The Mammoth Book of Fighter Pilots

by Jon E. Lewis

  After that I pulled up away from him and returned to my aerodrome, for I had very little petrol left, and on my way back I felt very disappointed at having missed the last Hun, for if my Vickers had not stopped at the crucial moment, I think I should have dispatched him with much celerity.

  When I landed, the Major said that our Archie gunners had reported Huns falling out of the sky in pieces everywhere. The O.C. was very pleased, and so was I, for I had accounted for three two-seaters in thirty minutes.

  That afternoon the O.C. and I went out to see the remains of the Rumpler who went down in flames at Flers, and when we arrived we saw nothing but a charred mass of wreckage. It was a nasty sight, and it brought home to me more than ever the sterner aspect of aerial fighting.

  The next day I took my flight over the lines at Bantouzelle, and at once saw three enemy two-seaters coming towards me from Vaucelles Wood. I signalled to attack, and we lessened our altitude. I got behind the L.V.G. and fired a burst, and the Hun started to go down, with me after him. I headed him over our trenches, and as he went down low, as if to land in our lines, I followed closely, and saw him flatten out to land, but he put his engine on to miss a trench, and that must have given him an idea of making a further bid for Hunland. Thereupon he flew north, towards Havrincourt, at about 10 feet, and the pilot seeming to want to get back, while the observer was just standing in his cockpit looking at me, but not firing at all.

  At Havrincourt the pilot turned east, still at about 10 feet high, and I saw that he would soon cross the trenches, so I fired another burst into him at close range. He immediately spun and crashed in our lines, not a hundred yards from the L.V.G. which the salvage party burnt after I had driven it down intact at Havrincourt village.

  As I circled round I saw our Tommies assisting the occupants out of the wreck. I afterwards learned that the pilot was mortally wounded but that the observer was unscratched. How he escaped my fire I do not know, for when I fired my last burst I was directly behind the machine and the gunner was directly between my nose and the Hun pilot. I expect a bullet or two passed between his legs.

  After climbing again, I found some of my patrol, and then we attacked some V-strutters over Vaucelles Wood. We drove them down, and, that accomplished, we flew home to our aerodrome.

  At midday I went up alone, as the visibility was good, but I remained at 18,000 feet for nearly two hours before I saw an L.V.G. crossing our lines near Bantouzelle. I went down on him, but he saw me at once and turned for the lines. I was much faster and soon caught him, and as soon as I got into position he commenced circling. “Hallo!” I thought; “this artist has seen me at work before,” and I let him circle, for there was an easterly wind and I knew that he would go straight before long, so as to get back to his lines.

  I did not wait for long, for he suddenly dived away straight towards his lines, and I then got my sight on him and fired until he first of all fell to pieces and then burst into flames. As I watched the wreckage go down floating in our lines, I felt that my two hours’ vigil at 18,000 feet, when the glass on the ground was reading 20° of frost, had not been wasted. I flew home, and had a generous dinner, after which we listened to the gramophone for half an hour, and life again seemed full of cheer.

  That afternoon the Major and I walked to the neighbouring village of Heilly to see some infantry officers whom we knew there. It was a typical winter afternoon, snow under foot, frosty and a blue sky above. We returned about 5 p.m., and having walked eight miles in thick snow sat down and consumed immense quantities of toast and jam (not Tickler’s!).

  That evening was brightened by our own orchestra at dinner. They played all sorts of music, from “Poète et Paysan” to “Dixieland,” and after the dinner we adjourned to our ante-room to dance and listen to the music, for the orchestra was really wonderful. It is extraordinary what a different feeling a good hour’s music gives to a squadron, and I think that every squadron in France ought to have its own orchestra, for I think that good pleasant music certainly tones up a squadron’s morale to no little extent. I am digressing, for which I most humbly ask forgiveness.

