They did their external checks of the aircraft, dismissed the ground crew and returned to snatch some more sleep, fully dressed, until the weather improved. At 6.20 a.m. their batmen woke them with the information that a patch of blue sky had appeared. Ten minutes later, satisfied with a reported north-west wind of 36 kilometres an hour at 3000 metres, they were ready to take off. After another half hour they were at their operational height, with a clear view. The altimeter settled at 2100 metres. Haupt-Heydemarck set the shutter speed at 1/250 of a second and they were ready to begin photographing.
To order a turn he would tap his pilot on the right or left shoulder. A prod between the shoulderblades meant straight ahead. A rap on the crash helmet: below. A wave with the flat of the hand: enemy aircraft. Clenched fist: flak.
When Engmann wanted to warn him he blipped the throttle.
When they had crossed the Allied lines, “The tension to which our nerves were increasingly subjected during the flight reached its apogee: when will the anti-aircraft guns open fire and from where?”
Engmann wriggled on his seat above the petrol tank. He constantly wove to right and left so that he could look ahead past the engine. Haupt-Heydemarck kept stretching his neck to peer over the side and scan the air and landscape.
They saw the trenches slowly disappear beneath them. It seemed endlessly slow, yet they were moving at a speed at 120 k.p.h. Still no shooting. There was no need to give the experienced Take helpful taps: he knew how to make a difficult target for the artillerymen below.
There was a loud explosion and a blow smote the aeroplane as though struck by a wind squall: the first shell bursting, and it was well placed. Engmann instinctively banked away in a steep right turn and the second shell burst far to the left. They did not hold their new direction long. “Half left. Now we’ll see where the next shell bursts. Aha, that’s good: a couple of hundred metres on our left is a cloud.” But now the battery commander had about the right direction. Two shells burst ahead. They sideslipped. It needed only a shell splinter in the belly or shrapnel bullet through the head, “and curtains!” They caught the stench of high explosive. They climbed to 3000 metres. Shells burst on both sides, then one very close on the left and another astern. Engmann made a steep diving turn to the left.
They found their objectives, came under fire over each, but took their photographs. On the way home, passing under the fringes of a cloud, Haupt-Heydemarck looked up: about twenty metres overhead was a Nieuport. It must turn before it could attack. But Haupt-Heydemarck had already trained his machinegun on it and begun firing a few short bursts. The Nieuport wheeled. Haupt-Heydemarck heard ‘tack-atackatackatack’ on his left and turned the gun in that direction. “Ah, another Frenchman. And — damn it! — a little further behind, a third.”
The third Nieuport was passing so that it could try to take the Germans unawares later. But the second one was unpleasantly close. Haupt-Heydemarck would take it first. Carefully he got him in his sights, “Then I let him have it.” But the Frenchman was alert and dodged aside, to come curving in again. Number three was coming in from the rear. Number one at the same time from the right.
This last was the nearest and must be dealt with first. Haupt-Heydemarck fired two ten-shot bursts. That seemed to dampen the French pilot’s aggression somewhat. He made a wide circle and stayed well away. Once more a fresh burst of fire crackled down from above. With his machinegun that swivelled in any direction, Haupt-Hendemarck could almost return the fire simultaneously. “Enough firing — twelve rounds — eyes up — press the trigger — short pause — change aim and shoot. Always thinking: be economical with the ammunition! Wonderful after all how calm one is. No trace of agitation, no change in my pulse rate.” This is unlikely: exertion in the thin air would have made his heart accelerate. Hectic activity coupled with fear must have made it race.
The adversaries were 100 metres apart. Engmann swung towards one of the others. This tactic took Haupt-Heydemarck unawares. As he tried to get another target in his sights he heard a metallic clatter on his right. This time he fired a thirty-second burst, and “hurrah! the fighter slumped onto its left wing, it stood on its head and down it went”.
Hardly had the next one, from 200 metres range, seen what had happened, than it veered away to a wary distance. A moment later a shell burst between the Germans and the other two French aeroplanes, which turned and fled southward. It was French AA fire, loosed off with dashing Gallic disregard for the presence of two of their own aircraft. Haupt-Heydemarck and Engmann went home too.
