Individual replacement machines were ferried from England to St Omer, and this process did not slacken during the winter of 1916/17, as Stuart Keep, who had contrived transfer to the RFC while on sick leave from the trenches, testified. A qualified pilot awaiting posting, on 9 November 1916 he went from Farnborough as a passenger on one of the flights enjoying a ‘splendid view’ from the observer’s cockpit of a pusher aeroplane. The route took the crew via Guildford, Redhill, the railway line to Ashford and Hawkinge aerodrome north of Folkestone. Two circles cut in chalk close to Hawkinge gave the compass bearing for the cliffs of Blanc Nez on the other side of the Channel, and from 14,000ft, Keep could ‘easily’ see the French coast. Once over France, the route took the FE2b east of Calais to St Omer, where the aerodrome was situated half a mile south within the confines of the old racecourse.
Keep reflected that the life of an observer in a ferry machine was ‘not a happy one’, and it could be boring in the extreme once the novelty wore off. Regulations laid down that an observer must be carried with a loaded machine-gun in case of trouble. But scarcely did a threat from the enemy materialise so far from the front line.
While the confrontation on the Somme was at its height, the Germans had undertaken drastic administrative restructuring, which would have grave implications for the British despite their increased capability. In August 1916, Maj Wilhelm Siegert was appointed Inspector of Military Aviation, tasked with overseeing the training and equipment of the Army’s air division. On 8 October Lt Gen Ernst Wilhelm von Höppner became Commanding General of the Army Air Services, responsible for all aspects of Army aviation. The post of Head of Military Aviation was abolished, Lt Col Herman von der Lieth Thomsen made Höppner’s Chief of Staff. Under Höppner’s auspices, Thomsen rapidly addressed perceived shortcomings in aerial performance.
Acknowledgement that the Fokker E type monoplane had become ‘far inferior to the new enemy fighting aircraft, such as the single-seater Nieuport, F.E [sic], and Sopwith biplanes’ led to the ‘thorough reorganisation’ undertaken on Thomsen’s authority. Boelcke has been credited with originating the concept, but Immelmann seems to have been thinking along much the same lines shortly before his death. Thomsen ordered grouping of all German single-seat fighters into Jastas (fighter squadrons) each comprising fourteen machines. These formations were ‘to overcome the superiority of the enemy in the air on the Somme’ and in the longer term, ‘make [it] possible at any time to counter-balance the constantly increasing numerical superiority of the enemy at least temporarily and on certain sectors of the front’.
More immediately, single combat encounters or fights when in a minority must be avoided, ‘large formations up to a whole “Jagdstaffel”[Jasta]’ be adopted. Squadrons should be trained to perform as ‘a single tactical unit’. By the end of 1916, thirty-three fighter squadrons would be deployed. Growing numbers of Halberstadt D.II (doppeldecker, biplane) and Albatros D.II (nicknamed Haifisch or Shark) machines with 120hp or 160hp in-line engines increased danger for the RFC. With a better rate of climb than the Fokker E, they had two fixed machine-guns firing through the propeller. The German fighter force on the Western Front had therefore fundamentally reinvented itself.
Further notice was served of impending disaster, when the RFC lost a proven veteran at the hands of a rising German star and protégé of Boelcke. After completing pilot training, Manfred von Richthofen had flown an Albatros C. III two-seat biplane for reconnaissance and bombing operations. But his primary aim, inspired by the exploits of Immelmann and Boelcke, was to fly fighters. He fitted a machine gun to the top wing of his biplane, which he fired via a cable in his cockpit, and like Albert Ball he seized every opportunity to go up in a single-seat machine.
On 1 September 1916, having joined Boelcke’s Jasta 2, in a single-seat Albatros D.I biplane armed with twin machine-guns mounted above the fuselage forward of the cockpit (the type in which Boelcke claimed eleven victories in sixteen days) he accounted for an FE2b from No. 11 Sqn; his first confirmed victory. Richthofen continued to secure victories, and on 23 November in an Albatros D. II fought a prolonged aerial battle with a British DH2 in the Bapaume area before finally shooting it down. His eleventh victim was Maj Lanoe Hawker, who had won his VC near Ypres in July 1915; a loss not immediately admitted in the British press.
