A GENERAL VIEW
‘Any unbeliever in the reality of the command of the air being in the
hands of Britain and her Allies,’ writes the editor of _Flight_, ‘must
indeed be despaired of, after the daily records of the wonderful work
of our pilots which are issued officially, combined with the unstinted
paeans of praise emanating from every imaginable source upon this and
the other side of the world. Quite recently again, Mr. H. G. Wells
repeated his admiration of the Allies’ air-work; at the same time he
entered the lists with General Brussiloff as prophet as to the duration
of the war, Mr. Wells putting it at June, 1917.
Mr. Wells’ reasons for his prophecy are as follows: ‘I think so for a
hundred reasons, but above all for these: The marvellous organization
of the French front, the mastery of the air which is assured to our
aviators—I was witness of it, and I should rather say the exclusive
possession of the air. Then the photographic marking by aeroplanes, in
which the French take first rank. Lastly, by your artillery fire, which
demolishes, methodically and mathematically the enemy batteries without
fear of reprisals.’
An interesting communication upon the same subject has just come to
hand from the well-known correspondent of the _Chicago Daily News_, Mr.
Edward Price Bell, in which he states that the British flying man is in
the air every day between four and eight hours, constantly under fire.
Ordinarily along the British front the flying men are in the air from
two to three hours each day. Mr. Price Bell hits upon the basic reason
for our superiority when he points out that our officers are always
‘hunting for trouble’ above the German lines, never declining a combat,
and fighting, however outnumbered. Altogether he calculates that up to
the latter part of 1916 British flying men on the Western front must
have flown entirely over the enemy’s lines much more than a million
miles.
An officer of the Royal Flying Corps, also writing of the supremacy of
the Allies, says: ‘Man for man, we undoubtedly are masters of the air
on the west front. This fact I attribute to the mental and physical
training we give our boys in England. Our youngest pilots have done
wonderfully well. They learn quickly, are intensely keen, have great
alertness of mind and act instinctively.’
‘Our people have the tails up morally and mechanically,’ adds another,
‘and though they have plenty of fighting when they get to the other
side of the lines, they are on the offensive all the time. The moral
as well as the physical uplift is considerable, when one has a machine
which will get above the German range of accurate fire in a quarter of
an hour, and will do in or about 100 miles an hour when pushed. With
such a machine one can attack and keep on attacking; and though perhaps
not even the majority of our people are mounted on such machines, the
worst machine at the front to-day is probably nearly as good as the
best a year ago, and there are enough of the first-class machines to
protect the weaker brethren. Despite all the errors of the past, our
air service has certainly acquired dominance, if not absolute command,
in the air, and for that fact very great credit is due to the officers
who have so thoroughly reorganized affairs at the War Office, and who
have so notably increased the performance and output of the machines
now in use.’
The great improvement in the construction of machines for long-distance
flying is particularly worthy of note. We have seen how Captain de
Beauchamps, leaving France in the morning, flew in broad daylight as
far as Munich, where he dropped bombs on the stations. Then turning at
right angles towards the south, he flew over the whole of the Tyrol
and crossed the Alps, to land at length 12½ miles north of Venice, in
the village of Santa Dona, on the small River Piave, having journeyed
without stopping a distance of about 700 kilometres.
Captain de Beauchamps holds the flight record for bombing raids on
German towns, but the longest journey made by an Allied aviator
during the war was that of Lieutenant Marchal, who visited Berlin on
a previous date. He, however, only dropped pamphlets on the German
capital, before making off to the Russian frontier. He came down sixty
miles within the German lines, having flown over 800 miles.
Captain de Beauchamps was accompanied in his great flight to Essen
by Lieut. Daucourt, who made at the time some extremely interesting
entries in his logbook:
‘11 a.m. My friend Beauchamps has just gone, and I followed two minutes
later. One thousand yards up, 2,000-3,000, we keep on getting higher
and higher. The weather is clear with just a few clouds over 9,000
feet. The air is distinctly cold.
‘12 a.m. I am full over the Boche lines. We are seen and the
anti-aircraft guns start a curtain fire a little forward but too high.
