by Jon E. Lewis
These ugly rumours were soon dispelled. Another and much longer cross-country flight in the same Caudron resulted in a second forced landing, this time at Winchester. And not only was it generally agreed by the pilots of Gosport that, with Portsmouth so close, no one in his senses would have a girl in Winchester, but the condition of the “Gnome” engine revealed on examination that I could not have flown another yard in any direction.
I had broken nothing on this landing and I was now considered advanced enough to pilot the famous B.E.2c. As a matter of fact I am not quite sure whether the machine I flew at Gosport was a “2c.” or some other earlier category. It had a less powerful engine – an 80 horse-power Renault – cables instead of streamline wires, and wooden skids on the undercarriage. Altogether a less modern craft than the ill-fated machine I had seen burned at Shoreham, which had been of the type just coming into fashion.
But despite some preliminary nervousness due to the rumours of spinning, I soon began to like the B.E. as much and more than the other types I had flown. She was stable, easily manageable if a bit heavy on the controls, strongly built. One of the more experienced of the Gosport pilots had been known to loop his B.E. several times and no harm done, although he had not been allowed to repeat the performance in front of the novices lest we should be tempted to emulate him, which, frankly, was not very likely. After a few practice flights in this type of machine I was allowed to take up my first passengers, luckless young men who little knew into what trembling hands they had trusted their lives. Also I was allowed to fly in windy, bumpy weather that hitherto had been the signal for machines to be securely locked in their sheds for the day. . . . I flew over the New Forest, circling above lonely heaths and dark glades and gypsy encampments, retracing a hundred boyhood rides. I flew over the Solent and peered into the secret places of that shallow sea whose waters roll over my early dreams. I learned to fly a straight course by compass and to make allowance for the wind; I learned how to bank at more than 45 degrees, and how to do a spiral glide from a height of several thousand feet. The war? It seemed far away, but I would be in it soon enough.
xv
On the ground, during all this time, instruction in rigging and engine fitting went steadily on; occasionally we were given vaguely scientific lectures upon aerodynamics. And at length the great day arrived. A few of us who were deemed worthy were driven off in a Crossley tender to the Central Flying School at Upavon to be examined in our knowledge of aeronautics.
That the tests were not entirely easy was a matter of common knowledge. If we passed we would be qualified as pilots, if we failed we would be set back many weeks, perhaps months. Failure was by no means unknown. In my own case it happened that I was a little ahead of the customary time, but there were only two things I had cause to dread: that I might not yet have enough flying hours to my credit or – much worse – that I should not have sufficiently mastered the Morse Code, a thing which for years had tried my patience. We were required to read messages at a fair speed, so many words a minute. My average rate was so many minutes per word. All the way to Upavon I practised with a portable buzzer.
The examination started as soon as we had disembarked, and I quickly found that it was less terrifying than I had been led to expect. I was conducted round the sheds by a venerable naval airman – anything over thirty with pre-war flying experience was considered venerable – who asked all the hard questions of which I had had warning and who seemed surprised that I could also answer the easy ones. Another old gentleman – his hair was grey at the temples – took me to the repair shops and asked me what most generally went wrong with “Gnome” engines. From personal experience with the Caudron I was able to tell him quite a lot of things, in the manner of an expert, and I gathered from his friendly smile that I had scored a good mark. Then came the Morse. In a darkened shed a nasty little lamp flashed irritatingly before my dazed eyes. Pencil and paper were handed to me; I made a pretence of scrawling. And to my amazement the dots and dashes assembled themselves in the correct order. The letters, even the words came out right. But I must have been helped by some guardian angel, for never again was I able to repeat the performance.
The dreaded business was over. In the cool of the evening we motored home, singing and occasionally stopping at a way-side pub to drink to our own success.
xvi
Before leaving Upavon I had made fairly sure that I had qualified, but the official result was not announced at Gosport until a day or two later. At length the news came through. I was summoned to the squadron office to hear it. The Squadron-commander beamed, offered congratulations. I was no more a fledgeling, he said, I was a pilot, a member of the Corps, entitled to wear the badge and uniform, sic itur ad astra and so on. But to me it meant even more than that. I felt that I was no longer temporarily “attached” to the Flying Corps; I was permanently devoted.
