The First Great Air War

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  “These results have not only contributed to the great success of your armies, but in close co-operation with our own efforts they have relieved us of a large part of the German aviation.

  “I hope to be able to teach what is left of the German aviation that the French intend to follow the same principles in the same manner. I should be grateful if you would let those under your orders know the admiration which the French Flying Service feels for them, as well as the feeling of comradeship they have for them.”

  He was short of the means to achieve his aspirations. Inefficient staff work had provided him with a force of only four Groupes, a total establishment of 200 aircraft. He had only 131 aeroplanes when the Battle of the Aisne began, and 151, the maximum, five days later. Among these the Spad S7 was competent to challenge the enemy fighters, but there were still too many Voisin and Farman pushers.

  The Germans facing the French kept six standing patrols airborne: four at 6000 to 8000 feet and two at any height between 12,000 and 20,000 feet. The lower ones effectively turned away contact and artillery-spotting flights, while the high cover ignored the offensive patrols: which then merely wasted petrol, of which the French were suffering a dearth.

  For the British fighters, trench strafing became increasingly frequent as co-operation with the artillery produced ever swifter results. The gunners were able so soon to get onto the targets — usually enemy batteries — given to them from the air, that the pilots were free to turn their attention to attacking the infantry.

  The Germans had a two-seater, the AEG C IV, carrying a 200-pound bombload, with an armoured belly and armed with a Spandau and a Parabellum, which was excellent for this purpose. Two Staffeln of a new type, the Schlachtstaffel — battle squadron — were formed and equipped with these.

  The British also had a new two-seater, for a totally different purpose, in which high hope was invested: the Bristol Fighter. This was a big strong machine over twenty-six feet long, with a wingspan of nearly forty feet. The crew sat closely back-to-back in a shared cockpit. There was a Vickers synchronised with the propeller for the pilot, and a Lewis, mounted on a Scarff ring for the observer to protect flanks and rear. The first series had a top speed of 111 m.p.h. at 10,000 feet, a height it could reach in 13 minutes.

  The first Brisfit squadron, No. 48, arrived in France in late March, initially equipped with only six. Had there been time for the crews thoroughly to familiarise themselves with the aeroplane before taking it into action, its impact on the enemy would have been as startling and gratifying as the RFC expected. Tragically, instead of raising the Corps’s morale and lowering the enemy’s, the reverse happened. On 5th April —much too soon — a flight commander, Captain Leefe Robinson, who had won a VC for shooting down a Zeppelin near London, had to lead all six on their first patrol.

  Five Albatros DIIIs, led by Richthofen, intercepted them.

  The Brisfit pilots, following the standard two-seater routine, turned away from the enemy and took no evasive action, trying to give their observers a stable gun platform. Nobody had had time to find out that the excellently manoeuvrable Bristol Fighter could be thrown about like a single-seater; and that it was the pilot’s heavy Vickers machinegun that should be used as the main weapon; with the movable and lighter Lewis as a means of defence, not attack.

  As a consequence of this staid old-fashioned manoeuvre, Richthofen was able to shoot two Bristols down while his wing men took out two more. Of the two that got away, one was badly damaged. Leefe Robinson had gone down and was taken prisoner.

  Interviewed by the press, Richthofen described the Bristol Fighter with contempt. This was no service to his comrades, who thenceforth attacked it over-confidently. The British pilots and gunners quickly learned how to fight their aircraft effectively. The manufacturers progressively gave it a more powerful engine, until its speed reached 125 m.p.h. In a very short time it became enemy doctrine never to attack three or more Brisfits, even when outnumbering them two or three to one. In order to tempt them to fight, Bristol Fighters used to go out in pairs and singly; but the German’s remained reluctant. This remarkable aeroplane, perhaps the best and most versatile of the war, remained in RAF service until 1932.

  There was another new fighter of which the British had great expectations: the Royal Aircraft Factory’s SE5. With it came a change of attitude: emulating the French and Germans, the RFC began to concentrate its best fighter pilots in certain squadrons. No. 56 was the first. Its commander, Major R. G. Blomfield, had the sense of style that consorts well with membership of a select community. He valued the Epicurean niceties of life, even in wartime. While the squadron was spending six weeks at London Colney, taking delivery of its aeroplanes and working up to operational standard, he formed an orchestra from the rank and file of his squadron, to play in the officers’ mess every evening. Among his pilots was Ball, who had been sent home to instruct towards the end of 1916.

