Lords of the Sky: Fighter Pilots and Air Combat, From the Red Baron to the F-16 (10 page)

Conversely, the War Office kept the Royal Aircraft Factory’s designs in-house and subcontracted out the work it couldn’t do itself. This placed production under the control of government officials and military officers who didn’t always understand manufacturing practices. “If God had intended aeroplanes to turn then he would have given them the means from the start”: this sad philosophy was indicative of the slow-changing War Office attitude concerning aviation.

Long seen as a mere extension of the cavalry scouting arm, the aircraft’s primary role, as the War Office saw it, was observation, reconnaissance, and spotting for artillery. The whole business of an armed scout, or fighter aircraft, was at odds with their view of aviation, so entire lines of pusher aircraft such as the RE-8, BE-12, and FE-8 were obsolete by the time they reached the front. Technical advances such as interrupter gears, ailerons, and better engines also took longer than they should to enter RFC service. This was largely due to bureaucratic inefficiency and politics, not indifference, as the Royal Aircraft Factory
did
lead the way in applied research.

Following the loss of Allied air superiority during the Fokker Scourge, the War Office belatedly realized that victory on the ground was more likely if success could be achieved in the air. With ample government funds, the factory devoted its efforts to design improvements, especially vital research into better engines.

The Sopwith Triplane was a perfect example. Though the fuselage and empennage came from the Pup, there were significant differences. The three narrow-chord wings were staggered, each with its own set of ailerons.
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This improved the visibility and lowered wing loading, so the Triplane was highly maneuverable. A Clerget 130-horsepower rotary engine gave a top speed of 117 mph at 5,000 feet. Because the Triplane weighed only 1,400 pounds fully loaded, this meant plenty of excess power, giving it the ability to outclimb the Albatros. In short, it was an aircraft that could change the tide of the air war.

Unfortunately, even the Admiralty was hamstrung by the War Office’s larger budget and political support when it came to actually fielding aircraft. Sopwith had two Admiralty contracts for ninety-five aircraft; subcontracts went to Clayton & Shuttleworth for forty-six Triplanes and Oakley & Co. for an additional twenty-five.
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The War Office had also placed an order with Clayton & Shuttleworth for 106 aircraft but later, inexplicably, canceled it instead of simply transferring the contract to the RNAS. In the end, only 147 of these superb fighters were built. Nicknamed “Tripehound” or just “Tripe,” the Triplane had shortcomings, with the single .303 Lewis gun being one of them. The plane was also difficult to maintain in the field since the wings had to be disassembled to access the fuel tanks, and spare parts were a perennial problem.

No. 1 Squadron (RNAS) was operational in December 1916, followed by No. 8 (RNAS) in February 1917 and also a French naval squadron based from Dunkirk. A month later 8 Squadron was attached to aid the hard-pressed Royal Flying Corps. In April a British Triplane pilot came across eleven or twelve enemy fighters and immediately attacked. Following a whirling, nasty dogfight, he managed to outperform and outmaneuver the astonished Germans; though not able to shoot any down, he did escape unharmed.

But with dogfights between roughly equivalent aircraft, it usually came down to the pilot. Lanoe Hawker’s death was a glaring illustration that skill alone is insufficient when the technological gap is too wide. All things being relatively equal, skill and experience win, and the Germans had plenty of both on their side. The average German pilot at the time started out as an observer, so he already had some practical flying experience before undergoing formal pilot training. Being observers, they also knew the basics of aerial gunnery. After training, new pilots passed through a special fighter transition school at Valenciennes on their way to the front.

The British lagged badly in both training methods and practice. Some pilots were showing up at line units with as little as four hours of solo flight. And that time likely had been in an outdated aircraft with an exhausted instructor who’d been posted in a training unit for a rest. Inexperience combined with outclassed aircraft such as the BE-2, RE-8, and Strutters rapidly created German aces. During the initial RFC offensive between April 4 and 8, more than seventy aircraft were lost in four days; seventeen pilots were missing, thirteen had been wounded, and nineteen killed. Casualty rates of 30 to 50 percent were normal, with new pilots often lasting only one mission—a matter of hours. For example, 43 Squadron began Bloody April with thirty-two pilots and observers and lost thirty-five—a casualty rate over 100 percent—by the end of the month.