The white puffs of the 77 make a line of smoke which I have got to
cross. Soon the shots become more and more numerous; 300 shots at least
must have been fired in a few minutes. Time after time I get right
into the smoke of the bursting shells, and I can hear pieces of steel
whistle near, very near. Oh! the Boche gunner rectifies his range. But
he is too low now, so I go higher still, and I pass.... Now there are
shots on my left, which burst with black smoke, 105 calibre shells.
This is getting more serious. Shots get nearer, I point towards the
left slightly, and, all of a sudden, I go ninety degrees to the left
and drop straight towards the ground for 300 feet. The game is finished
and the gunners done. Out of spite they shoot all over the place, and
the shells burst now at the back of me. It looks as if I was going to
get out of trouble without much difficulty.... Now where is my friend?
I cannot see him. Has he been brought down? Has he changed his line?
A little under me I can see a big, fat yellow ‘plane. Black crosses!
It’s a Boche. Another one follows very near. The distance between us
is about 600 feet, but they are slower than I am. Clac—clac—clac. It
is Mr. Boche opening fire. The short bursts of his machine-gun keep
crepitating. The brute does not shoot badly. Shall I engage him in a
fight? It is really very tempting. But no, Essen is my only target, and
I have no right to compromise, by a passing engagement, the success of
our raid. I open my engine right out, and soon lose my aggressors....
As I fly over Treves I just distinguished on my left the outline of
another ‘plane. It is getting nearer and nearer. The sun prevents me
from seeing it clearly, although I seem to recognize the silhouette
of my companion’s machine. No doubt it is he. I can now see his blue,
white and red cocarde. And all of a sudden I feel very happy....
‘A little later I change my direction and go straight north, leaving
Coblenz on my left. Far in front of me I can see a small grey ribbon
... The Rhine. It looks beautiful from up here. Somehow my confidence
increases every minute. Sure everything will go well. I cross over the
right bank. On the river many long convoys of barges go up towards
Coblenz. If only I did not have a consignment of bombs to deliver, I
should go down to gun them. It is funny how strong these temptations
are.... Here is Bonn. My friend and co-raider is still on my right. My
engine keeps on turning merrily, and I marvel at the ease with which
I have covered these first 200 kilometres. A quick calculation shows
me that we are going at the rate of about 130 miles an hour. It is
a goodish speed. The weather is cold up here. My thermometer shows
sixteen degrees below zero. To try and get warm I move arms and legs as
much as I can in that cramped space. A few drops of peppermint which
I drink warm my inside and cool my mouth.... Underneath the Rhine,
and still more boats!... Now we pass a town which seems enormous.
It is Cologne. What a splendid target it would make! But there are
women, children, old people, and I am a soldier, not a pirate. I must
only aim at destroying the military power of the enemy. Now I point
straight towards Dusseldorf. But all the district disappears under a
pool of smoke. What an extraordinary agglomeration of works! Here are
Solingen, Elberfeld, Barmen, black country criss-crossed by innumerable
railway lines and with hundreds of high chimneys, like guns, pointing
to the sky. Down there a tremendous amount of arms of all sorts, guns,
munitions, &c., all to be directed against us, are produced with a
tremendous activity.
‘Essen at last. I am over what has been considered as the heart of
Germany, over the town which stands as the symbol of brutal force.
Where now are the Krupp’s works? There, at the west of the town. How
large they are! The shops and buildings, between which trains are
running, seem innumerable. The attempts to disguise it are indeed
foolish. It is the most perfect target one can imagine. Now I suppose
I am going to be _strafed_. I look here and there for bursting shells.
Nothing! They aim too low. However, some very violent waves of air of
which I do not understand the cause disturb for a moment my bombing
preparations.
‘2 o’clock. The centre of the works pass. I drop my torpedoes in
rapid succession. My friend, who is over me and a little on the left,
drops his also. I guess, more than I can exactly see, as I am so very
high, that underneath in the works the people suffer from a sort of
madness. There are rushes of people soon hidden by clouds of smoke
which rise from many points. Nearly at the centre it seems that there
is a formidable explosion, followed by intense fire. What a joy to have
attained one’s aim! Krupp has been bombed, in full daylight, in spite
of its anti-aircraft guns and of its ‘planes. I suppose that now the
Boches must be mad with fury, and will try to chase us. Never mind, my
mission has been fulfilled. I will fight enemy ‘planes if they come....
