Hendon, in North London, had also become the site of a thriving aerodrome, where several manufacturers occupied the workshops and hangars and the public paid to watch displays. The first home of Army flying was established at Larkhill, on Salisbury Plain.
Air races began to be held, in Britain and abroad, and attracted entrants from many countries.
Meanwhile the establishment at Farnborough had changed its name to the Army Aircraft Factory and there, aeroplane design and manufacture were also going ahead.
*
Early in 1910, the Italian Army acquired its first aeroplanes, “a heterogeneous assortment under foreign labels,” according to the archives, “Blériot, Etrich, Nieuport, and Farman biplanes. Powered by engines of 45 to 65 h.p., flying at 80-90 kilometres an hour, they succeeded in toiling up to more than 1000 metres with only the pilot aboard, and 500-600 metres when he was accompanied by an observer.”
In 1911, when the Italo-Turkish war broke out in Libya (a Turkish colony since the sixteenth century and now coveted by Italy) a grandiloquently designated “Air Fleet”, consisting of two Blériots, two Farmans, two Etrichs and three Nieuports, all with 50-h.p. motors, was taken by sea from Naples to an improvised aerodrome at Tripoli. The official historian notes that it was near the Jewish cemetery: which must have been more than a trifle disconcerting for the aviators; a macabre reminder of mortality, when every take-off in those primitive machines threatened to be fatal.
The honour of making the world’s first operational sortie in an aeroplane fell to Captain Carlo Piazza, the Commanding Officer, flying a Blériot, on 23rd October 1911.
The majority of flights were on reconnaissance, “as had been foreseen”, the archivist tells us: so the Italian Army had manifestly been as sharply foresighted as the French. “This employment proved opportune and rewarding.” In addition, photographic sorties were flown; and, for the first time in history, the direction of artillery fire was done from an aeroplane.
The first air raid ever made is credited to Sub-Lieutenant Giulio Gavotti, who dropped one bomb on Ain Zara and three on Tagiura. “These bombs, named ‘Cipelli’, after their inventor, were spherical in shape, little bigger than an orange, and weighed two kilogrammes; they were dropped overboard by hand, after the pilot had wrenched off the safety catch with his teeth, to leave his hands free for flying the aeroplane.”
“The exploits of the Italian airmen resounded around the world,” the official records claim. Certainly The Times of 12th August 1912 admired them: “Nobody can have witnessed the deeds performed by the aeroplanes at Tripoli without feeling profoundly impressed by the courage and skill of the Italian pilots, and without being convinced of the practical value of aeroplanes in time of war.”
Berliner Tageblatt on l0th September 1912 wrote: “The Italian Headquarters, thanks to its aeroplanes, is always informed about whatever movements are made by the Turkish troops, and, in consequence, always knows their disposition.” It added: “The old maps of the French General Staff were inexact and unserviceable; the map designed and printed by the Italians, based on photography, and the relief details obtained from the air, will be most useful for future operations.”
There was no lack of predictions about the inevitable development of aerial warfare. The September 1912 issue of the British magazine Central News declared: “This war has clearly shown how the aeroplane, capable of penetrating deeply into enemy territory, constitutes in the near future a terrible method of destruction. This new instrument of war is destined to revolutionise modern strategy and tactics.” So some journalist, evidently, was more perceptive than many senior British officers and Ministers. He went on to say: “What I have seen in the deserts of Tripolitania has convinced me that a great British air fleet needs to be created.”
After the successes of the air force in Libya, Major Giulio Douhet, a respected visionary of aerial warfare, wrote: “A new weapon has appeared: the weapon of the air; a new fact has presented itself in the story of war: the principle of war in the air.” The archivist’s comment on this is: “Nevertheless — nemo propheta in patria — so modest was the development of the air arm in Italy, that on entering the war against Austria in 1915 our Army had only a few score aeroplanes, still of French construction or design.”
