Aerial Fighting

Flying has of late years been a muchly discussed topic, and to-day the interest in the subject is even more keen, owing to the successful termination of the war and the striking part that the aeroplane played in bringing about that happy conclusion. Again, the problem of commercialising the aeroplane for the peaceful work of trade, and of rapid transit from place to place, has been very much before the public, culminating at the moment in the trans-Atlantic flight. All these things have made the man in the street cognisant of the powers and possibilities of flying, and have awakened in his mind thoughts which five years ago it would have been impossible for him to have imagined.

War flying has been dealt with by scores of writers. Some of the them have been familiar with their subjects by actual personal experience - and some have not. Many of them have derived their knowledge from hearsay, which - from my experience of Flying Corps messes - they must have gathered from yarns told well on in the evening after a good dinner, as some of the high-flown stories indicate. But there are many very fine points in aerial fighting that have not yet been expounded.

The experiences of all pilots preparing for active service are alike in the main; their feelings are similar on the whole. When he takes off for his first solo flight it is not fear which grip shim - rather a very sensitive realisation that he knows very little about what the machine is doing, and nasty, sinking apprehensions every time he feels a bump. Thoughts career through his mind of rudders coming off, tail planes twisting, etc. coupled with the knowledge that the ground is a long way off. Then he recollects that a body dropping through space rushes earthwards at the rate of thirty-two feet the first second, double that rate the next second, and so on. He wonders what he would look like if he dropped 3000 feet. Presently, as nothing very startling occurs, his thoughts come back to nearly normal, and he remembers that hundreds of others have successfully done a first solo. So he more or less contrives to continue his flight without accident. Eventually he makes up his mind to land, shuts off his engine, and glides towards the aerodrome. Realising presently that his machine is travelling dangerously fast, he jerks back his control lever, and gets a fright accordingly. Approaching the ground, he is assailed with all the old fears, and recollects having often heard instructors say : "Any blithingly ass can fly a machine, but it takes a pilot to land 'em." However, he gets down more or less successfully - according to the way his guardian angel is looking at the moment - and so another prospective sraafer of Huns is started on his way, the length and breadth of which is determined mainly by luck, but an appreciable amount by his own judgement and discretion.

Before he finally gets overseas to a service squadron, he has to do an aerial fighting course, which invariably gives him a fair amount of "wind up." Perhaps his fighting instructor ( whose business it is to go up in another machine and fight him ) eventually refuses to go into the air with him as he is frightened that during one of the many strange, uncontrolled evolutions of the pupil's machine they will both collide - the fighting instructor being a wise young man in his generation, and knowledgeable of the habits and faults of the young and eager. So he passes the pupil as qualified in category "B".

He proceeds overseas, and experiences another period of fear. Every time he sees a strange machine near him in the sky, he dies - metaphorically. Frequently during a patrol he got lost, and his Flight Commander vainly endeavours to catch him up and attract his attention. But the new hand is vary hard to catch; and finally the leader gives him up, collects the remainder of the formation, and continues the patrol - cursing all new pilots generally, and with simple directness. In the meantime, the newcomer either manages to come to earth some fifty miles from home, or to get safely back and recount the story of how the patrol was attacked by numerous machines that shot down all the remainder of the patrol, and then chased him all the way home. Eventually when the patrol returns, and a very worried Flight Commander sees his lost machine peacefully resting outside the hangars, he opens out - and a keen, but highly imaginative, youth has his past life his future hopes, and his capabilities as a pilot, hurled at him by a direct but blasphemous, Captain. Next time the erring ones don't get lost.

Fighting in the air has dozens of different phases, governed, of course, by existing circumstances - and these circumstances can be divided into a number of different classes. The main ones only will I dwell on here. The principle factor which decides whether one should engage the enemy is position. The position to have before commencing a fight ( and this includes the sun in your favour ) is to be at a greater height than the enemy machine - that is; go into the fight from above, if possible. To illustrate my meaning clearly, take two men, each armed with a stout stick. One man is in a steep ditch, and the other on a bank above. The man in the ditch would be foolish to commence a fight with the other; whereas the man on the bank has the advantage of being able to commence a scrap if he so desires, or run away. The man below could not catch him, as he would lose time in scrambling out of the dith. This simple parallel governs the entire tactics of aerial fighting.