  Now very much the seasoned campaigner, Ball expressed forthright views on his craft. The SE5 had a top speed of 120 m.p.h. at 6500 feet and was a strong but light machine, with a 400-round Vickers firing through the propeller and a Lewis on the upper wing, provided with 4 double drums of 97 rounds. Its two and a half hours’ endurance was one hour better than the Albatros’s, which meant that its pilots had ample time to stay at maximum height waiting to surprise enemy fighters. Not all pilots took to it immediately. The first objection was to the windscreen, which they said obstructed their view and became blurred by scratches and oil. The Lewis gun, despite its Foster mounting, was inordinately difficult to reload on account of wind resistance.

  In a letter, Ball denounced it as “a dud” and alleged, exaggeratedly, that its speed was only about half a Nieuport’s. This sounds like adolescent petulance rather than a rational assessment. In fact the SE5 was 15 m.p.h. faster than the Nieuport 17. He told his parents he was “making the best of a bad job” by having the Lewis gun taken off to save weight and the windscreen lowered to cut down wind resistance. Some pilots had the windscreen removed. They were all given a free hand about modifications: “But it is a rotten machine.”

  Familiarisation changed his, and others’, opinion. Gunnery practice showed that it was a steady platform from which to shoot accurately. It was nimble in aerobatics. Among battle-hardened young men of eighteen and nineteen, or in their very early twenties, who owed their lives to their above-average skill as pilots as well as to their marksmanship, competitiveness was rife. Someone decided that he would make his landing more interesting and smoother if he touched down on a hangar roof instead of the ground and rolled down it onto the airfield. Soon they were all doing it. When they took off to fly to France on 7th April they went as masters of what could be the most formidable single-seater at the Front. Its imperfections were the erratic Constantinescu-Colley synchronisation gear for the Vickers gun and the temperamental Hispano-Suiza engine.

  The Sopwith Pups were still doing respectably against the Albatroses and Halberstadts and the RNAS was giving the RFC valuable help. As an instance, five Pups of its No. 3 Squadron shot down four Halberstadts in a fight on 6th April. The squadron had been formed in November the previous year to meet Trenchard’s request for reinforcement. It was commanded by Squadron Commander Redford “Red” Mulock, who, like the majority of his pilots, was a Canadian. Among these was Raymond Collishaw. He had been posted to Naval Three when the wing to which it belonged had been ordered to transfer its nine best fighter pilots; of whom five were Canadians.

  After serving with a squadron that had been escorting bombers on average once a week, Collishaw and the others were “rather jolted by the first few patrols” in their new sector. Having been on operations for some months, held their own against enemy fighters and come to regard flak as routine, they were a trifle over-confident as well as unprepared for the intensity of their new duties: which entailed daily patrols and frequent encounters with Richthofen’s Jasta II. Their offensive patrols were usually flown in formations of four or five air
craft at 12,000 to 16,000 feet, where their guns often froze. They also escorted bombers, and FE2Bs on photo recce. The bombers were often BE2Cs which Collishaw said “could stagger up to 5000 to 8000 feet and cruised at a snail’s pace” and he could not understand “the crass stupidity” of those who kept ordering these machines to be built. One escorting flight flew close to the aeroplanes they were protecting and another flew above. Sometimes a third flight gave top cover. It was difficult to persuade the escorting pilots to stay in formation when attacked: they preferred to break and fight. The enemy always attacked the upper flight first. This became known as the “sacrifice flight”; and, if there were a top cover, that was “super sacrifice flight”. The newest pilots, being considered expendable, were usually given these positions.

  There was yet another Sopwith fighter of which the enemy was wary: the Triplane, or “Tripehound”. This had come into service with the RNAS the previous year. On 27th April Collishaw was posted as commander of B Flight to Naval 10, which flew it. Its prime assets were the manoeuvrability and rate of climb imparted by its three wings. It was armed with one, sometimes two, Vickers synchronised with the airscrew. At 10,000 feet, which it could reach in 12 minutes, its speed was 110 m.p.h. Its ceiling was 20,000 feet. Its narrow wings allowed the pilot an excellent view. Richthofen thought it the best Allied fighter during the first six or eight months of 1917.