ON THE NIGHT
of April 8, 1917, the Canadian and British infantry near Arras began moving east. Using sewers, tunnels, and cellars beneath the city, they slowly made their way up through the cold rain to assault positions within 150 yards of the German lines. At 5:30 a.m. on Easter Monday the big guns opened fire and howitzers bombarded the German support trenches behind the lines. The flashes were fuzzy through the rain, but the 18-pound field artillery began a perfectly timed rolling barrage. Shot screamed down through the overcast, detonating pillars of mud, while once again the infantry went over the top and across no-man’s-land.

Caught by surprise, the Germans on Vimy Ridge were blown apart by the shelling. Dazed survivors were easy targets for Canadian bayonets thrusting through the murky dawn haze. South on the ridge, the 51st Highlanders, famed for their ferociousness, came over the trench lips looking for Germans.

Up the steps came four Jerries with their hands up. “Kamarad, kamarad!” they wailed. Never mind the fucking “kamarad,” let’s be having you bastards now.

—PRIVATE WILLIAM HAY, 1/9TH BATTALION, ROYAL SCOTS, 154TH BRIGADE, 51ST DIVISION

Less than two hours later, Vimy Ridge and the high ground east of Arras were in Allied hands. The bulk of the British Third Army, advancing through the Scarpe River valley, was able to drive past the north end of the Hindenburg Line toward Monchy le Preux. Accurate counterbattery operations, made possible by the RFC, were a tremendous success, and the advancing infantry suffered none of the heinous losses they had in 1916.

During the first few days the Allies advanced up to six miles, huge gains compared with what had been accomplished in the past three years. Fourteen thousand Germans were captured with 180 pieces of artillery, but once the infantry had moved about a mile forward they were beyond artillery support. Rain changed the earth to sticky, grasping mud that prevented the heavy guns from moving forward, and low clouds made flying nearly impossible.

Tactically, at least in the north, the attack was a modest success. Strategically it was not. Three days of fighting had cost 150,000 British casualties, and no link-up would be possible with French forces in the south. This happened for several reasons. General Nivelle had delayed his attack three times, and the French finally went over the top with fifty-three divisions, some 1.2 million men, on the morning of April 16—a week after the British assault.

Unfortunately, in his haste to become the savior of France, Nivelle had made several calamitous planning errors. The German positions in the south were dug in on the ridge above the Chemin des Dames road. They’d been there since August 1914, they knew the terrain, and had made significant improvements. Also, the German trenches were on the back side of the ridge, so nearly all the carefully massed French artillery barrage passed harmlessly overhead, leaving the barbed wire and machine gun nests untouched.

By the time the exhausted French troops forded the river and climbed the hill, they encountered fortified, well-rested enemy infantry. The Germans were also commanded by Crown Prince Wilhelm, son of the Kaiser, who, unlike his father, was a competent military commander. Expecting the attack, the Germans had quietly added twelve divisions, with an additional twenty-seven divisions held back in reserve for counterattack. In the south they followed the plan and fell back in the face of overwhelming numbers. This left empty trenches and a kill zone that would be shredded by counterartillery fire. Fresh reserve troops would then counterattack the surviving but battered Frenchmen. And that’s exactly what happened. In the early afternoon German artillery and reserve troops moved forward, assaulted the French, and drove them back. Their net gain for the day was 600 yards—well short of the six miles General Nivelle had predicted.

It was also revealed that the German Sixth Army commander who faced the British in the north disregarded the new defensive strategy. He’d resisted the Canadian advance by trying to hold rather than relocating to the blockhouses. His second and third lines were too close to the front, so they were wiped out by artillery. Even worse, his reserves were 15 miles to the rear, much too far to be brought up quickly.

Inevitably the northern attack ground to a halt. In the south, Nivelle tried again and continued to fail miserably—to the point where the French minister of war begged him to halt. It was not until April 25 that the president of France ordered the offensive to cease. Nivelle reacted childishly by blaming his subordinates for the failure. One of them, Somme veteran Gen. Alfred Micheler, replied contemptuously, “What, you try to make me responsible for the mistake when I never ceased to warn you? Do you know what such an action is called? It is called cowardice.”