However, before one can take advantage of this knowledge, he must conquer a far greater enemy, and that is personal fear. I do not mean funk - it is physical shrinking from meeting the Hun, a feeling which disappears directly after your first engagement. I do not care who the man is, or how stout of heart, his early days of flying over enemy country are characterised by fear, and it is the sort of fear that robs a man of his initiative and determination, the two greatest factors in the character of a successful fighter. Perhaps his early days of war flying have been all patrol work, probably very seldom meeting the enemy. Consequently he knows nothing about his foes, and they become to some pilots an ever-present menace - something that drops through space and shoots you down before you have a chance of defending yourself. Thus his abilities and prowess are magnified. The news of a good British stunt pilots "going west" and the deeds of the Huns filter through and help to alarm him. Probably one or two pilots whom he knew were shot down by an enemy aircraft or anti-aircraft fire; and this all helps to make him undesirous or scrapping. Of course this does not last long; probably in normal circumstances about two or three weeks, or, in the case of where a squadron is in the thick of much aerial fighting,, it may not last a day. Then the feeling gradually becomes predominant that the enemy is not so good a pilot as you thought; probably on one occasion he refused to come near you when circumstances were in his favour - and so on. Then you realise that he is but human after all, and that if you have been more or less chary of meeting him, he is evidently more so, You have always considered a Britisher better than a German in your own mind, and you have no reason to change that opinion.

Then one day you have a fight thrust upon you, and again your old apprehensions return. You probably have become separated from the rest of your patrol, owing to clouds or some other cause, when suddenly an enemy machine lurches through the murk from behind a cloud or out of the sun, and before you quite realise it, you hear the "clack-clack-clack" of a machine gun. My first experience of this kind almost stopped my heart beating. I had been out having a look at the lines, when quite an inexperienced pilot, and had unintentionally wandered over Hun-land. Flying under pleasant conditions is very insidious, and very often one becomes quite drowsy and inattentive. On this occasion I had been studying the ground, and had been very interested in this whitish brown patch formed by the ruins of Ypres. I recollected how my friends had often bombed fish on Dickebush Lake; and following this line of rumination, I had fallen to wondering what retribution would fall upon the Germans for destroying these towns.

Suddenly I was frightened almost out of the cockpit by the "Whoof! Whoof!" of the enemy Archie. Naturally, I lost my head and endeavoured to dive for the line, but was cut off by a barrage of anti-aircraft bursts right in front of me. This suddenly ceased, and, with the egoism of youth, I congratulated myself upon outmanouvering his fire; but I had taken a look at the ground below I would have seen that I was still well over Hun-land. Then came the "clack-clack-clack" of machine gun fire right on top of me, and, spitting lead for all he was worth, was a yellow and black German scout of the Pfalz type. Of course, I moved very quickly, and, without worrying about the strength of my machine, I pushed the stick hard forward, and I went into a vertical dive with the engine full on. So sudden was the bump that I was nearly throw out of the machine. I shut off the engine, I zoomed u as high as I could. There was a rush of wind, and the roar of the Hun's engine as he swooped over me. I kept climbing away from him under his wing, and he kept twisting and turning to try and find me, but he did not do so until I was almost his level and about three hundred yards away. Then we both turned, and came at each other, both machines doing over one hundred miles an hour. It does not take long to cover one hundred and fifty yards at that speed, and one does not have very much time for thought. We were firing at each other the whole distance, my two guns aggregating twelve hundred rounds per minute. I was dreading the possibility of crashing into the Hun, when he suddenly put his nose down and went under me. I zoomed up again, half rolled on the top of a loop, and came out about three hundred feet above and behind the Pfalz. He commenced to travel around in a circle, and I went after him trying all the time to maintain the advantage of my extra height. Now and then I would almost get a bead on him, and would fire a short burst. Sometimes I would hear the rat-tat-tat of the Hun's two guns behind me. Round and round I went in a circle of about two hundred and fifty feet, sometimes on my back, and sometimes feeling very light in the seat as I did something wrong, and slipped round the turns.

A little explanation of the relative machines should be of value here. The Sopwith Camel I was flying was a wonderfully quick manouvering 'bus' whilst the German Pfalz was, if anything faster on the level, but could not turn so quickly. Then again, the guns on most scout machines are firmly fixed, so that the machine is but a gun-mounting, and it has to be pointed at your target in order to align your gun-sights. This all means that the more flexible machine has the advantage in a dog-fight.

Well, neither of us had been able to bring things to a decision, so I determined to put a stunt up on my opponent. I knew that with his heavy engine in front, the nose of his machine must go down when he got too far over on one side. So I manouvered to get infront of him almost, and tried to entice him to put on a little too much bank in order to get around after me. This he did, and exactly what I anticipated happened - the nose of his machine went down. I immediately flattened out, pulled my machine up vertical, and then kicked it over sideways with the rudder, finishing up directly over the Pfalz. Then I commenced to be very deliberate. I examined my guns, opened up my telescopic sight, put my engine full on, and coming up to within a few feet of my opponent, I took a careful aim, and fired a burst with both guns. Then the end came. The right wing of the Pfalz came off, and the machine went hurtling earthwards, and finally burst into flames when about 2000 feet from the ground. I felt very sick when I saw this happen, and I just leaned out over the side of my cockpit and was just about as ill as I have ever been in my life. Then the enemy Archie batteries opened up, and commenced to throw grand pianos and iron foundries at me; but I was past trying to dodge them. So I put the nose of my machine down, and beetled off for the line just as hard as I could.