CHAPTER 3 - The Build-Up
It was difficult to persuade anyone in the British Services or Government of the importance that air power would have in the next war. Its advocates faced sheer incredulity as much as ingrained reactionary prejudice. None the less, the Air Battalion of the Royal Engineers was created on 1st April 1911, consisting of Headquarters and Number One Company, airships, at Farnborough; and Number Two Company, aeroplanes, with Captain Fulton commanding, at Larkhill. Officers were to be selected from any arm or branch of the Service for six months’ training on probation, followed by four years’ attachment. Apparently, they were not expected to devote the rest of their careers to aviation. Other ranks were to be taken only from the RE.
This was a time of some bewilderment about the direction that Army aviation should take. There was no emphasis on aeroplanes: they, airships and balloons were all within the warrant of the new formation. It was commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Sir Alexander Bannerman, who was not an aeroplane pilot, but a balloon specialist. But there were others who were outstanding protagonists of heavier-than-air machines. Captain J. D. B. Fulton, who had qualified as a pilot in 1909, and Captain Bertram Dickson, who “got his ticket” in 1910 were both Gunners. The latter died in 1913 from injuries in an aerial collision three years earlier. Captain Lancelot Gibbs was a third who shares with them the distinction of being the first British Army pilots. He soon had to abandon flying after an accident.
The Admiralty allowed Captain E. L. Gerrard, Royal Marines, and three naval officers, Lieutenants C. R. Samson, R. Gregory and A. M. Longmore,[2] to be taught to fly. This was done at Eastchurch, which became the centre of Naval aviation.
Two significant developments occurred at the 1910 autumn manoeuvres. A wireless signal was transmitted from a Bristol Biplane to a receiver a quarter of a mile away; and Captain Dickson made an attempt to use another of these aircraft for scouting. The cavalry automatically objected on two grounds: that it would usurp their function, and, moreover, frighten their horses. One reconnaissance flight was agreed, however, but had to be cancelled on account of gusty winds; which did not enhance aviation in the eyes of the military in general.
Of the many misconceptions that survive about the air force in its earliest days, perhaps the most insistent concerns the type of man it sought as ideal pilot material. The dogma that good horsemen would make the best pilots, because they had “good hands”, prompted interviewing officers to ask applicants “Do you ride?”. This in turn led to the erroneous supposition in later years that the majority of those selected were cavalrymen. This was not so. To be a competent horseman was not synonymous with being a lancer, hussar or dragoon. In the Edwardian and early George V eras, to ride was a normal accomplishment of the upper and middle classes — “the officer caste” — for sport or as a means of transportation. Gentlemen Cadets at the Royal Military Academy, Woolwich, preparing to be Artillery and Engineer officers, and at the Royal Military College, Sandhurst, bound for the infantry, were put through riding school. Every commissioned officer was, therefore, a horseman. Of the 105 RFC officers who went to France in August 1914, a mere five had transferred from the cavalry and one from the Royal Horse Artillery. There were eleven other former artillerymen. All the rest had come from the infantry, except for one doctor and one member of the Intelligence Corps.
Both initial and continuation training were haphazard. The spirit of improvisation, adventure and joyous uncertainty prevalent at Brooklands pervaded Larkhill. The new Army pilots were instructed on a miscellany of Blériots, Farmans and Bristol Boxkites. Remarkably, there were no accidents. Civilian clothes were worn for flying. Cross-country work predominated and pilots spent about half their time away, delayed sometimes as lo
ng as a week by engine trouble; or after having forced-landed on some country estate where they were well entertained. No practices in co-operation with other arms were attempted.
In 1911, also, there appeared at the Bristol Flying School at Brooklands a figure destined to be of seminal importance in the story of what was to burgeon from the Air Battalion, bear its first blossoms as the Royal Flying Corps and attain full bloom as the Royal Air Force. He was Brigadier General David Henderson, a Scot, born in Glasgow on 11th August 1862, and known as the handsomest man in the British Army. An incident that occurred while he was at Staff College reveals his unassuming and modest nature. Needing to find the Mess Sergeant, he went to the latter’s married quarters, instead, as most officers would, of sending a runner to fetch him. He happened to be wearing full dress. The sergeant’s wife answered the door but stood staring at him, dumbstruck.
“What is the matter, Mrs X, are you ill?” Henderson asked.