In a momentarily serious frame of mind I hurried from the office and across the sunlit barrack square of Fort Grange. Barely six weeks previously, at Shoreham, I had seen a man burnt to death because of a pilot’s error. Since then I had learnt to fly. I had made no fatal errors so far, I must see to it that I made none in the future. I had been taught all the essential lessons. Now to apply them.
In the tailor’s shop I watched a man sew the Wings to my tunic. When this was done I went to the sheds and had the old training machine brought out. By my orders and upon my responsibility she was started up. As soon as she was ready I took her into the air. For half an hour I flew steadily and, in a Longhorn, for the last time.
Grinnell-Milne was captured, after a forced landing, in winter 1915. He escaped from a German POW camp two and half years later, returning to active service on the Western Front in May 1918.
THE RED AIR FIGHTER
MANFRED VON RICHTHOFEN
At first in the cavalry, von Richthofen joined the German air force to become commander of the 11th Chasing Squadron (“Richthofen’s Flying Circus”), where his habit of painting his aircraft red earned him the soubriquet of “The Red Baron”. The victor in 80 aerial combats, and thus the highest-ranking ace of World War I, he was mortally shot down himself on the morning of 21 April 1918 during an encounter with Sopwith Camels of No 209 Squadron RAF. His brother Lothar, who survived the war, was also a fighter ace, with 40 confirmed victories. The extracts below are from Rittmeister Manfred Freiharr von Richthofen’s own memoir, written in 1917.
17 September 1915
We were all at the butts trying our machine guns. On the previous day we had received our new aeroplanes and the next morning Boelcke3 was to fly with us. We were all beginners. None of us had had a success so far. Consequently everything that Boelcke told us was to us gospel truth. Every day, during the last few days, he had, as he said, shot one or two Englishmen for breakfast.
The next morning, the seventeenth of September, was a gloriously fine day. It was therefore only to be expected that the English would be very active. Before we started Boelcke repeated to us his instructions and for the first time we flew as a squadron commanded by the great man whom we followed blindly.
We had just arrived at the Front when we recognized a hostile flying squadron that was proceeding in the direction of Cambrai. Boelcke was of course the first to see it, for he saw a great deal more than ordinary mortals. Soon we understood the position and every one of us strove to follow Boelcke closely. It was clear to all of us that we should pass our first examination under the eyes of our beloved leader.
Slowly we approached the hostile squadron. It could not escape us. We had intercepted it, for we were between the Front and our opponents. If they wished to go back they had to pass us. We counted the hostile machines. They were seven in number. We were only five. All the Englishmen flew large bomb-carrying two-seaters. In a few seconds the dance would begin.
Boelcke had come very near the first English machine but he did not yet shoot. I followed. Close to me were my comrades. The Englishman nearest to me was traveling in a large boat painted with dark co
lors. I did not reflect very long but took my aim and shot. He also fired and so did I, and both of us missed our aim. A struggle began and the great point for me was to get to the rear of the fellow because I could only shoot forward with my gun. He was differently placed for his machine gun was movable. It could fire in all directions.
Apparently he was no beginner, for he knew exactly that his last hour had arrived at the moment when I got at the back of him. At that time I had not yet the conviction “He must fall!” which I have now on such occasions, but on the contrary, I was curious to see whether he would fall. There is a great difference between the two feelings. When one has shot down one’s first, second or third opponent, then one begins to find out how the trick is done.