When they landed, the Commanding Officer emerged from the control hut and shook their hands. “Well?”
Haupt-Heydemarck reported that railway traffic was trifling, there was normal activity at the railway stations and aerodromes. Flak en route and over Chalons was heavy, “otherwise nothing special”. He gave a short account of their air fight.
Meanwhile Engmann had examined the aircraft and found six holes: two flak hits, four from bullets in air combat.
In July, of twelve crews, the unit lost fifty per cent: two crews killed; one lightly and three heavily wounded.
A fellow victim of severe injuries, this time in an aeroplane accident, was Leo Leonhardn, who was destined to earn the name “der eiserne Kommandeur”, “the Iron Commander”. In 1915 he was commanding Flight Section 25. By late 1916, with the rank of Hauptmann (Captain), he had been given command of Bombengeschwader 6. His address to his officers and men, when taking over, included three short sentences that left no need to say more: “Duty is everything. Praise I know not. I reprimand only when I see duty set aside.” His tough words were accepted and effective. Many, recalling them, attributed the splendid successes of the Geschwader to “the way he led along a rocky, thorny path”. His energy was extraordinary, his uncompromising nature was flavoured with a sense of humour. “Only by the strictest observance of his motto, ‘Iron, stubborn and impossible to divert’, could he and his comrades have achieved the highest possible performance under the most difficult conditions. No operational flight was undertaken without Leonhardn, this half crippled man, conscious of duty, placing himself where he could protect his men from the enemy.” That is what the record says, and no one could wish for higher praise.
*
The battles at Verdun and on the Somme had no direct effect on the Italian Front. The First Battle of the Isonzo, from 23rd June to 7th July 1915, with which the Italo-Austrian campaign opened, however, was the start of a similar series of engagements between entrenched opponents. Both sides were handicapped by the nature of the terrain. Venezia, the Italian frontier province, was a salient with Austrian Trentino on its north and the Adriatic Sea on its south. Between the sea and the mountains lay lower ground where the River Isonzo flowed from the Julian Alps to the Bay of Trieste. It was Italy that attacked and Austria that defended. In the six months during which the first nine Battles of the Isonzo were fought, there were 240,000 Italian casualties and rather more than half as many Austrian.
Co-ordinating the Italian air effort with the needs of the land forces had to proceed slowly for lack of aircraft. Scope lay only in bombing: strategic bombing, because there were no dramatic surges forward on the ground which could be backed up by tactical bombing or close-support strafing. And there was a lot for the bombers to do. Italy was not engaged only along its frontier with Austria in the Dolomites. There were targets to be bombed in former Italian territory that had fallen into Austrian hands; others in what is now known as Yugoslavia, and in Albania.
It is surprising that so little attention had been paid to fighters. The impetuous, romantic, fiery Latin temperament of the Italian male would seem to be best adapted to the aerial duels that fighter operations used to be from 1914 until the 1950s and the Korean War. It is also surprising that Italian engineers, with their flair for creating beautiful artefacts, were not called on to design small, sleek, swift aircraft. Instead, Italy continued to manufacture French aeroplanes under licence. Favouring bombers, ther
e was the fact that Italy had flown the first military operational sorties in history, which had been to bomb the enemy. So there was a tradition, however brief, of bombing.
The official history of Italian bomber operations in 1915-18 has a chapter headed “Bombing, the Essence of the Air Arm”. General Felice Porro, in his account of the Italian Air Corps in the Great War, wrote: “The bomber arm, which had the pride of flying an aeroplane that was clearly Italian in conception and design, which had the honour and glory of carrying the tricolour insignia on its wings in the skies of France, could not however attain that progressive development which would have been desirable and so necessary.” This was the Caproni series. All were three-engined, with a seventy-three-foot wingspan, central nacelle and twin-boom fuselage. Of the three marks built between 1913 and 1916, the Ca1 had 100-h.p. Fiat engines; the Ca2, two of these and one 150-h.p. Isotta-Fraschini; the Ca3, three of the latter.
In June 1916 the first large-scale air raid was made when thirty-four Caproni, not in formation but in quick succession, bombed the Austrian aerodrome at Pergine. On 1st August ten bombed Fiume dockyard.
