The First Great Air War

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  However uninterested in aeroplanes the War Office and the highest ranking British Army officers had been three or four years earlier, many, as has been seen, were succumbing to the Flying Corps’ demonstration of its unique usefulness: from Grierson at the 1912 manoeuvres to Smith-Dorrien, Haig and Sir John French at the Western Front and Lord Kitchener in London.

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  L’Aviation Militaire was ultimately responsible to the Minister for War, who, at the outbreak, had been Messimy; replaced on 26th August 1914 by Millerand. Below him, Commander-in-Chief, was Joffre. To draw up the plans for its use, to define its needs, to decide the disposition of the fighting units — in short, to guide the war in the air — General Joffre and his successors had a specialist at their disposal in General Headquarters. Initially this was Lieutenant Colonel Voyer, who was succeeded on 26th September 1914 by Lieutenant Colonel Bares. To enable GHQ to carry out its operational task, its back-up organisation had to provide the necessary weapons and manpower. In 1914, foreseeing a short war, flying schools had been closed and the rate of aircraft production slowed. It was very quickly seen that training must be resumed and aircraft production organised.

  From the archives: “The task was all the more difficult because the domain to be explored was immense and new, and the problems posed to those responsible for resolving them were complicated by frequent disagreement between the civil power and GHQ. All this explains the successive modifications in the organisation of the directorate and the changes at its head throughout the war.

  “At the outbreak, General Bernard presided over the destiny of the Air Force. The mistakes made, which, however, were not all attributable to him, led to his rapid replacement as Director, on 25th October 1914, by General Hirschauer, former Inspector of Aviation, who, as soon as he took charge, restored production, reopened the old flying schools and created new ones.”

  Joffre, not the most imaginative of generals, had, surprisingly, shown an early awareness of the possibilities the new Arm offered. In November 1914 he wrote: “Aviation is not only, as was once supposed, an instrument of reconnaissance. It has proved, if not indispensable, at least extremely useful in the control of artillery fire. It has shown, further, by the dropping of high explosive projectiles, that it is capable of being used as an offensive weapon, either for long-range missions or in cooperation with other forces. Finally, it has, moreover, the ability to pursue and destroy enemy aeroplanes.”

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  General Ludendorff had made his first flight four years ago and at once perceived the value of an air force. He distinguished himself on the Western Front in the first week of war. Transferred to the Eastern Front as von Hindenburg’s Chief of Staff, he was the architect there of the great German victory at Tannenberg at the end of August 1914. After the battle, he declared that “without airmen, there would have been no Tannenberg”. It was aerial reconnaissance, carried out by aeroplanes operating from improvised aerodromes and landing on any flat ground near the Commanding General’s Headquarters, which had enabled Germany to triumph.

  The organisation of its air force with which Germany entered the war had a wider span than either Britain’s or France’s, but was used clumsily: whereas aeroplanes are essentially instruments of swift, whiplash effect, flexible and elusive. Under the Headquarters, two separate air forces were incorporated, the Prussian and the Bavarian. The operational units consisted not only of aeroplane Abteilungen but also those that flew airships, the balloon units and the anti-aircraft batteries. Control over Flugabwehrkanonen (already known as Flak, a term not adopted by the British until the next war) was given to the air force, on the principle that anything to do with the air must be within its province; whereas in other countries the connection of anti-aircraft guns is seen as being with the artillery. Under the German system the Air Service was thus burdened with another training, as well as supply and maintenance, commitment.

  The airship units were still an important part of the Service. On mobilisation, twelve dirigibles were operational. Unfortunately the great hopes that the general public had placed in airships were not fulfilled. Certainly, little by little, fifty would be in service. But airships were easy targets for anti-aircraft batteries, because their heavy bomb load prevented them from flying high enough to be out of range. It was just as well that it did: the Zeppelins’ main targets were in Britain, foremost among them, London.

  In September 1914 a little-known, and today scarcely remembered, specialist bomber force had been formed. Consisting of two wings, each of three six-aircraft Abteilungen, it was named the General Headquarters Flying Corps, commanded by Major Wilhelm Siegert, and posted to an aerodrome near Bruges.