My Englishman twisted and turned, going criss-cross. I did not think for a moment that the hostile squadron contained other Englishmen who conceivably might come to the aid of their comrade. I was animated by a single thought: “The man in front of me must come down, whatever happens.” At last a favorable moment arrived. My opponent had apparently lost sight of me. Instead of twisting and turning he flew straight along. In a fraction of a second I was at his back with my excellent machine. I give a short series of shots with my machine gun. I had gone so close that I was afraid I might dash into the Englishman. Suddenly, I nearly yelled with joy for the propeller of the enemy machine had stopped turning. I had shot his engine to pieces; the enemy was compelled to land, for it was impossible for him to reach his own lines. The English machine was curiously swinging to and fro. Probably something had happened to the pilot. The observer was no longer visible. His machine gun was apparently deserted. Obviously I had hit the observer and he had fallen from his seat.
The Englishman landed close to the flying ground of one of our squadrons. I was so excited that I landed also and my eagerness was so great that I nearly smashed up my machine. The English flying machine and my own stood close together. I rushed to the English machine and saw that a lot of soldiers were running towards my enemy. When I arrived I discovered that my assumption had been correct. I had shot the engine to pieces and both the pilot and observer were severely wounded. The observer died at once and the pilot while being transported to the nearest dressing station. I honored the fallen enemy by placing a stone on his beautiful grave.
When I came home Boelcke and my other comrades were already at breakfast. They were surprised that I had not turned up. I reported proudly that I had shot down an Englishman. All were full of joy for I was not the only victor. As usual, Boelcke had shot down an opponent for breakfast and every one of the other men also had downed an enemy for the first time.
I would mention that since that time no English squadron ventured as far as Cambrai as long as Boelcke’s squadron was there.
The Battle of the Somme
During my whole life I have not found a happier hunting ground than in the course of the Somme Battle. In the morning, as soon as I had got up, the first Englishmen arrived, and the last did not disappear until long after sunset. Boelcke once said that this was the El Dorado of the flying men.
There was a time when, within two months, Boelcke’s bag of machines increased from twenty to forty. We beginners had not at that time the experience of our master and we were quite satisfied when we did not get a hiding. It was an exciting period. Every time we went up we had a fight. Frequently we fought really big battles in the air. There were sometimes from forty to sixty English machines, but unfortunately the Germans were often in the minority. With them quality was more important than quantity.
Still the Englishman is a smart fellow. That we must allow. Sometimes the English came down to a very low altitude and visited Boelcke in his quarters, upon which they threw their bombs. They absolutely challenged us to battle and never refused fighting.
We had a delightful time with our chasing squadron. The spirit of our leader animated all his pupils. We trusted him blindly. There was no possibility that one of us would be left behind. Such a thought was incomprehensible to us. Animated by that spirit we gaily diminished the number of our enemies.
On the day when Boelcke fell the squadron had brought down forty opponents. By now the number has been increased by more than a hundred. Boelcke’s spirit lives still among his capable successors.
Boelcke’s Death, (18th October 1916)
One day we were flying, once more guided by Boelcke against the enemy. We always had a wonderful feeling of security when he was with us. After all he was the one and only. The weather was very gusty and there were many clouds. There were no aeroplanes about except fighting ones.
From a long distance we saw two impertinent Englishmen in the air who actually seemed to enjoy the terrible weather. We were six and they were two. If they had been twenty and if Boelcke had given us the signal to attack we should not have been at all surprised.
The struggle began in the usual way. Boelcke tackled the one and I the other. I had to let go because one of the German machines got in my way. I looked around and noticed Boelcke settling his victim about two hundred yards away from me. It was the usual thing. Boelcke would shoot down his opponent and I had to look on. Close to Boelcke flew a good friend of his. It was an interesting struggle. Both men were shooting. It was probable that the Englishman would fall at any moment. Suddenly I noticed an unnatural movement of the two German flying machines. Immediately I thought: Collision. I had not yet seen a collision in the air. I had imagined that it would look quite different. In reality, what happened was not a collision. The two machines merely touched one another. However, if two machines go at the tremendous pace of flying machines, the slightest contact has the effect of a violent concussion.