Richthofen applied his prowess as a wild animal hunter to aerial combat. He wrote about ‘the same hunting fever that grips me when I sit in an aeroplane, see an Englishman and must fly along for five minutes to come at him. Only with the difference that the Englishman defends himself.’ To commemorate his first kill, Richthofen ordered an inscribed silver cup from a Berlin jeweller; something he would repeat for future successes. The idea for this almost certainly arose from the practice of awarding an Ehrenbecker (Goblet of Honour) to an airman for his first confirmed victory.
British reluctance to reveal Hawker’s loss may be explained by unwillingness to overshadow the news that, on 28 October, Oswald Boelcke had been killed in a mid-air collision with one of his own squadron’s machines. Renowned for his qualities of leadership, organisation and innovation, quite apart from his impressive operational achievements, Boelcke was a prize scalp for the RFC. Erwin Böhme wrote that in trying to avoid a British machine in a melee over Flers, ‘for an instant’ he and Boelcke lost sight of one another. Suddenly Böhme saw his squadron commander and pulled up sharply, but the two ‘grazed each other … only a gentle touch’. It was enough to send Boelcke plunging to his death; whereas Böhme’s machine suffered only minor damage. Before and after bringing Jasta 2 to operational readiness, Boelcke had flown almost continuously for two months, often several times a day. Two days before his death, he had claimed his fortieth victory, the twenty-first since 2 September, and his final flight was the sixth that day. Like so many other airmen on both sides of the line, he may well have been suffering from mental and physical exhaustion. However, Erwin Böhme wondered whether Boelcke’s habit of not strapping himself into an Albatros cost him his life.
Richthofen, who witnessed the incident, revealed in a letter to his mother that the Squadron (Jasta 2) had suffered six killed and one wounded in six weeks, in addition to two others being ‘washed up because of nerves’. He added that Boelcke’s loss had ‘affected all of us very deeply – as if a favourite brother had been taken from us’. It had even wider implications, for Boelcke had been feted as a national hero.
Among the many official and unofficial messages of condolence received by Boelcke’s parents came one from Countess Margareta von Spee, who lost her husband and two sons in the naval battle off the Falklands in December 1914: ‘I sympathise with you from the depths of my heart. You too have trod the path that leads from victory to doom. I give you my hand in warmest sympathy.’
The end of the Somme battle and making plans for 1917 did not mean cessation of activity on the ground or in the air during the third winter of the war. After avoiding a transfer to a DH2 ‘spinning incinerator’ squadron, Ranald Reid went instead as a flight commander to No 20 Sqn, where he received an MC for his work with No 25 Sqn and a Bar for that on his new squadron. Like so many other pilots, he reflected on the tragedy of aerial battle:
On one patrol, I dived on a German biplane and opened fire. Either we hit him and removed his wings, or he was startled into a fatal dive which tore them off. As I watched the poor young chaps hurtling to death, I had all sorts of emotion, with pity overshadowing the triumph.
In October 1916, Tryggve Gran, then serving in his country’s air force after his abortive attempt to join the British air arm two years earlier, successfully applied for attachment to the RFC to learn about night-flying techniques against Zeppelins. He therefore found himself at Northolt, Middlesex, with No 11 Reserve Sqn wearing an RFC uniform under the name of Teddy Grant.
Northolt, he discovered, only undertook daytime instruction; night-flying training was carried out at Rochford, near Southend, Essex. On 20 November 1916, he travelled to Farnborough to co
llect a new machine. Taking off in the late afternoon for the short trip to Northolt as darkness approached, it was cold and blustery but a tail wind encouraged him to press ahead. The first half-hour was fine, then suddenly, ‘I flew into a howling snowstorm and all became inky and black and snow and hail whipped my face. Seldom in my life have I been gripped by such fear as assailed me now.’ With night rapidly approaching, ‘every minute that passed lessened my chances of a safe landing.’ Gran turned off the engine and glided to escape the cloud. Finding himself only 200m (650ft) above the ground, he realised he was over a large built-up area: ‘I saw flames from factory chimneys and a few lights gleaming in the thick darkness’; the wind having forced him north-eastwards over London. Quickly he turned round to look for a landing spot. Soon the house tops disappeared and ‘in the gloom and fog I found myself flying over land which appeared to be flooded. The situation began to be desperate.’ It was almost completely dark and he went down to 20–30m (maximum 100ft), where he picked up a railway line. Following it westwards, he saw a large locomotive ‘spitting sparks and fire’ and with ‘a happy feeling of relief’, a large field ‘more or less free of water’. He put down and rolled to a halt. Suddenly came ‘a frightful jolt and before I could tell what was happening both I and the aircraft stood on our heads.’ So ended Gran’s first experience of night flying in soggy terrain, but he was soon off for more conventional instruction at Rochford.
