Lords of the Sky: Fighter Pilots and Air Combat, From the Red Baron to the F-16 (13 page)

And it did. By early 1917, Lt. Col. Robert Smith-Barry had been ordered to form a Special School of Aerial Fighting, which he established at Gosport. In France from the beginning, he’d flown BE-8s with 5 Squadron, then joined 60 Squadron in April 1916. Taking command during July, Smith-Barry was taught to recover from a spin by Capt. Rainsford Balcombe-Brown, a New Zealander, who’d mastered the technique.
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Spinning wasn’t understood until then and was nearly always fatal. Of course, nothing of the kind was taught in flying schools, and if anyone was aware of the shortfalls of the British training system, it was Smith-Barry. So for his new school he had to design a curriculum from the ground up.

At Gosport, lectures on engines, weapons, and aeronautics were combined with the latest tactical lessons from the front. Speaking tubes were put into the aircraft so that an instructor could talk to his student, not merely whack him on the skull and scream.

Smith-Barry chose the Avro 504 for his primary trainer, as it was a docile, forgiving type of aircraft with dual controls. In the field since the beginning of the war, the Avro also had the dubious honor of being the first British aircraft shot down in France.
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Nevertheless, it was perfect for Smith-Barry’s purposes, since he required that students be placed in dangerous situations in order to learn how to recover from them. Aerobatics, spins, and simulated engine difficulties were all accomplished under controlled situations. This, he felt, built confidence and
really
taught a man to fly—two essential characteristics of fighter pilots. It also meant that a pilot went into combat thoroughly familiar with his aircraft and didn’t have to master the machine while learning to fight and trying to survive.

The Gosport system became the model that all future training courses emulated in some fashion.
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Hugh Trenchard said that Smith-Barry was the man who “taught the air forces of the world how to fly.” Consequently, pilots arriving in France later in 1917 had the benefit of much better training than those who had come before. This was occurring simultaneously with the introduction of the latest SE-5s and the tremendously successful Sopwith Camel. As survival rates increased, so did the effectiveness of the Royal Flying Corps.

In many ways, the Camel represented the pinnacle of British fighter development during the Great War. Roughly the same size as the Pup, it was heavier and could climb higher. Definitely more powerful, the Camel used a variety of engines, predominantly the Bentley or Clerget, and had the great virtue of mounting twin guns. It was from the hump caused by a metal fairing over these two synchronized .303 Vickers guns that the Sopwith F1 was nicknamed the “Camel.”

This also admirably described its temperament. Described as a “beast” to fly, the Camel had an aerodynamically unstable design that made it extremely maneuverable, but difficult to handle. In order to simplify production and get the plane fielded, Tommy Sopwith used a straight, horizontal upper wing with no dihedral.
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By way of compensating, Sopwith merely doubled the lower wing’s dihedral. This can (and did) cause all sorts of issues with the aircraft’s roll stability, especially when coupled with a powerful motor generating tremendous torque. If a pilot didn’t hold full right rudder throughout the takeoff roll, the Camel would ground-loop, giving it a well-deserved reputation for killing pilots.
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However, in the hands of the correct pilot, instability becomes lethal maneuverability, and the Camel could outturn any German aircraft in the sky.

Combined with greater numbers and the long-awaited twin guns, the Camel terrorized the Luftstreitkräfte. But the Germans were far from finished. Their aircraft designs may have hit a plateau (with several notable exceptions yet to come), but their surviving experienced pilots were still unmatched. During the close of the Arras offensive, the Red Baron was on leave, and shortly after he left his brother Lothar was badly wounded. But Voss was around, as were Kurt Wolff, Josef Jacobs, and scores of others. The Allies didn’t yet have an equivalent of von Richthofen, and the average experience level of British and French squadrons was less than that of the Germans. This was changing, but it would take some time.

Werner Voss, the “Flying Hussar,” had come back from Germany with a vengeance. Probably the best German fighter pilot of the war, he was an excellent marksman and a superb flyer. A naturally skilled mechanic, Voss worked on his own engines and machine guns, tuning and adjusting both for maximum effectiveness. Born to wealth, he had a casual indolence common to his social class, yet he always went into combat in full uniform in case he was forced down. Barely twenty years old, he had over a year of frontline experience, and had begun shooting down Englishmen at the age of eighteen. By the end of May 1917, Voss had 31 kills, the Blue Max, and command of Jasta 5.