Boelcke drew away from his victim and descended in large curves. He did not seem to be falling, but when I saw him descending below me I noticed that part of his plane had broken off. I could not see what happened afterwards, but in the clouds he lost an entire plane. Now his machine was no longer steerable. It fell accompanied all the time by Boelcke’s faithful friend.
When we reached home we found the report “Boelcke is dead!” had already arrived. We could scarcely realize it.
The greatest pain was, of course, felt by the man who had the misfortune to be involved in the accident.
It is a strange thing that everybody who met Boelcke imagined that he alone was his true friend. I have made the acquaintance of about forty men, each of whom imagined that he alone was Boelcke’s intimate. Each imagined that he had the monopoly of Boelcke’s affections. Men whose names were unknown to Boelcke believed that he was particularly fond of them. This is a curious phenomenon which I have never noticed in anyone else. Boelcke had not a personal enemy. He was equally polite to everybody, making no differences.
The only one who was perhaps more intimate with him than the others was the very man who had the misfortune to be in the accident which caused his death. Nothing happens without God’s will. That is the only consolation which any of us can put to our souls during this war.
My Eighth Victim
In Boelcke’s time eight was quite a respectable number. Those who hear nowadays of the colossal bags made by certain aviators must feel convinced that it has become easier to shoot down a machine. I can assure those who hold that opinion that the flying business is becoming more difficult from month to month and even from week to week. Of course, with the increasing number of aeroplanes one gains increased opportunities for shooting down one’s enemies, but at the same time, the possibility of being shot down one’s self increases. The armament of our enemies is steadily improving and their number is increasing. When Immelmann shot down his first victim he had the good fortune to find an opponent who carried not even a machine gun. Such little innocents one finds nowadays only at the training ground for beginners.
On the ninth of November, 1916, I flew towards the enemy with my little comrade Immelmann,4 who then was eighteen years old. We both were in Boelcke’s squadron of chasing aeroplanes. We had previously met one another and
had got on very well. Comradeship is a most important thing. We went to work. I had already bagged seven enemies and Immelmann five. At that time this was quite a lot.
Soon after our arrival at the front we saw a squadron of bombing aeroplanes. They were coming along with impertinent assurance. They arrived in enormous numbers as was usual during the Somme Battle. I think there were about forty or fifty machines approaching. I cannot give the exact number. They had selected an object for their bombs not far from our aerodrome. I reached them when they had almost attained their objective. I approached the last machine. My first few shots incapacitated the hostile machine gunner. Possibly they had tickled the pilot, too. At any rate he resolved to land with his bombs. I fired a few more shots to accelerate his progress downwards. He fell close to our flying ground at Lagnicourt.
While I was fighting my opponent, Immelmann had tackled another Englishman and had brought him down in the same locality. Both of us flew quickly home in order to have a look at the machines we had downed. We jumped into a motor car, drove in the direction where our victims lay and had to run along a distance through the fields. It was very hot, therefore I unbuttoned all my garments even the collar and the shirt. I took off my jacket, left my cap in the car but took with me a big stick. My boots were miry up to the knees. I looked like a tramp. I arrived in the vicinity of my victim. In the meantime, a lot of people had of course gathered around.
At one spot there was a group of officers. I approached them, greeted them, and asked the first one whom I met whether he could tell me anything about the aspect of the aerial battle. It is always interesting to find out how a fight in the air looks to the people down below. I was told that the English machines had thrown bombs and that the aeroplane that had come down was still carrying its bombs.
The officer who gave me this information took my arm, went with me to the other officers, asked my name and introduced me to them. I did not like it, for my attire was rather disarranged. On the other hand, all the officers looked as spic and span as on parade. I was introduced to a personage who impressed me rather strangely. I noticed a General’s trousers, an Order at the neck, an unusually youthful face and undefinable epaulettes. In short, the personage seemed extraordinary to me. During our conversation I buttoned my shirt and collar and adopted a somewhat military attitude.