  DEATH FLIES FASTER

  ERNST UDET

  Udet was the leading surviving ace of the Imperial German Military Service in World War I, scoring 62 victories (against the fallen Richthofen’s 80). Originally flying as an NCO, he painted the taunting message on his Fokker DVII’s tailplane “Definitely not you!” – but someone did, and Udet only survived the downing by baling out with his parachute. (A luxury not permitted Allied flyers, incidentally, who forwent the benefits of silk). Flying a new, and message-less, aircraft Udet was commissioned and became commander of Jasta 37 (Fighter Squadron 37). By the end of the war, the 22-year-old Udet commanded a fighter squadron in von Richthofen’s Jagdgeschwader I (Fighter Group I) and had been awarded the Pour le Mérite. In peacetime Udet became a stunt pilot in the movies, before appointment as general in the Luftwaffe in World War II. However, disagreements with his old cohort from Jagdgeschwader I, Herman Goering, forced Udet’s suicide in 1941.

  In the extracts from his memoirs below, taken from the years 1917 and 1918, Udet describes his memorable fight with the French ace Georges Guynemer, his transfer to Richthofen’s Jagdgeschwader I, and a subsequent convalescent leave in Munich.

  Jasta 15, which grew out of the old Single-Seater Combat Command Habsheim, has now only four aircraft, three sergeants, and myself as their leader. Almost always we fly alone. Only in this way can we fulfill our assigned duties.

  Much is happening on the front. It is said the other side is preparing an offensive. The balloons are up every day, hanging in long rows in the summer sky, like a garland of fat-bellied clouds. It would be good if one of them were to burst. It would be a good warning to the others in addition, on just plain general principles.

  I start early in the morning, so that I can have the sun at my back to stab down at the balloon. I fly higher than ever before. The altimeter shows five thousand meters. The air is thin and icy. The world below me looks like a gigantic aquarium. Above Lierval, where Reinhold fell, an enemy pusher type is cruising around. Like a tiny water flea, he shovels his way through the air.

  From the west, a small dot approaches fast. At first, small and black, it grows quickly as it approaches. A Spad, an enemy fighter. A loner like me, up here, looking for prey. I settle myself into my seat. There’s going to be a fight.

  At the same height, we go for each other, passing at a hair’s breadth. We bank into a left turn. The other’s aircraft shines light brown in the sun. Then begins the circling. From below, it might appear as though two large birds of prey were courting one another. But up here it’s a game of death. He who gets the enemy at his back first is lost, because the single-seater with his fixed machine guns can only shoot straight ahead. His back is defenseless.

  Sometimes we pass so closely I can clearly recognize a narrow, pale face under the leather helmet. On the fuselage, between the wings, there is a word in black letters. As he passes me for the fifth time, so close that his propwash shakes me back and forth, I can make it out: “Vieux” it says there – vieux – the old one. That’s Guynemer’s sign.9

  Yes, only one man flies like this on our front. Guynemer, who has brought down thirty Germans. Guynemer, who always hunts alone, like all dangerous predators, who swoops out of the sun, downs his opponents in seconds, and disappears. Thus he got Puz away from me. I know it will be a fight where life and death hang in the balance.

  I do a half loop in order to come down on him from above. He understands at once and also starts a loop. I try a turn, and Guynemer follows me. Once out of the turn, he can get me into his sights for a moment. Metallic hail rattles through my right wing plane and rings out as it strikes the struts.

  I try anything I can, tightest banks, turns, side slips, but with lightning speed he anticipates all my moves and reacts at once. Slowly I realize his superiority. His aircraft is better, he can do more than I, but I continue to fight. Another
curve. For a moment he comes into my sights. I push the button on the stick . . . the machine gun remains silent . . . stoppage!

  With my left hand clutched around the stick, my right attempts to pull a round through. No use – the stoppage can’t be cleared. For a moment I think of diving away. But with such an opponent this would be useless. He would be on my neck at once and shoot me up.

  We continue to twist and turn. Beautiful flying if the stakes weren’t so high. I never had such a tactically agile opponent. For seconds, I forget that the man across from me is Guynemer, my enemy. It seems as though I were sparring with an older comrade over our own airfield. But this illusion lasts only for seconds.

  For eight minutes we circle around each other. The longest eight minutes of my life. Now, lying on his back, he races over me. For a moment I have let go of the stick and hammer the receiver with both fists. A primitive expedient, but it helps sometimes.