“Lord, sir,” she replied, “I can’t take my eyes off you.”
Her admiration merely amused him. Conceit, like pomposity, had no place in his character.
When he enrolled at the flying school he did so as “Mr Henry Davidson”: to avoid the special attention he would otherwise have received. Living at Byfleet, a few miles from Brooklands, and working at the War Office, he had to fit in his daily flying lessons at dawn.
This dedication was not unexpected in a man whom John Buchan described as “The perfect combination of the two Scottish race stocks, the lowland and the highland, the Covenanting and Cavalier. He had the shrewd canniness of the lowlands, their long patience, their dislike of humbug, their sense of irony in life and character. And he had, too, something of the tough knuckle of obstinacy which goes with these endowments. A touch of the ‘Shorter Catechism’ was not wanting, for he had an austere sense of duty and a vigilant conscience. On the other hand were imagination and a warm generosity of heart. He was always extraordinarily susceptible to new ideas and quick to kindle. He had his countrymen’s capacity for honest sentiment; tradition and romance played on his mind like music; and behind his reserve lay something gay and adventurous and debonair. All this might be read in his face, one of the handsomest I have ever seen.”
Major General the Hon J. E. B. Seely (at that time, Lieutenant Colonel) described him as “a most remarkable man, with the qualities of courage, constancy, charm and industry, each in exceptional degree”. Courage it certainly required to learn to fly at the age of forty-eight when everyone told him that, with the aeroplanes of that era, it was a most dangerous and indeed foolish enterprise.
Captain Howard Pixton, who taught Henderson to fly, wrote to a friend: “He stands out in my mind as being one of the finest and straightest men I have ever known. He had a beautiful ‘touch’ and would have made a splendid aviator had he gone in for it thoroughly. He picked it up straight away and had magnificent judgment. He was flying solo in about two or three days. Just about then there happened to be only two or three pupils and the weather was good, so that he got in a fair amount of practice. He was a born flyer.”
In obtaining his “ticket”, the Royal Aero Club certificate, Henderson set two records: he was the oldest pilot in the world, and had qualified in the shortest time: one week.
Air Chief Marshal Sir Robert Brooke-Popham, then a captain, said of him: “My first impression was of an exceedingly kind man full of vivacity and keenness.” He wrote, also: “The fact that a senior officer working at the War Office had found time and had a sufficiently adventurous spirit to learn to fly, created a great impression among the few Army officers who at that time were intending to take up military aviation. I suppose most of us in those days had to withstand countless arguments from relations, personal and Service friends, in order to adhere to our intention of flying; not only was it looked upon as extremely dangerous, but the majority of people thought there was little in it from a Service point of view, and that to join the Air Battalion meant the end of a career that might otherwise have been successful.”
It cost £75 to take the pilot’s course, which had to he passed before acceptance into the Air Battalion. Despite the War Office’s premise to refund this, none of the pupil pilots had received it. Henderson himself had to wait five months before Government honoured its commitment. The enterprising and amiable flying school overcame this major difficulty by taking pupils on credit: in the true spirit of the day, when all aviators, embryo and qualified, were brothers in what outsiders thought was foolhardiness.
When, that same year, Government appointed Colonel Seely to be Chairman of a new sub-committee to draw up a scheme for the development of the air force of the future, he consulted General Sir John French about the best man to represent the military side. The answer was: “Without doubt David Henderson, for two reasons: the first that he has learned to fly, a very rare thing nowadays; and I suppose an air sense to an airman is as important as sea sense to a seaman. Secondly, he is a faithful man. He will not fail you in a tight corner.”
The other members of the committee were Major D. S. MacInnes and Captain F. H. Sykes.
The new arm was to take part officially in annual manoeuvres for the first time, that August, in Cambridgeshire; but severe drought forced a cancellation. However, the Aeroplane Company had already set off from Larkhill for Cambridge and perhaps its misadventures en route provided as valuable experience as the exercise would have. Engine failures, forced landings and crashes — in which nobody was seriously hurt — left only two aircraft to reach their destination. Navigation methods were less than refined and at least one officer had to rely on a map taken from Bradshaw’s railway timetable.