By this time, flyers on both sides understood the practical and theoretical aspects of dogfighting. They understood deflection shooting, though not many could do it well before the advent of lead-computing sights. They understood the turn circle. (See Appendix A, “Anatomy of a Dogfight.”) In a time of short-range, forward-firing machine guns, the turn circle was vital. Not that you had to get behind an aircraft to kill him—you did not—but if you could get behind his wing line, then the single-seat type of fighter couldn’t shoot back as his guns were pointed forward.

Pilots like Voss also grasped the use of the “vertical.” This involves maneuvering up, down, and diagonally, not only sideways in the “horizontal.” There are many advantages to this. First, a vertical fight requires more flying finesse, which many inexperienced flyers didn’t have. Second, the tendency is for most pilots to look about horizontally and directly behind their own tail (the latter is called “checking six”).
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It takes conscious effort and training to cross-check the vertical, both up and down. Many men didn’t do it and so would never see the enemy that killed them. Third, using the vertical drastically changes the maneuvering potential of an aircraft. For example, if you’re descending or diving, your airspeed is much greater. Combine that with being unobserved because no one is looking up, and you’re set up for a slashing kill. If you’re coming up from below, then you’re also likely undetected and aiming for the vulnerable belly. This was Albert Ball’s favored method of attack, and few could emulate him.

The turn circle of an ascending aircraft will be much smaller, as you’ve got gravity working for you at the top of your turn. Think of an egg viewed from the side, with the vertical aircraft on the much smaller, rounded tip and the horizontal aircraft flying along the wider middle section. Your smaller circle fits inside his bigger one, allowing you to turn, point, and shoot. This gets you inside the enemy circle while keeping your aircraft “out of plane” and, you hope, beyond his guns. Environmental factors, such as the sun, are extremely lethal when used with this type of out-of-plane maneuvering. Most combat pilots who survive use combinations of these techniques to slash through a fight, shooting what they can, then extending away from the mess of swirling aircraft. Alternately called a “fur ball,” or “knife fight,” getting caught up in one was a fast way home in a box. Processing that much information and keeping accurate situational awareness on multiple fast-moving aircraft is extremely difficult. No matter how good you are, someone is likely to get you before you kill all of them or get away.

Voss took off early one Sunday morning from his aerodrome at Markebeke, near the Belgian-French border. Just back from Berlin, he’d been traveling all night and was still hungover. Tony Fokker loved throwing parties and had hosted a big one at the Bristol Hotel on Berlin’s famous Unter den Linden.

At about half past eight, a 57 Squadron DH-4 piloted by Lt. S. L. J. Bramley was over Roulers in western Belgium heading back for the British lines. Quick, strong, and well armed as it was, the single-engine British bomber was no match for the Fokker Triplane. Bramley and his observer, Lt. J. M. de Lacey, likely never saw Voss’s black skull-and-crossbones insignia before a burst from his guns sent them crashing down in flames.

Coming back with engine trouble, Voss landed, ate breakfast, and took a long nap. Later that afternoon he took off again in a spare Triplane, this one sporting a silver-blue finish and red nose spinner. Heading west for the front lines, he spotted a lone SE-5 and immediately attacked, not seeing a British flight of fighters a little farther west and a bit higher.

These were six SE-5s from 56 Squadron, led by Capt. James McCudden, and they’d crossed the front at Bikschote at 6,000 feet, heading northeast. McCudden spotted the SE-5 jinking and half spinning with a blue triplane stuck to its tail. Rolling inverted over Poelcappelle, the six Brits attacked, McCudden and Lt. Arthur Rhys-Davies bracketing right and left, respectively.