Brigadier General Armando Armani, who, as Captain, Major and Lieutenant Colonel, flew bombers throughout the war “assiduamente e valorosamente”, “assiduously and bravely”, described an encounter between a Caproni and two Austrian fighters, which “suscitó molta emozione in Italia”, “roused much feeling in Italy”. (Not a matter of great difficulty.)
“On the morning of 18th February 1916 Caproni 300 (Ca1) of 300 h.p., No. 478, ‘Aquila Romana’, ‘Roman Eagle’, piloted by Captain of Artillery Luigi Bailo and Administrative Captain Oreste Salomone, with Lieutenant Colonel of Artillery Alfredo Barbieri, commanding the Air Battalion, as observer, all of them serving in the Air Corps, took off with other aircraft to bomb the city of Lubiana.
“At the altitude of the Selva di Ternova, the aforesaid Caproni was attacked by two enemy fighters with brisk machinegun fire. In an instant, Captain Salomone was wounded in the head. Lieutenant Colonel Barbieri, while preparing to fire his machinegun at the adversary, and the other pilot, Captain Bailo, who had fired rifle shots, fell gloriously and mortally wounded.
“Captain Salomone, sole survivor, had at least six times heard the crackle of machinegun fire and twice seen an enemy Fokker monoplane cross ahead, each time above but close enough to see the gestures of its pilot demanding surrender. Bearing in mind the sacred duty incumbent on him, and after having painfully found his bearings, nearly blinded by the blood flowing from his wound, he began the sad return journey with the indomitable and heroic intention of taking back the aeroplane and the glorious bodies of his fallen comrades to our lines.
“One of the engines had been hit and was not running well. Captain Salomone managed to shift the body of his colleague Captain Bailo, who, with a sublime sense of fraternal love, had tried, before dying, to shield the surviving pilot with his own body to protect him from the enemy’s bullets. So sublime was Captain Salomone’s sense of honour and duty that, far from succumbing to the enemy’s signals, with admirable coolness and energy, with rare skill and the greatest valour, he continued dauntlessly on his flight to his homeland, committed to which, he brought back the aeroplane entrusted to him and the glorious remains of its brave sons, after having flown low over the enemy lines, where fortunately the anti-aircraft fire was in vain!”
The King bestowed on Salomone the first Gold Medal for Military Valour awarded to the Air Corps.
In January, d’Annunzio had begun to fly with Lieutenant Luigi Bologna, a naval pilot. On the 16th of that month they had taken off in a seaplane on a reconnaissance to Trieste, but a defect in the carburettor had forced them to put down at Grado. Perhaps because of mirror effect, or else dazzle, the pilot had misjudged his height above the water, “landed” too high, and the aircraft had dropped heavily onto the surface. The pilot got away with a few scratches. The observer hit his cheekbone on the side of the cockpit and sustained what seemed to be a superficial injury.
For the time being, d’Annunzio complained of great pain but refused treatment because he did not want to cause his companion to feel a guilty responsibility, seeing that the incident was clearly the result of pilot error. He continued to fly on operations without rest but fatigue aggravated the condition of his damaged eye to the point where a detached retina was diagnosed. There had also been haemorrhage. A little more than a month after the accident, he was ordered complete rest in darkness, which he had to endure for seven months.
In the meanwhile, the Commanding Officer in Venice recommended him for a decoration for “having repeatedly given proof of boldness in the air and for disregard of danger”. He was duly given the Silver Medal for Military Valour. He also capitalised on his affliction by writing a much-praised poem, “Notturno”.
The Poet now, in addition to a military cloak and silver-knobbed ebony cane — all Italian officers carried a walking stick — sported a thespian black eyepatch or, when he wore glasses, a blacked-out right lens.
He resumed flying on 13th September and wished Luigi Bologna to continue as his pilot, “to give his grieved companion an encouraging demonstration of trust and esteem”. And no small amount of publicity for the Poet at the same time.