  On the night of 28/29 January, it made the first mass air raid in history by dropping 123 bombs on Dunkirk from a height of 1000 metres. Besides being an attempt at widespread destruction of the French port, this was practice for the raids this force already planned to perpetrate on the cities of Great Britain and their civilian populations. A stroke of fortune thwarted this intention: Major Siegert’s thirty-six bombers were transferred to the Eastern Front, where they did heavy damage to the Russians.

  With such an unwieldy and impersonal structure and rigorous, automated Teutonic discipline, no numinous figure emerged comparable with cool cerebral Henderson, choleric Trenchard with his bravura gestures and paradoxical sensibility, or Bares, gifted with an instinctive professional appreciation of every problem and a clinical solution to it.

  On 11th March 1915 the office of Chef des Feldflugwesens, Head of Field (meaning operational at the Front) Aviation was established and his title, in accordance with German military practice, abbreviated to FeldFlugchef. The man chosen is usually referred to as Major Thomsen. He was, in fact, Hermann von der Lieth-Thomsen, who at forty-eight was a most experienced pilot and as practised in wartime flying as anyone could be after so few months at war. His deputy was Major Siegert, mentioned above, who in peacetime had flown his own aeroplanes and belonged to the suspectedly barmy fraternity, of “balloonatics”. “Therewith,” the records claim, “at the summit of Army aviation were two men who at the right time exerted a considerable authoritative influence over the development of military flying.”

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  From time to time, an observer armed with a rifle would bring down an enemy aircraft. On 22nd January, twelve Albatros bombers raiding Dunkirk were intercepted by a mixed handful from British, French and Belgian squadrons. One Albatros forced-landed with a bullet in the engine, fired from a Four Squadron BE2. On 5th February, a No. 3 Squadron Morane piloted by Second Lieutenant V. H. N. Wadham, with Lieutenant A. E. Borton as observer, fought for several minutes with an Aviatik, whose pilot and observer were shooting at them with pistol and rifle. After exchanges of fire at ranges from 100 yards down to 50 feet, the Aviatik was forced down.

  Also on 5th February, the first Vickers Fighting Biplane, the FB5, arrived on Five Squadron and was followed by a few more. This placed the observer in the front cockpit and provided him with a Lewis gun. Its French-manufactured Gnome engine gave so much trouble that one pilot had to make twenty-two forced landings out of thirty flights, and combats were few. Machinegun stoppages were frequent, mainly caused by the intense cold at high altitude, so observers still carried rifles as well.

  Anyone familiar with the history of air combat in the two World Wars might reasonably suppose that if he were to close his eyes and stick a pin into a list of pilots who have extricated themselves, at the last split second, from dire situations in which death seemed immensely more probable than survival, Louis Strange’s name would exert an irresistible magnetism.

  The squadrons were still receiving heterogeneous types of aeroplane. No. 6, on which Strange was now serving, was issued with, among others, a single-seater Martinsyde Scout with a Lewis gun mounted on the upper wing, so that it fired outside the propeller disc, that is, outside the radius of the blades. This meant that, to change the ammunition drum, the pilot had to loosen his safety belt and stand up. Mor
eover, changing the 47-round drum on the Lewis needed the exertion of more strength than might be supposed. It had to be done balancing precariously in a slipstream of 60 to 80 m.p.h.; when the 20-odd-pound weight of a full one became more than a trifle wayward to handle. Later, a 97-round one weighing 30 pounds came into use and injuries to pilots became common. Major Gordon Shepherd, the Commanding Officer, gave Strange permission to make this machine his personal mount: and the term is not as fanciful as it might seem today, because at that time pilots were said to fly “on”, not “in” an aeroplane, a derivation from the horsemanship that was alleged to confer the touch essential for both.

  The Martinsyde was a difficult aeroplane to fly: slow, sluggish on the controls and inherently unstable. But Strange had demonstrated above-average skill and acquired wide experience. Keen, fizzing with energy, he crossed the enemy lines to hunt for a victim and spotted an Aviatik two-seater a couple of furlongs away and a few hundred feet above, whose crew soon saw him in pursuit. Climbing, encumbered with its machinegun’s weight and the resistance it offered to the air, the Martinsyde barely attained a mile a minute. It could not quite overhaul the Aviatik. Presently Strange realised that his machine would go no higher. He was at extreme range and it was now or never. Still scrabbling for a few more feet of height, he opened fire, emptied his drum, and missed.