Gran’s flight that day was without doubt uncomfortable, but flying conditions in France were infinitely more unpleasant, as Harold Taylor from Clapham, who fought with the Machine-Gun Corps on the Somme, recalled. In his observer’s role that winter:
I stood up in my nacelle, my feet and back were frozen, and in spite of my face being well greased with Vaseline my nose was frozen. On these flights if any German machine had left its aerodrome to attack us, I could not have fired my guns. When eventually we landed home, all feeling had left my face and hands and to bring the circulation back I drank very hot milk and rum.
Ewart Garland was also in action during these bitter months, on 29 January 1917 he spent his twentieth birthday flying a daylight photographic operation at 2,000ft over the enemy lines followed by a ‘pretty cheering evening’ in Béthune. One shortcoming of artillery observation was highlighted on 1 February, when he was using a motor car klaxon horn to communicate by Morse with the battery. When it broke, he had to return to base for a replacement klaxon, which disrupted and delayed the shoot. Five days later, after a photographic operation in the afternoon, he was detailed to bomb Provin aerodrome at night. Despite ‘bright snow’ he failed to locate that or any other airfield, so he released his load on convenient railway buildings; ‘another instance of wildly indiscriminate bombing … fully accepted by Authority’. He was critical of using BE pushers in a bombing role. At best they could reach 12,000ft if light, but only 10,000ft with a bomb load. They ‘laboured’ for an hour to reach that modest altitude, which enemy fighters greatly exceeded. He felt more secure when, contrary to accepted doctrine, their own fighter escort remained with them rather than disappearing ahead in a sweep to deter and engage hostile machines.
Garland was happier with his photographic flights, recording on 3 November 1916: ‘Went up on photo work for 2½hrs – took photos at 9,000ft. Was archied all the time I was over the lines. ALL [sic] the photos were successful.’ It soon became evident that British advances in photographic reconnaissance and interpretation of photos were being matched by the enemy, and so more serious attention was paid to ground camouflage. Although hangars and aerodrome buildings could be concealed, tracks towards them or outlying latrines betrayed a military concentration. In February 1917, football matches were forbidden because players and spectators might become targets for aeroplanes and artillery shells.
Garland explained too how hazardous night flying could be. The only take-off and landing aids were paraffin flares, the aerodromes often rough fields and engines notoriously unreliable. Once aloft, the pilot’s only instruments were those indicating ground speed, engine speed and height. Garland found compasses ‘useless’ at night, as they frequently ‘spun madly’. He therefore relied on flying ‘by sight’, which could lead ‘easily’ to getting lost in cloud or fog.
Reflecting further on his operational environment, Garland wrote: ‘Many of us looked upon our active service squadron as “home”, much like sixth-form scholars or perhaps like a rugger team.’ As repeated references to sport showed, the squadron was the centre of sporting and social as well as professional life, with formal dinners and mess parties being supplemented by concerts and shows by visiting actors, one of whom was the musical comedy star, Leslie Henson.
James McCudden’s letters during the opening months of 1917 once more showed close concern for his family. Writing to ‘Dear Dad’ from ‘Your affectionate Son Jim’ on 23 January, he described how ‘a few days ago’ a ‘Hun’ airman had lost his way, landed on his Squadron’s airfield, realised his error and blew up the machine before anybody could reach him. McCudden wrote that it was ‘intensely cold’ with a biting north-east wind and four inches of snow on the ground. He revealed that recently ‘a few hits’ had been achieved during ‘two scraps’. One enemy aeroplane had broken away in a steep dive, as the other ‘attracted all my attention’; though he gave no further details of the encounters. It was, he noted, his sister Cis’s twenty-fourth birthday. He apologised for not having written, but he wanted her to know that ‘[his] thoughts are with her’. Thanking her for another ‘welcome’ letter, James McCudden wrote to his younger sister Kitty on 5 February 1917. Apart from a brief reference to ‘bright’ weather, which allowed much flying, he concentrated on family affairs. He wondered whether she had worn out the gramophone and whether there had been any good shows at the Empire since he was last home. He was pleased to receive a ‘nice letter’ from Eileen at Aldershot and another from Cis, which he would answer soon. It might have been a chatty communication from a holiday resort.