But Voss was too experienced to be caught that way. Even while lining up on his target he was still checking six and immediately picked up the threats swooping down from above. With himself now the target and with no way to run, Voss flipped the wonderfully maneuverable triplane around and attacked. Watching the vulnerable tail turn into twin Spandau machine guns broke up the British formation. McCudden later recalled, “The German pilot saw us and turned in a most disconcertingly quick manner, not a climbing nor Immelmann turn, but a sort of half spin. . . . As soon as I fired up came his nose at me, and I heard clack-clack-clack-clack as his bullets passed close to me.”

Having survived the initial pass, Voss now had the advantage. His opponents were either level or descending, building up speed
away
from him. His triplane could easily outturn any SE-5 and he was now on top of the fight, slower but with altitude and more maneuverability. Maybe he could’ve disengaged by heading back into the clouds, then sprinting for home. For a half second there was probably that option, but Voss was a fighter pilot and his blood was up. He certainly showed no signs of hesitation and stayed where he was, turning and shooting at any target of opportunity.

By now the German triplane was in the middle of our formation, and its handling was wonderful to behold. The pilot seemed to be firing at all of us simultaneously, and although I got behind him a second time, I could hardly stay there for a second. His movements were so quick and uncertain that none of us could hold him in sight at all for any decisive time. . . . I noted the triplane in the apex of a cone of tracer bullets from at least five machines simultaneously, and each machine had two guns.

—CAPT. JAMES MCCUDDEN, 56 SQUADRON RFC

Voss was fighting for his life and, at those odds, was flying instinctively—there would be no other way to fight at that point. Everything was a target. A lucky bullet hitting a British pilot or engine, one of the British planes running out of fuel or ammunition—it was all still possible, as was the chance that a comrade would come to help. In fact, Lt. Karl Menckhoff, flying a red-nosed Albatros from Jasta 3, did just that. Ignoring the odds and his poor position, he dove straight into the fight and tried to protect the triplane’s tail. Voss instantly switched from purely defensive flying and began attacking again. Menckhoff was also a superb pilot, but in covering Voss he got himself shot down by Rhys-Davies.

By now, however, the fight had drifted southeast and fallen much lower against the darkening ground. Arthur Rhys-Davies was still knife-fighting with the triplane. Slow from all the turning, Voss had no more altitude to trade and was forced into a purely horizontal fight. Rhys-Davies was firing both guns when the triplane passed off his right wing, began flying erratically, then dove straight down into the ground. Whether he was already dead by the time his plane went into a dive or had just been wounded, the German and his plane disappeared into a thousand pieces just north of Frezenburg behind the British lines.

The 56 Squadron pilots knew they’d battled one of the best and no one else could’ve survived against all of them. The British pilots in that dogfight had accounted for more than eighty German planes, yet Werner Voss had fought them for ten minutes, so badly damaging five aircraft that three made forced landings and two were written off completely.

His body was identified by papers in his pockets and the Blue Max around his neck. Upon hearing the news, Arthur Rhys-Davies said, “Oh, if I could only have brought him down alive.”

McCudden agreed and later wrote:

As long as I live I shall never forget my admiration for that German pilot, who single-handed fought seven of us for ten minutes, and also put some bullets through all of our machines. His flying was wonderful, his courage magnificent.

There is no finer epitaph for a fighter pilot.

AMONG THE OTHER
German miscalculations in 1917 was the resumption of unrestricted submarine warfare, which they regarded as the only way to strangle England and end the blockade of Germany. The U-boat attacks provided ample argument for those in England and the United States who wanted America to openly join the fighting. So America’s declaration of war on April 6, 1917, was no real surprise. Unlike today, where a declaration is followed immediately by an attack from the other side of the world, nothing of the sort could happen in 1917. The United States had no tanks, no aircraft to speak of, and an army so small that its largest unit was a regiment. There was also no recent combat experience—Cuba and Mexico hardly counted.

Individually, Americans had been in it from the beginning. Three different volunteer ambulance groups provided men and vehicles to French line divisions.
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Others, who wanted to fight and not drive a truck, joined the British or French military directly. Norman Prince and William Thaw were Americans living in France, and they had the notion of forming a separate flying unit of American volunteers. Both men became pilots with the French Air Service and went to different combat squadrons at the front. Elliot Cowdin was another American pilot serving with the French; he joined them in December 1915.