Here I am again over Dusseldorf, but not going so fast as in coming.
The wind, which has veered, hampers me. A quick verification of my oil
and petrol tanks. All is well; I can keep up for another six hours. The
clouds get denser and denser. There is at some moments a thick mist,
which veils completely the ground. As I am browsing, some explosions
thunder louder than the noise of my engine. I turn right round, so
that the Boche gunner loses the range. But as I turn I see 1,500 or
2,000 feet under me three Boche ‘planes who are giving chase. Their
machines are as fast as mine, but as soon as they try to go up they
lose ground. I slacken for a few seconds, and going straight towards
the most forward of them, I serve him at about 150 yards with three
bursts of my machine-gun. Unnerved, he prefers not to engage a fight
and flies towards the left. But the others are attacking me from the
back. It is time to go.... Have I wounded my opponent? I don’t think
so, as he seems to be flying straight again, but very much lower. Soon
the two others are only black spots.... The chase has lasted over
thirty minutes, and I have got a real stiff neck, so often did I turn
round.... Now I have been up six hours. Time drags dreadfully. My eyes
hurt, and I suffer from the cold. Evidently I am over Belgium now. But
where? I must know. I come down, engine stopped. How sweet is that
silence, after six hours of tempest! Four thousand feet; it is low
enough.
‘6.30. I cannot stand it any more, I am coming down, 7,000 feet,
5,000 feet, 1,000 feet. I cannot hear the guns any more. But what are
these? Bivouacs. Am I in France? I keep on for another quarter of an
hour, going south, and finally alight in an immense field, far from
a village. If I am on the territory invaded by the Germans I’ll fly
away under their nose. I am at the end of the field, ready to start
again in case of need. I have kept my engine turning slowly. After five
minutes of waiting, some people come running towards me—peasants. I
shout to them at the top of my voice, “Where am I?” “At Champaubert,”
they answer me. What a joy is mine! I am in France. Back, after having
succeeded in what seemed to men an impossible enterprise.’
It is particularly interesting to note that in their remarkable flight
both Captain de Beauchamps and Lieutenant Daucourt used machines of
British manufacture.
We have seen that the officers and men of the Royal Naval Air Service
have also to their credit many long-distance flights. Indeed, in all
respects the R.N.A.S. have kept at ‘level-fight’ with the R.F.C. The
two Services work, however, under different conditions. The following
is an extract from a report from Admiral Sir John R. Jellicoe, G.C.B.,
G.C.V.O., then Commander-in-Chief, Grand Fleet: ‘_Iron Duke_, August
23, 1916. Sir,—With reference to my dispatch of June 24, 1916, I have
the honour to bring to the notice of the Lords Commissioners of the
Admiralty the names of officers who are recommended for honours and
special commendation. Where all carried out their duties so well it
is somewhat invidious and difficult to select officers for special
recognition.’
We have seen, however, that many naval aviators have been decorated.
In addition to the names already given, mention must be made of
Flight-Lieutenant F. J. Rutland, who has been decorated with the
Distinguished Service Order for his gallantry and persistence in flying
within close range of four enemy light cruisers, in order to enable
accurate information to be obtained and transmitted concerning them.
Conditions at the time made low flying necessary.
This is also a fitting place to record that it has been officially
announced that the King has conferred the Distinguished Service Cross
on Flight-Lieutenant Charles T. Freeman, R.N.A.S., for the following
act of gallantry: On the night of August 2, 1916, he made a determined
attack on a Zeppelin at sea, only abandoning the attack when he had
exhausted all his ammunition. As darkness was approaching at the time,
and his chances of being picked up were problematical, his courage
and devotion in returning to the attack a second and third time were
exemplary.
There is every indication that our airmen are becoming more heroic
and skilful each passing day. Touching their great service in dealing
with enemy airships, the editor of the _Aeroplane_ writes: ‘One of
the commonest and cheapest jeers of certain papers which have adopted
anti-Churchillism as part of their political creed has been the
constant jibe at the late First Lord of the Admiralty that the defence
which he promised against enemy airships has not been forthcoming.
It is now many, many months—in fact, it runs into years—since Mr.
Winston Churchill informed the world that, if enemy airships ventured
to invade this country, they would be met by ‘a swarm of hornets’ which
would make them regret that they had ever come.