While Garland and McCudden were in action at the Front, back in England after his spell in France, on Wednesday 24 January 1917 at 2pm in the Parish Church, Saltwood, Kent, Capt Douglas Grahame Joy RFC married Beatrice Ernestine (Nesta) Gordon MacKenzie. Just over a fortnight later, his new mother-in-law, Kathleen Mackenzie, again went into battle on behalf of her sole surviving son. She noted in her diary on 15 February 1917 that having transferred to the RFC, John was currently on an observer’s course at Reading. Presumably Kathleen MacKenzie thought this meant an imminent posting to the Front. For, two days later, she went to Adastral House to see ‘Brigadier-General W.S. Brancker, Director of Air Organisation at the Air Branch’ only to find him out. Undeterred, she returned by taxi a second time, and managed to see Brancker, reiterating the loss of her two elder sons in action. He advised her that John should train as a pilot, though Kathleen MacKenzie did not reveal the reason behind this suggestion – it was possibly because of the training involved, which would delay any involvement at the Front. If Brancker hoped that this would quieten Mrs Mackenzie, he was mistaken.
As Mrs MacKenzie continued her personal crusade, improvement in the monitoring of Zeppelin wireless traffic allowed up to three hours warning of an impending attack on Britain, though quite where the enemy airships would end up was at the mercy of their own navigators and the weather. The string of defensive successes commenced at Cuffley had not stemmed the aerial tide, and in November 1916, a worrying increase in aeroplane threats to south-east England also became noticeable.
Particularly at night, defensive patrols against airship or aeroplane intruders remained hazardous. During his attachment to the RFC, Tryggve Gran resigned from the Norwegian Air Force and was appointed captain in the RFC with seniority backdated to 1 January 1916. After completing his night flying training at Rochford, he was stationed at North Weald, where he found himself on anti-Zeppelin patrol one cloudy night. The flare path was lit to assist take-off, but surrounding searchlights were unable to penetrate the cloud base
. Mechanics moving around the machine ‘like wet crows’ confirmed it would be impossible to go up. Whereupon, the OC appeared out of the gloom: ‘My dear boy, you have to go.’ Gran recalled, ‘Seldom in my life have I felt my courage fail as I did that dark and stormy night … drawing on my will power I forced myself to sit in the pilot’s seat behind the instruments apparently something like a normal person.’ The ‘pale-faced’ OC told him to land again if the conditions proved too bad.
‘I never had a more unpleasant experience in my life’, Gran recalled of his take-off that night. As the last ground flare disappeared under the wing, he felt rain ‘lash me in the face. Then a chaos of fog and darkness closed round me.’ The machine ‘jumped about violently in the wicked cloud layer’ before Gran realised he was flying upside down ‘and dropping towards earth with dizzy speed’. Having managed to right the aeroplane, ‘a cold sweat had broken out all over me and something inside me shouted “This is madness – go down”.’ But as his nerves settled, he turned into the wind and studied the phosphorous of the instruments in front of him. Glancing round, he realised that he was ‘over an immense white sea … a story-book world’. His orders were to ‘patrol the line North Weald – London Colney at 12,000ft for 3hrs’.
The ground was invisible, but taking into account his own speed of 60mph, the speed and direction of the wind, he calculated that he must be 25 miles (40km) south-south-west of North Weald. He therefore set course northwards. It was so cold that ‘from the wings and stays you could make out ice glittering through the stars’. After flying back and forth for two hours, the sky began to lighten. Suddenly, the engine stopped and despite his frantic efforts, could not be restarted. ‘The machine began to plunge downwards and the wing shrieked in the guys and stay wires. Where in the world would this end? … Like a drowning man, I cast an imploring glance at the stars and then the aeroplane sank into the fog and darkness.’ Down to 2,000ft and still only ‘the racing banks of cloud’, Gran fired a parachute flare, which ignited – ‘a ghastly flame shone through the murk and I was nearly dazzled by the glare.’ However, ‘as if by magic’, a wood and river emerged and, miraculously, a flat field. ‘What a wonderful sensation to feel the ground under the wheels again. It was almost impossible to believe it was true.’
Cavalry of the Clouds Page 15