The RFC bravely continued to fly whenever possible in an attempt to gather crucial intelligence about the battle. Six RE-8s of 59 Squadron took off at 8:15 a.m. on April 13 for a photo reconnaissance mission of the line between Quiery-la-Motte and Etaing. Two had cameras, and four were acting as escorts. It wasn’t enough.

A morning patrol of Jasta 11 Albatros fighters, including Manfred von Richthofen, his brother Lothar, and Kurt Wolff, shot down all six. Ten out of the twelve crewmembers were killed outright, with only Lieutenants Watson and Law surviving, though both wounded, to become prisoners of war.

Werner Voss was gone on leave in April, and Manfred von Richthofen had a busy month without him. It was a rare day that he didn’t have “his customary Englishman for dinner,” and April 13 wasn’t one of them. In fact, it was on this date that he surpassed Boelcke’s record of forty kills. His forty-first victim was part of the ill-fated flight of six RE-8s from 59 Squadron. Capt. Jimmy Stuart and Capt. M. H. Wood were escorts and lasted only a minute or so before burning to death between Vitry and Brebières.

Richthofen returned to Douai, calmly ate breakfast, and took off again shortly after noon for his forty-second kill. Later that evening the Baron found an archaic FE-2b and sent it spinning down into the village of Noyelles-Godault. Lt. Allan Harold Bates, a brilliant young engineer turned pilot, had lasted just ten days in combat.

The Officers’ Mess at Douai was exuberant that night as the Jasta 11 fighter pilots drank to their leader’s victories. Captured flyers were also there. This happened whenever possible, a sort of a professional courtesy between men who knew they were different from the rest. So after trying to kill each other, they would sit together to eat and then drink to their respective health and flying skills. Sometimes letters or personal belongings were passed to be mailed home.

Richthofen later wrote, “Of course the prisoner inquired after my red airplane. In the squadron to which the prisoner belonged, there was a rumor that the red machine was occupied by a girl—a kind of Jeanne d’Arc. He was intensely surprised when I assured him that the supposed girl was standing in front of him.” Humor wasn’t a big part of von Richthofen’s personality, and English humor evidently was quite beyond him. He was never aware that the British flyer, surrounded by enemies and on his way to a prison camp, was bravely making a joke.

April 13 also saw the baptism by fire of the man who would become the highest-scoring British ace of the war. Edward “Mick” Mannock had joined 40 Squadron at Aire during the previous week and flew his first combat mission in a Nieuport Scout. Escorting FE-2 bombers, he encountered heavy anti-aircraft artillery fire and managed to lose sight of his flight lead. Even on his first combat sortie, Mannock showed signs of situational awareness by sighting hostile aircraft, avoiding ground fire, and surviving to return to base alone.

The son of a hard-drinking British Army corporal who deserted his wife and children, Mannock grew up scrabbling simply to stay alive. Dropping out of school to help support his mother and siblings, he worked as a barber’s assistant, a grocery delivery boy, and whatever other odd jobs would pay a bit of money. Despite his upbringing, Mannock was a very intelligent and curious man. Leaving Britain at twenty, he worked his way through the Middle East and ended up in Turkey installing telephones. After seeing something of the world’s poverty and deprivation, he decided England wasn’t such a bad place after all, and in 1914 Mannock enlisted in the Medical Corps following his release from a Turkish prison.

Not content in a support role, he transferred to the Royal Engineers and was commissioned an officer during Lord Kitchener’s big army reorganization of 1915. Still not close enough to the action, he applied for the Royal Flying Corps and was sent to Joyce Green aerodrome for flight training. Once there, Mick was extremely lucky to have Capt. James “Mac” McCudden, home from the front, as an instructor. McCudden had been in France as a pilot since July 1916 with 29 Squadron, logging more than four hundred flying hours and tallying several victories. Like Boelcke and Hawker, McCudden took a very professional, technical view of flying and the development of fighter tactics. He worked incessantly on his own engine, tuning it for every bit of horsepower, and meticulously inspected his gun belts. This deliberate approach, rather than the slashing style of Ball or Voss, was what Mannock absorbed. It would serve him well—eventually.