  Collishaw found, to his anger and disgust, that there were pilots on the squadron who “could not, to put it charitably, be depended on. Some of these were merely inept, but others simply did not want to fight.” He quickly found himself abandoned by most of his flight in a fight. The other flight commanders suffered the same desertion. The reason for this cowardice was that when other squadrons had been asked to contribute to the formation of the new No. 10, their commanders had sent those they valued least. Collishaw persuaded his squadron commander to rid himself of the faint-hearted. Most of the replacements, and all the pilots on Collishaw’s flight, were Canadians.

  It has been suggested that Collishaw and his pilots decided to paint their Triplanes black all over “because they would look murderous”. The truth is that all the squadron’s aeroplanes had a khaki-green upper wing surface and fuselage, with pale blue on the wings’ undersides. To distinguish the flights when airborne, the CO decided that A Flight’s cowling, top and sides of the fuselage, and wheel discs would be painted red; B Flight’s black; and C Flight’s blue. What Collishaw did suggest was that B Flight should name its aircraft. He called his Black Maria. Flight Sub-Lieutenant Ellis Reid chose Black Roger. John Sharman fancied Black Death. Gerry Nash named his Black Sheep, and Alex Alexander’s was Black Prince.

  This touch of flamboyance was justified by B Flight’s performance, as we shall see later. Collishaw scored his first “flamer” when he shot down an Albatros. It “was not at all a pretty sight but there was the comforting thought that it was far better to have happened to him than to me”. But that was on l0th May and we have not done with Bloody April yet.

  It was not until 22nd April that 56 Squadron was ready for action. Then, on its first patrol, it shot down four Albatroses, of which one fell to Ball. The pace was at once frenetic and the stress unremitting. On 29th April Ball was already writing to his parents: “I am so very fagged. April 26 evening I attacked four lots of Huns with fire. Brought two down and had to get back without ammunition when dark. Had four fights and got one Hun. In the end all my controls were shot away. But I got back. Simply must close for I am so fagged.” This was hardly the sort of letter that a mother or father would relish receiving. But Ball was not gregarious and his parental tie was uncommonly close. Telling them the truth about the dangers of his life must have been his only outlet to relieve nervous tension.

  Mannock was on his first tour at the Front, where he had joined 40 Squadron on 7th April, to fly Nieuports. The immediate impression he made on his new comrades was disastrous. Shyness, added to a social clumsiness that fitted him for the barrack room and sergeants’ mess rather than for the company of officers, and, on top of those handicaps, his eagerness to be informed in detail about his new environment, led him into a performance that presented only the obnoxious facet of his personality. The CO, Major Leonard Tilney, took him to the mess and introduced him to other members of the squadron; most of whom had just landed from a patrol on which Lieutenant Pell, a most popular figure, had been killed. The atmosphere was muted. Mannock was impervious to the melancholia and bumptiously asked everyone how many Huns he had fanned down: a highly offensive inquisition in any circumstances. He then plunged into a dissertation on air fighting and expressed his views on the war in general. To compound his grossness, he had seated himself in the chair usually occupied by Pell. Also, he had been fortunate enough, when training, to acquire more flying hours on tractor types than any of his new companions — who had until recently been flying pushers — had accumulated in their considerably longer service. This did nothing to endear him.

  A fellow pilot, recalling Mannock’s seemingly conceited, bombastic self-introduction, recalled: “Apart from that, he was different. His manner, speech and familiarity were not liked. He seemed too cocky for his experience, which was nil. New men usually took their time and listened to the more experienced hands. He was the complete opposite and offered ideas about everything: even the role of scout pilots and what was wrong with our aeroplanes. He seemed a boorish know-all.”

  Hubris suffered its classical chastening. After practice firing at a ground target, Mannock expected no difficulty in shooting down the enemy. Six days after his arrival, he flew his first operation, as part of an escort to some FEs. Nervousness caused him to keep mishandling his throttle and losing his place in the formation. He did no better on his next few sorties. His reactions were so slow that he was always the last to go into a fight and was soon suspected of cowardice. Treated coldly, snubbed, he endeavoured to ingratiate himself by chipping into conversations; and, an unforgivable breach of mess custom, expatiating on politics: his left-wing bigotry, of course, exacerbated the transgression against good form.