In contrast with this off-hand performance, the French, although no separate air force yet existed, showed considerably greater professionalism and intelligence in co-operation with ground troops, also in August that year. By then, France had more than 200 military aeroplanes: Farman biplanes and a variety of monoplanes, Antoinettes, Blériots, Deperdussins and Nieuports, among them. Training was thorough and the air force frequently practised co-operation with artillery, cavalry and infantry. Captain R. Glyn of the Air Battalion, who witnessed these summer manoeuvres, reported to the British Government that the general employment of aeroplanes with troops had increased fighting efficiency by twenty per cent.
From the outset, the French had identified reconnaissance, and the observation and direction of artillery fire, as the most important uses of the air. For the former, close co-operation with cavalry was practised. For the latter, special gridded maps were used by which pilots or observers could notify, and battery commanders record, the fall of shells with an accuracy of a few metres. Infantry also were taught to make the best use of air co-operation, and aerial photography was initiated.
Secrecy in Germany continued to ensure that little was known about the use there of military aeroplanes or the number of her aeroplane pilots. The only certain information was that she had a strong force of airships which had the range to bomb any part of both France and Britain; and give early warning of enemy fleets approaching her shores, while they were still many hours’ steaming away. In fact, the Army had thirty-seven aeroplanes and thirty pilots.
At least one German military genius, however, was giving his attention to heavier-than-air machines, and aerial defence as well as aggression: Ludendorff, later, as a general, to direct operations on the Western Front, was then a Staff colonel. In a paper submitted to the Chief of the General Staff, he recommended the establishment of ten service and six home defence units. The CGS felt that this would not be adequate to compete with France. He accordingly increased it to thirty-three and ten, respectively. He also insisted on experiments in night flying, hitherto not attempted. It was obvious, he observed, with considerable understatement, that attacks in the dark would make the enemy (by whom he meant the French) “uneasy”. It was significant that he had, again, attack rather than defence in mind.
Some important advances had been made in 1911, but Januar
y 1912 found Britain with only eleven Army pilots (including Henderson, now approaching his fiftieth birthday) and eight in the Royal Navy.
France had 263.
A year after Henderson learned to fly, another impressive character — domineering, where Henderson was persuasive, bullying, where Henderson was gentle — Major Hugh Trenchard, decided that he, too, would acquire the Royal Aero Club’s certificate. On 18th July 1912, within some seven months of his fortieth birthday, he became a pupil at T.O.M Sopwith’s Brooklands flying school. The War Office had promised him that if he passed, he could attend the course at the Central Flying School which was to start four weeks hence.
Mr Sopwith said of him: “It was no easy performance to undertake, but Major Trenchard tackled it with a wonderful spirit. He was out at dawn every morning, and only too keen to do anything to expedite tuition. He was a model pupil from whom many younger men should have taken a lead.”
A paragon of ambition and enthusiasm he might have been, but the evidence is that he was an irascible martinet with it. A fellow pupil, Captain Edward Ellington,[3] who had replaced Maclnnes on the aeronautical sub-committee, has recounted that early one morning when they were both waiting to start the day’s work, Trenchard loudly cursed the weather and the unpunctuality of their instructor, Mr Perry. “Perhaps he has an explanation,” Ellington suggested. “He’d better have a thundering good one,” Trenchard growled. Perry’s apology did not mollify Trenchard, who, to use a colloquialism of the RAF’s thirty years later, tore him off a monumental strip.
The standard programme of training through which Perry put Trenchard is interesting more for what was omitted than for what was included. He began on 18th July, with two circuits in ten minutes, as passenger, watching the instructor’s actions. On the 20th he did some more dual circuits, but at the controls. By the 26th he was ready to do two taxiing runs on a Farman (“ground rolls” they were called, a horrifying notion in modern flying jargon). He spent ten minutes in the morning and again in the afternoon of the 27th flying figures of eight. Weather prevented take-offs for the next three days. On 31st July he passed his tests, having flown a total of sixty-four minutes in thirteen days. On 13 August, he was given his certificate.
The First Great Air War Page 3