The resounding acclamation of d’Annunzio’s participation in operations by submarine, aboard surface vessels and in the air was so good for the morale of the fighting Services that, in September 1916, the Supreme Command appointed him liaison officer of the 45th Division. With this appointment he shared in the life of the infantry, staying in the most advanced command posts, taking part in offensive actions, writing effective reports for Headquarters. He was promoted to captain for his part in the battle at Veliki Kriback on l0th to 12th October 1916; and, in the following month, decorated with another Silver Medal.
In January 1917 the French Government awarded him the Croix de Guerre. He also returned to flying on reconnaissance and bombing operations.
But there were other Italian airmen doing their bit. The official history describes the difficulties with which the Italian Air Corps was beset, in addition to the small numbers and poor performance of its aeroplanes: “The winter was severe, hostile to the combatants in the air and in the trenches; avalanches, more deadly than artillery, hindered the use of roads in the Alpine valleys; the snow and the piercing cold tormented the garrisons on the high peaks; the rain made the infantry suffer in the trenches where they were confined. It transformed them into quagmires. It flooded encampments and dumps. The fog, the icy and violent winds, the whirling air currents above the mountains, the fierce north-east gale on the Carso, the impenetrable mists and clouds, were tremendous, often insuperable, obstacles to flying.”
The slow reconnaissance aeroplanes often met such strong contrary winds that they could scarcely make headway against them. Beyond the Isonzo they were easy targets for the anti-aircraft artillery, which was growing more accurate and intense all the time. They would not turn back until the observers had completed their task, “the purpose of the sortie accomplished with honour, a sacred duty to perform”.
The urgent necessity to perfect the means of reconnaissance led to rapid progress in radio telegraphy and photography. Concurrently, artillery observation gradually became more precise with practice. By the summer, on a twenty-five-kilometre front held by four army corps, four artillery co-operation squadrons were operating. Each kept three machines constantly airborne, one for reconnaissance and the other two for directing fire. So much had been done during 1916 to enlarge and improve the Air Corps, that it was able to look forward to the spring weather of 1917 with optimism.
*
In 1916 a twenty-eight-year-old Canadian, Harold E. Hartney, who was known throughout his RFC career as “Yank” and would, within two years, become one of the United States of America’s most valuable air commanders, first saw service in France.
As a student Hartney vacillated in the choice of a career. At Toronto University he first studied Arts, th
en Engineering for two years, before graduating in 1911. Thence he went to Saskatoon University to read Law. In 1913 he began to practise as a lawyer, in partnership with his brother. His hobbies were playing the cornet and rifle shooting. It was not illogical, therefore, for him to join the Militia in 1911 as a private in the 105th Saskatoon Fusiliers. He was soon commissioned Second Lieutenant.
His regiment did not leave Canada until May 1915. Drilling near Dover, he saw a Farman Longhorn land nearby and immediately became so interested in flying that he applied in July to transfer to the RFC. He was accepted on 21st October; just as his battalion embarked for the Front. Meanwhile his wife had arrived in England and he led a pleasant domestic life while learning to fly in Norfolk. On 13th December 1915, with four hours ten minutes solo, during which he flew Longhorns, Shorthorns and BE2s, he got his Royal Aero Club certificate.
He also got rheumatic fever and went to hospital in January 1916. While there he was visited by seven fellow pupils. When he reached France in June, only one of them was still alive: the Fokkers had accounted for the rest.
His admiration for the British was genuine and generous: “Only a superb sense of organisation, a united opinion and a proved psychological system could have produced such results” in developing the RFC so quickly to its high standard. He also said, years afterwards: “The one thing that struck me most forcibly, in contrast with conditions I met in the United States Army later on, was the absence of selfishness, politics and bluff.”
When Hartney left hospital he spent some time at an advanced flying school. His instructor there, when posted to France, had an embarrassing experience. In those days of crude dead-reckoning navigation, erratic compasses and inadequate meteorological information, particularly about winds, errors in direction finding were not uncommon. Added to these was this pilot’s unfamiliarity with the terrain and consequent ignorance of landmarks. Entrusted with the delivery of the latest FE2D, with the new 275-h.p. Rolls-Royce engine, he landed on the German aerodrome at Lille and spent the rest of the war in a prison camp; while the enemy derived valuable information from their prize.
The First Great Air War Page 22