  He was also ridiculed behind his back — the others ignored him — for his persistent gunnery practice. As Ball had always done and McCudden and others of the greatest fighter pilots would emulate, he loaded his ammunition drums himself and spent hours making repeated dives at a ground target at different speeds and from different angles. To his detriment, however, he could not refrain from trumpeting about it and announcing that if he could open fire from twenty yards he would not miss. This provoked further dislike.

  On 1st May his flight escorted four 1½ -strutters bombing Douai aerodrome, where Richthofen’s Jasta was based. When he tried to clear his Lewis gun, en route, it jammed. Fearing the squadron’s scorn if he turned back, he flew on armed only with his revolver. He heard machine-gun fire astern, looked round, and saw a yellow-and-green Albatros diving at him. He turned tightly to face it. Talking about it afterwards he said he heard a strange noise above his engine; and realised that he was screaming with anger, which helped his nerves. (If ever a man needed psychiatric help, he seems to have been a prime candidate.) The German, seeing Mannock hurtle at him, broke and turned on another Nieuport. But this brave refusal to be daunted by a hated, despised German did not improve Mannock’s standing with his fellows.

  On 7th May he attacked his first balloon. Six Nieuports went five miles behind the enemy lines at fifteen feet, to put into practice a new form of balloon attack perfected by Tilney. He had thought out this low-level approach to outwit the enemy: who were no longer winching down their balloons when attacked, but bringing them to ground much more quickly by passing the cable under a pulley and attaching it to a lorry; which then simply drove off fast. While they scudded through successive belts of ground fire, Lothar von Richthofen, Manfred’s young brother, led five Albatroses up over the balloon line to wait for them. Captain Nixon, who led the Nieuports, indicated a target to each pilot. Mannock’s was at the far end of the line
. He fired long bursts of tracer into it. It crumpled and began to fall. Mannock turned for home. Meanwhile Nixon had spotted the Albatroses and peeled off to try to protect his men. This drew the enemy off. They milled around Nixon and it was not difficult, with four others to distract the victim, for Richthofen Minor to shoot him in the back and bring him down.

  Captain Nixon’s gallant death was little noticed outside his squadron and his family. But 7th May 1917 was memorable to all the air forces at the Western Front and the whole British nation for another sad event.

  On 3rd May Albert Ball had written home. “It is quite impossible, but I am doing all I can. My total up to last night was thirty-eight. I got two last night. Oh! It was a topping fight. A few days ago all my controls were shot away on my SE5. But I got the Hun that did it. It is all troubles. I am feeling very old just now.”

  Two days later: “Dearest Dad, Have just come off patrol and made my total forty-two. I attacked two Albatros scouts and crashed them, killing the pilots. In the end I was brought down, but am quite O.K. Oh! it was a good fight and the Huns were fine sports. One tried to ram me after he was hit, and only missed by inches. Am indeed looked after by God, but oh, I do get tired of always living to kill, and am really beginning to feel like a murderer. Shall be so pleased when I am finished.”

  On that day, talking to Atkins, another pilot, Ball said: “Trenchard says I can go home when I have got fifty. But I shall never go home.”

  Two days after that, the 7th May, in the evening, eleven SE5s of 56 Squadron took off on the day’s last patrol. Behind enemy lines at 18,000 feet, they saw six Albatroses 3000 feet below and dived to attack. A mile or so away, two Jastas were approaching. When they saw the British begin their attack, they followed them down and opened fire on them from the rear. The dogfight, in which forty-one aircraft were involved, sprawled all over the sky and down to 600 feet before the last contestant departed for his base. Six SE5s went down, Ball among them. He was last seen on the tail of an Albatros. To this day it is not known for certain whether the six Albatroses that drew 56’s attention were the bait in a trap. Nor has it been established that it was Lothar von Richthofen who killed Ball. There is a legend that he did. But the only claim he made on that date was for a Sopwith Triplane. Ball’s confirmed victories totalled forty-three and no one can say how many more he shot down in that last fight.