening discipline, whereas the US Air Service was still operationally inexperienced and on some units discipline was too strict. He would not have made the same derogatory comment about the 94th or 95th Squadrons, new though they were to campaigning. With men like Lufbery and other former Lafayette and RFC pilots among them, and someone with Rickenbacker’s character, the atmosphere was as happy as on the average RFC or RAF squadron.
On 23rd June Sir John Salmond came to tea with the squadron. Bishop had been posted home and Salmond wanted McCudden to fill his place. The squadron opposed this. McCudden had the reputation of shooting down all enemy aircraft himself and giving nobody else a chance. They asked for Mannock, “said to be the best patrol leader at the Front. He plans the day before and rehearses on the ground. He plans every manoeuvre like a chess player and every man knows his job. He has marvellous eyesight but only one eye.” The truth was that Mannock did not see very well with his good eye. Springs had something else to say, which fits Whitehouse’s complaints. Some of the officers did not want Mannock “because he is an ex-Other Rank and his father was a sergeant major. These English have great ideas of caste.” Maybe: but McCudden was an ex-ranker and nobody seems to have given that as a reason why he should not have the squadron.
On 7th July, Captain Baker, acting CO until Mannock arrived, put Springs up for a DFC, but this was turned down on the grounds that four victories were not enough.
By the time August was well advanced Springs was entering in his diary: “I don’t know which will get me first, a bullet or nervous strain.” Ground strafing was 85’s main task just now and the pilots, flying in pairs, were each making three or four sorties a day. On 27th August: “We’ve lost a lot of good men. It’s only a question of time until we all get it. I’m all shot to pieces. I only hope I can stick it. I don’t want to quit. My nerves are all gone and I can’t stop. I’ve lived beyond my time already. Here I am 24 years old, I look 40 and feel 90.”
The erosion of mental and physical strength, energy and resilience that afflicted pilots during arduous periods at the Front, and most oppressively at this period if they were heavily committe
d to strafing, was not, for most of them, caused by fear of death. It was the daily flinching from it that wore out the nerves. Its effects grew on them day by day, ravaged the constitution and undermined their sanity. Most of them were too young ever to have taken any aspect of life seriously, but they found the demands of their task were causing so radical a change of attitude that many wondered if they would ever be carefree and joyous again. The end of the war would come too late. They would be changed men and remain permanently different from the men they had been.
Almost the last entry in Springs’s diary is, in this context, as poignant as any lines of wartime poetry written by any soldier or airman who had served long at the Front. “Sooner or later I’ll be forced to fight against odds that are too long …” Or perhaps a stray bullet from the ground would kill him, or his engine would cut while he was low over the trenches on a strafe. “Oh, for a parachute! The Huns are using them now.”
At about 10 a.m. on 19th May, an enemy photographic reconnaissance aircraft was reported approaching Toul. The only pilot ready to take off at once was Lieutenant Gude, who was ordered to do so immediately. The French anti-aircraft batteries had been firing, but ceased. It was assumed that they had hit the Albatros two-seater, which was descending erratically. When it was down to about 200 feet, however, it straightened out and turned for the lines. Gude attacked it at once; his first combat. He was too far away to hit the enemy, used all his ammunition and returned to base. The anti-aircraft fire resumed, but ineffectually.
Lufbery had been watching and now dashed to the hangars on his motorcycle. His own aircraft was being serviced, so he took another. In five minutes he had overhauled the enemy machine, at 2000 feet and well within view from the airfield. The onlookers saw him dive, fire several short bursts and follow the enemy down to 200 feet. He swerved away with his guns apparently jammed. He circled the aerodrome, evidently cleared his guns, and attacked the enemy from astern.
The First Great Air War Page 33