‘At that time the defence of England was entirely in the hands of the
Navy. The Army was still piously supposed to be the Expeditionary
Force. Naturally, as part of the Navy, the R.N.A.S. was supposed to
be responsible for the defence of the country against aircraft; a
perfectly logical position, and an eminently sensible one, for the
Navy has always been able to obtain all the money it has wanted for any
scheme it might have in hand. Consequently there seemed to be no reason
why Mr. Churchill’s rhetorical phrase—to which one might have returned
the time-honoured question, “Is that a threat or a promise?”—should
not have become before long a literal truth. There was one point
on which all of us seem to have tripped up, however—namely, that
in talking or thinking of invasion by aircraft we all pictured to
ourselves a fleet of machines coming over in broad daylight, and the
world’s aerial navies grappling in full sight, complete with central
blue as fitted. None of us seems to have had the sense to see that
nocturnal invasions would be very much more effective, both morally and
practically, than any daylight show could have been.
‘If the Germans had sent their airships over early in 1915, in
daylight, they would certainly have been wiped out by aeroplanes. We
had very few aeroplanes then; not a fraction of the number we should
have had if the supply of engines and machines had been properly
handled before the war by the Government. But nevertheless, we had some
few, such as Sopwith tabloids and Bristol scouts, quite capable of
reaching and catching and destroying any airship of that period, if it
could be seen. The destruction of the very first Zeppelin ever brought
down by an aeroplane—that which ultimately wrecked itself after being
damaged and made uncontrollable by Squadron-Commander Bigsworth,
R.N.—proves it, for this officer was flying a standard 80 h.-p.
Avro, a considerably slower machine than either of the single-seaters
mentioned. The Germans spotted this quickly enough, and so their ships
only came over at night, with the result that for over a year they came
and went unhindered, so far as defensive aeroplanes were concerned.
The only people who suffered were the gallant young officers of the
R.N.A.S., who went up to try to abolish the airships.
‘The Admiralty published openly the names of those killed in these
operations. Young Mr. Lord, of Newcastle, was, I believe, the first
victim. He was killed in the south of England when trying to land a
fast scout in the dark. Much about the same time Mr. Hilliard was
killed through the bombs he had on board his Caudron exploding as he
landed. Mr. Richard Gates was killed when landing a Henry Farman
in the dark. Mr. Barnes was killed through landing a big Sopwith
pusher in the early morning fog after flying all night. There may
have been other deaths, but those are all I recall in the early part
of 1915. There were many other officers injured, and still many
more marvellous escapes. I have been told how an officer jumped out
of his machine near the ground, chancing where he fell rather than
risk being blown up by his bombs. Another officer had a still more
extraordinary experience. He landed on a Caudron, and his bombs blew
up. Subsequently investigation showed clearly where his skids first
struck the ground. About twenty-five yards farther on was the wreck of
the machine and engine, all burnt to bits by the petrol set on fire by
the bombs; and about twenty yards farther still was the place where
the pilot had finished having a private fire of his own. Seemingly the
first shock had jarred and bent the stems of the bombs and released
the firing mechanism. The second shock had exploded them, had blown
the whole machine to pieces, had burst the petrol tank so that the
spirit splashed all over the pilot and caught light, and, finally and
fortunately, had blown the pilot clean out of the machine into some
longish grass, where he fell without being stunned, and rolled over and
over till he put the flames out. I gather that his worst injury was a
rather burned hand, due to his glove falling off while he was beating
the flames out on his coat.’
Never must we forget the debt we owe to these heroes of the Royal Naval
Air Service. They have played, as we have seen, a most heroic part.
And we would bear in mind the fact that the work of our heroic aviators
covers the _whole_ field of the World War. In Mesopotamia, for
instance, much good work has been done. A correspondent of the _Daily
Telegraph_ wrote in October, 1916: ‘On the night of the 19th one of
our aeroplanes raided an enemy aerodrome at Shumran, dropping eight
20-pound bombs, which fell all round a machine, apparently damaging
the same, and putting out lanterns left on the ground by the guard,
who fled on the aviator’s approach. Early in the morning of the 26th
two of our aeroplanes successfully bombed a hangar, descending to 100
feet. One of our machines was damaged. A bullet cut a control wire,
and the aeroplane “nose-dipped” 1,000 yards, but the pilot succeeded
in righting the machine and landed safely. The Turks, believing they
had destroyed the machine, started cheering in the trenches. Several
exposed themselves, and were “picked off.”’