  Guynemer has observed this from above, he must have seen it, and now he knows what gives with me. He knows I’m helpless prey.

  Again he skims over me, almost on his back. Then it happens: He sticks out his hand and waves to me, waves lightly, and dives to the west in the direction of his lines.

  I fly home. I’m numb.

  There are people who claim Guynemer had a stoppage himself then. Others claim he feared I might ram him in desperation. But I don’t believe any of them. I still believe to this day that a bit of chivalry from the past has continued to survive. For this reason I lay this belated wreath on Guynemer’s unknown grave.

  For the past six weeks I am the C.O. of Jasta 37. We are based in Wynghene, a small town in the middle of the Flanders marshes. The terrain is difficult, broken up by ground folds and water ditches. Here, every emergency landing means a crack-up. When one climbs high enough, one can see across to Ostende and the sea. Gray-green and endless, it stretches to the horizon.

  Many were surprised at Grashoff leaving me in command when he was transferred to Macedonia. There are men here senior both in years and rank. But, back in the fall, when I brought down the three Englishmen over Lens, he had promised it to me. It was a surprise success in Guynemer’s style. I came down out of the sun and attacked the last one on the outside left, finishing him with five rounds. Then the next one and, finally, the leader. The other two were so surprised, they didn’t get a shot off. The whole thing didn’t last more than twenty seconds, just as it was with Guynemer back then. In war, one must learn the trade of fighter piloting or get knocked off. There is no alternative.

  When I landed, Grashoff knew all about it. “When I leave here some day, Knaegges, you will inherit the staffel,” he said. Thus I became the C.O. of Jasta 37.

  Across from us are the English. Young, sharp boys, they take on anybody and usually hold out until the final decision. But we are their equals. The depressing feeling of inferiority, giving us all the doldrums at Boncourt, has disappeared. The staffel has a long string of victories behind it, and I myself have, up to now, nineteen confirmed.

  As the winter deepens, air traffic slows down. There is much rain and snow. Even on dry days the heavy clouds drift so low that no takeoffs are ordered. We sit around in our rooms. I am quartered in the country house of a lace manufacturer. Sometimes, when I sit at the window, I see the home workers bringing up their wares. They are bent, ragged shapes, stamping through the snow.

  The son of the house has entered the Royal Flying Corps on the other side. But the people don’t make me ill at ease over it. “He does his duty, I do mine,” is their point of view, reasonable and clear.

  In the spring of 1918 a restlessness runs along the German front, from Flanders up into the Vosges. This is certainly not the spring alone. Everywhere, among the officers and men, they are speaking of the great offensive, which is supposed to be imminent. But no one knows anything for certain. On March 15, the staffel is ordered to load up its personnel and aircraft at once. Destination unknown. We all know this is the beginning of the offensive.

  Along the highway to Le Cateau we set up our aircraft tents. The rain comes down in a fine spray, which slowly turns everything – trees, houses, and people – into the same gray mush. I have put on my leather jacket and help the mechanics drive the tent pegs into the ground.

  A car comes rattling along the road. Many cars pass this way, so we have ceased paying any attention to them. We continue to work in grim silence. Someone pats me on the back, and I jump around.

  Richthofen. The rain is seeping down from his cap, running into his face.

  “Hello, Udet,” says the captain, and he tips his cap. “Nice rotten weather today.”

  I salute in silence and look at him. A quiet, self-controlled face, large, cold eyes, half covered by heavy lids. This is the man who has already brought down sixty-seven, the best of us all. His car stands on the highway below. He has clambered up the slope through the rain. I am waiting.

  “How many have you brought down, Udet?”

  “Nineteen confirmed, one pending,” I answer.

  His cane pokes around in the wet leaves.

  “Hm, twenty then,” he repeats. He looks up and gives me a searching glance.

  “Then you would actually seem ripe for us. Would you like to?”

  Would I like to? I most certainly would! If I had my way, I would pack up right now and go along with him. There are many good squadrons in the Army, and Jasta 37 is far from the worst. But there is only one Richthofen group.