  He was twenty miles deep in Hunland, as the RFC called enemy-held territory, and limited endurance forced him to turn for home. But he might run into other enemy aircraft. He must change the ammunition drum. At 10,000 feet it was piercingly cold and lack of oxygen made exertion painfully laborious. He loosened his belt and stood. The machine, in a shallow dive, was doing about 75 m.p.h. The empty drum would not come free, however hard Strange twisted it. He wrenched. The Martinsyde dropped a wing. He lost his balance and lurched against the joystick. The machine flicked over onto its back.

  Strange was hanging by his gloveless, freezing hands. One hand clung to the small round metal drum, which had stuck only because the threads were crossed. With his other hand he had grabbed the centre rear strut between the mainplanes. Beneath him was 9000 feet of empty space and the aircraft was descending. If he did not fall to his death he would be crushed to a pulp when it hit the ground.

  In this position, he was doomed. He began to swing from side to side until he hooked a foot under the cockpit rim. But his pendulum motion induced a spin. No drill for recovery from a spin had yet been established. He had to find one before he lost his last 1500 feet of height. A sideways kick at the stick, a rapid slide into his seat, hands and feet on stick and rudder bar, and he corrected the aeroplane’s attitude with the hedges and trees only a few feet beneath.

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  During the first three months of 1915 the winter weather often kept squadrons grounded. What was worse, their frail aircraft and the light, portable timber-framed canvas hangars were vulnerable in high winds. The old year had gone out with a violent storm that wrecked thirty RFC machines, sixteen of them irreparably. Reconnaissance, artillery co-operation and photography continued, but, with operations curtailed by low cloud, storms, lack of serviceable aeroplanes, there was time to spare for improving methods of communication and reorganising photographic reconnaissance.

  The British, the French and the Germans were all using these weeks of patchy weather to prepare for the next head-on collision between the two sides. Spring was the time for big pushes. Land battles on a huge scale were a certainty. As time wore on, greater numbers of aeroplanes would inevitably be involved. So much was evident. The imponderables were: Who would strike first? Where? And whose aircraft would have the best performance and armament, in both of which everyone was striving for improvement?

  The average flight at such a period, whether on visual or photographic reconnaissance or artillery co-operation, seldom brought contact with an enemy aircraft. If it did, the separating distance was usually too great for any attempt at aggression. The airmen might ignore each other, or acknowledge one another with a salute or a little mild showing off. If shots were fired, the great majority went wide of the target: better results could not be expected when shooting from an unsteady platform that was travelling fast, at a target that was also fast-moving, manoeuvrable and subject to sudden involuntary shifts up, down and sideways caused by air currents. The greatest danger in flying still came from accidents: on taking off or landing; in flight, through mishandling the throttle or controls or a worsening of the weather. More pilots were being killed while training than at the Front.

  Of the three methods of signalling between air and ground, by Vérey light, Aldis lamps flashing the Morse code, and wireless telegraphy, the third one had the longest range and was the most efficient. The equipment, however, was so heavy that no observer could be carried; and so bulky that some of it had to be fitted in the pilot’s cockpit as well as the observer’s.

  The accuracy with which the fall of shells was reported to the artillery batteries needed improvement. A map divided into squares identified by numbers and letters had been introduced soon after the RFC arrived in France, and where a shell landed in relation to the target was indicated by the square and “left”, “right”, “short” or “over”. Now Captain Lewis, who had devised the square system, offered a better one. This used the clock code, with 12-o’clock dead ahead in the direction in which the guns were shooting. The observer centred on the target a celluloid disc with concentric rings marked on it at scaled distances of 10, 25, 50, 100, 200, 30o and 400 yards radius, and lettered from A to H. As each shell fell, he signalled to the gun battery the ring within which it had hit and the “time” on the clock face. This became standard.