At a later date news came from Mesopotamia of an affair which afforded
a striking instance of aeroplanes working in co-operation with cavalry.
Mounted enemy irregulars had driven off our camels on the left bank of
the river, and were proceeding north-west. Two aeroplanes were sent out
with machine guns to attack the raiders. Our aviators soon passed over
scattered bodies of mounted men, who were taking cover in nullahs and
firing at the machines. These were driven out by machine-gun fire from
the aeroplanes, and, breaking into small groups, made for the hills.
Several were hit, and three or four killed. During the action our
machines flew very low, descending at times to within twenty feet of
the ground. After dispersing this body our aviators pursued the raided
camels, which were seen being driven towards the hills by troops of
irregular cavalry. Fire was opened from the aeroplanes, and the escort
immediately abandoned the camels, retiring towards the mountains. A
troop of our cavalry coming up recaptured the camels. The machines and
cavalry continued to chase the raiders, inflicting further casualties.
Further reports from the same quarter show that on October 25, 1916,
one of our aviators, returning from a reconnaissance, attacked a
party of enemy irregular cavalry. After dropping bombs among them, he
descended to 800 feet, firing his machine-gun into them, and killing
many. In the evening five of our machines raided a cavalry camp by
Shattlhai, dropped bombs, and again brought the machine-gun into
action, causing considerable loss and panic.
All will remember how our aviators, overcoming many serious
difficulties, dropped provisions into besieged Kut, thus enabling our
soldiers to prolong their defence.
In Egypt also some very useful work has been done. The Officer
Commanding has reported that on September 4, 1916, the Royal Flying
Corps carried out a further raid on the enemy’s encampment at Mazar.
One anti-aircraft gun was put out of action and a number of bombs were
dropped with good effect on camps, supply depots, and camel lines.
Further reports showed that on the following day two of our aeroplanes
raided the Turkish aerodrome and aeroplane repair section at El Arish.
Twelve bombs were dropped with good results. Enemy aeroplanes attacked
our machines, but did not close, and only opened fire at long range.
They ultimately gave up the fight, and our machines returned undamaged.
From Salonika news came in September, 1916, of an enemy machine being
shot down on the seventh and of a second enemy machine being shot down
on the following day north-east of Lake Doiran. The days that followed
were equally favourable to the Allied airmen.
An account of the sensational landing of a French bombarding aeroplane
containing two aviators has come from an officer in the Doiran
district: ‘A piece of bursting shrapnel having severed one of the
control wires of an aeroplane,’ he writes, ‘the machine began to dive
head-foremost and was apparently lost. It was falling within the
enemy’s lines, to the great delight of the Bulgarians. When within a
hundred yards of the ground the observer managed to leave his seat, and
succeeded in hoisting himself on to the upper plane of his machine,
where, lying on the canvas, he was able to restore the balance of the
machine by moving the plane by hand. The motor controls were undamaged,
and as soon as the equilibrium of the aeroplane was restored it was
able to return to the Allied lines and land without further mishap,
with a bomb still on board.’
Another sensational incident was that of a naval observer in a
‘sausage’ balloon operating in Macedonia, attacked by two Fokkers,
which fired a stream of bullets, piercing the ‘sausage’ at several
points and destroying the telephone. The observer had on board a small
machine-gun and a parachute. After having sent the contents of two
belts of ammunition at his enemies, the gun jammed. He then threw
himself overboard with his parachute, and fell for about 600 feet. At
last, however, the parachute opened, and the observer landed safely.
After which the balloon was repaired and he went up again.
From the Secretary of State for India news came in November, 1916,
of aeroplanes being used in Indian warfare for the first time. Large
Mohmand forces (estimated at 6,000) collected on the border opposite
Shubkadr, and were dealt with by our aviators with remarkable effect.
Each passing day our heroic airmen add to their laurels. But it must
not be supposed that so much has been accomplished without the loss of
valuable lives. Many heroic men—aviators of whom we are prouder than
words can tell—have made the supreme sacrifice.