  “Yes, Herr Rittmeister,” I reply, and we shake hands.

  I look after him as his spare and slender shape clambers down the slope, climbs into the car, and disappears around the next bend behind a curtain of rain.

  “Well, you could say we have made it now,” says Behrend as I bend down beside him to continue driving the tent pegs into the ground.

  There are many good squadrons on the front, but there is only one Richthofen group. And now I see the secret of their success unfold.

  Other squadrons live in castles or small towns, twenty to thirty kilometers behind the front lines. The Richthofen group dwells in corrugated shacks that can be erected and broken down in a matter of hours. They are rarely more than twenty kilometers behind the foremost outposts. Other squadrons go up two or three times a day. Richthofen and his men fly five times a day. Others close down operations in bad weather; here they fly under almost any condition.

  However, the biggest surprise for me is the forward combat airstrips. This was an invention of Boelcke, the senior master of the German air service. Richthofen, his most gifted pupil, has taken this practice over.

  Just a few kilometers behind the lines, often within range of the enemy artillery, we are on fully dressed standby, lounging in reclining chairs in an open field. Our aircraft, gassed up and ready to go, are right alongside. As soon as an opponent appears on the horizon, we go up – one, two, or an entire staffel. Immediately after the fight we land, stretch out in our reclining chairs, and scour the sky with binoculars, waiting for the next opponent. Standing patrols are not flown. Richthofen doesn’t believe in them. He’ll allow only patrols into the enemy’s rear areas. “This business of standing sentry duty in the air weakens the pilots’ will to fight,” he maintains. Thus we only go up to fight.

  I arrive at the group at ten o’clock, and at twelve I’m already off on my first sortie with Jasta 11. In addition, Jastas 4, 6, and 10 make up the group.10 Richthofen himself leads Jasta 11. He puts great store in personally trying out each new man. There are five of us, the captain in the lead. Behind him are Just and Gussmann. Scholtz and I bring up the rear. For the first time I fly the Fokker triplane. We skim over the pockmarked landscape at about five hundred meters altitude.

  Above the ruins of Albert, just below the clouds, hangs an RE, a British artillery spotter. Probably ranging his batteries. We are a bit lower than he, but he apparently hasn’t noticed us, because he quietly continues to circle. I exchange a quick look with Scholtz; he nods. I separate from the staffel and race
for the “Tommy.”

  I take him from the front. From below I dart for him like a shark and fire at short range. His engine is riddled like a sieve. He tilts over at once and disintegrates right after. The burning fragments fall close to Albert.

  In another minute, I am back with the formation and continue on in the direction of the enemy. Scholtz nods at me again, quickly and happily. But the captain has noticed. He seems to have eyes everywhere. His head whips around, and he waves at me.

  Below to our right is the Roman road. The trees are still bare, and through them one can see columns move. They are moving westward. British retreating before our offensive.

  Just above the treetops skims a flight of Sopwith Camels. They are probably there to protect the Roman road, one of the main arteries of the British withdrawal. I hardly have time to take in the picture when Richthofen’s red Fokker dives down, all of us following. The Sopwith Camels scatter like a gaggle of chickens when the hawk stabs. Only one can’t get away, the one the captain has in his gunsights.

  It happens so quickly, one can hardly speak of a fight. For a moment one thinks the captain might ram him, he is that close. I estimate no more than ten meters. Then the Sopwith is shaken by a blow. His nose is pushed down, a white gasoline trail appears, and he crashes in the field alongside the road in smoke and flames.

  Richthofen, the steel point of our wedge formation, continues on in a steep glide toward the Roman road. At a height of about ten meters he races along the ground, both machine guns firing without letup into the marching columns on the road. We stay behind him and pour out more fire.

  A paralyzing terror seems to have seized the troops; only a few make for the ditches. Most fall where they walk or stand. At the end of the road, the captain makes a tight turn and proceeds with another pass along the treetops. Now we can clearly observe the effect of our first strafing run: bolting horse teams, abandoned guns which, like breakwaters, stem the oncoming human flood.