  To make the results of photography more easily available to all who needed it, Henderson sent Major Salmond to learn how the French organised this. As a result, he set up a photographic section at each Wing HQ consisting of a pilot, an observer, and two other ranks. Lieutenant Moore-Brabazon commanded the first one, which was attached to First Wing.

  No. 1 Squadron arrived at the Front on 7th March, under the command of Major W. G. H. Salmond. Equipped with eight Avro 504s and four BE8s, it joined Third Wing in time for the coming battles.

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  What Tennyson called “the ringing grooves of change” were about to make themselves felt. Nos 2 and 3 Squadrons’ photography had given Haig clear, detailed information on the German defences opposite his First Army’s front. The village of Neuve Chapelle obtruded into the British lines, was assailable on two flanks, and was made the first objective. The Battle of Neuve Chapelle began at 7.30 a.m. on l0th March with a bombardment in deteriorating weather.

  For the RFC this had the special importance of being the first occasion on which planned tactical bombing was attempted as an integral part of the whole operation. Hitherto bombs had been dropped sporadically as a secondary feature of a sortie whose primary purpose was reconnaissance or artillery spotting. This time, No. 3 Squadron was ordered to bomb some buildings in Fournes reported to be a Divisional HQ. An early instance occurred here of a practice that continued in the RAF into the Second World War. This recognised that the most senior officer on a squadron was not necessarily best qualified to lead it on some specific operation. It has been common practice for a highly experienced NCO pilot to lead a fighter section in which the other aircraft were flown by less experienced officers; or for a flying officer to lead a newly arrived flight lieutenant or squadron leader on a fighter or bombing task. On bombers, it was usual for a new and out of practice squadron commander to make a first trip as second pilot. On this mission, Captain Conran led, with Major Salmond, squadron CO, as his observer. All three aircraft scored direct hits which set light to the target: the leader making three runs at 100 feet before bombing.

  Second Wing was given the railway station at Menin and the railway junction at Courtrai as targets; while Third Wing was allotted railway stations at Douai, Lille and Don. These were attacked at 3 p.m., while the ground force was preparing for its second assault. No.
5 Squadron’s Captain G. I. Carmichael hit railway lines near Menin with a 100-pounder from 120 feet, was rocked by its blast and hit in the engine by a rifle bullet. Captain Strange, of six Squadron, in a BE2c, once again put up an outstanding performance. In bad visibility he was flying below the 3000-foot cloud base when flak sent him up to shelter in it, and find his way through by compass. At Courtrai he descended to rooftop level to go for the station. A sentry began shooting at him. Strange shuffled him off this mortal coil with a well-aimed hand grenade, and a decisiveness Hamlet would have envied, before dropping his three twenty-pound bombs on a stationary troop train. His aircraft had nearly forty bullet holes, but a later report revealed that he had killed or wounded seventy-five troops and disrupted traffic for three days.

  Louis Strange was neither a hot-head nor merely an inordinately brave man who appeared to thrive on taking risks and was gifted with superb flying skill. One had merely to catch a lively glance from his intelligent eyes, see the animation in his handsome aquiline face and sense the humour that accompanied his quick shrewd brain, for his ability to strike one. It was he who had devised a mounting that allowed a Lewis gun to be fitted at an angle so that it fired outside the propeller disc; and, with Second Lieutenant R. B. Bourdillon, of the Intelligence staff at HQ Third Corps, had made a bomb sight “consisting of a couple of nails and a few lengths of wire”, which was widely adopted until a more scientific instrument was invented.

  The battle raged for two more days, on the last of which a storm blew. Reconnaissance and bombing sorties continued when weather allowed. Mapplebeck, who, with Joubert de la Ferté, had flown the RFC’s two first sorties of the war, was shot down near Lille, evaded capture, reached Holland and returned to his squadron a month later. He was killed in a flying accident that August. Ludlow-Hewitt, then only a captain on No. 1 Squadron, acquitted himself less well than Strange. Flying a BE8, he bombed a railway bridge and missed; then dropped a 100-pound bomb on a railway station. His aim was true and he hit it fair and square. Unfortunately, whereas he thought he was over Don, he was actually bombing Wavrin.