Of course, in this early kind of fighting, the man who wins is just the better of a couple of very dud fighters. You fly all possible ways except the right, jerking the machine about, yanking it here and there, and so on. Later when one has become accustomed to the enemy tactics, and has had perhaps a dozen combats, and been in a good many dog-fights, he deliberates, and never goes into a scrap unless he has the Hun where he wants him. When an experienced pilot is out waiting for single enemy machines, the hostile pilot he is stalking is as good as dead before even a shot is fired, and it just requires that final impetus to send him under - to such a fine art has his aerial fighting been reduced.

In conclusion, I would like to mention that the most successful is the most aggressive; but, at the same time, a cool head and a fine sense of judgement are essential. Angles are so fine, and speeds are so tremendous in the air, that a very accurate burst of fire must be put in to be of any use. I have seen pilots "sitting on the tail" of enemy machines, and only a few feet off, fire all their ammunition, and still the Hun tootles along unhurt. Then again, I have seen a careful pilot fire only about ten shots - and down goes his opponent.

To Capt. "Mick" Mannock ( of No.74 RAF and afterwards Major and CO of No.85 RAF ) , 4th Squadron AFC owes a large amount of its success. This Officers squadron was for some time stationed on the same aerodrome as 4th AFC Clairmarias, and he took upon himself the task of making all the pilots around him keen and aggressive . Several talks of his to the Australian pilots there were responsible for some fine aggressive shows against the enemy, and numerous combined affairs were successfully carried out. I regard Major Mannocks character and spirit as the finest I have met in the Air Force. He was practically blind in one eye, yet he could recognise various types of enemy aircraft when the average person could barely see machines. No matter how great the odds, Mannock always managed to extricate his patrol without losing machines. I was extremely pleased to see that the Air Board officially recognized him as the greatest of all British pilots, with the wonderful record of seventy-two enemy machines officially confirmed as destroyed. Unfortunately, this very gallant officer was shot down in flames and killed just a few months before the Armistice; but his wise teachings and splendid example bore abundant fruit after his death amongst those pilots who were privileged to be associated with him in his work.

By Captain Arthur H. Cobby DSO, DFC

The Australian Squadrons

Nos. 2 and 4 Squadrons of The Australian Flying Corps need no praise of mine for their work in the summer of 1918. Their records show that they were the finest material as an attacking force in the air, just as their infantry divisions on the ground were the best that the war produced on either side.

It became the practice for our Australian Squadrons to lead the 80th Wing's bombing raids. When later in the year over a hundred machines set out on one of them, the spearpoint was always formed of Australian Airmen, led by an Australian. Major McCloughry[McClaughry], Major Murray-Jones, Capt Cobby, and Capt King are the names I remember best, but the others that were equally famous have slipped my memory for the moment.

In individual squadron fighting these Australians had no equals in their best days, and more than once they raised the record for numbers of enemy aircraft destroyed in one day by any squadron. The secret of their success was, in my opinion mainly due to their sense of initiative, which they inherited from ancestors who had been cattlemen, sheep-ranchers, poachers, trappers, outriders, overland post and transport drivers. You only need to read the tales of the early Australian Settlers to realize the conditions under which these men grew.

They had to fend for themselves against known and unknown dangers in the wide, open, lonely spaces of the continent. It was nothing to them to be in the saddle for days and days when crossing mountain ranges. deserts, or forests; their sense of direction never faltered on these long trails, and they were equally at home when cutting out their cattle at a round-up or shooting the rapids in a canoe. In fact, they were all good scouts, and what ideal training their life in their native country gave them for work in the air!

On the ground I must admit this same sense of initiative proved a source of much trouble to their superiors at times. It was impossible to convince an Australian that a nice piano in a deserted and half looted house was loot if he decided to take care of it temporarily without troubling to find and get permission from the absentee owner. It also might have been insulting to hint at cattle-stealing ancestry, but when we others were existing on tinned milk, the Australians always had their own fresh milk from their own two cows and a spare lorry to transport the cows whenever a move had to be made. Moreover, these cows always had calves with great regularity. Of course, it would have been bad form to question the origin of the new piano, the cows and the calves which they had invited a Wing Commander to see. These accessories meant so much to the amenity of their life on the ground and so the Wing Commander could only let them get away with it, even though he knew it was his pidgeon if anyone raised awkward inquires.

Nevertheless, we had our differences of opinion at times. One of them was due to the unofficial use of service cameras, and another time there was the trouble over the bartering of rations with the local inhabitants. No one minds the swapping of a tin of bully beef for a few fresh eggs, of course, but a Wing Commander has to draw the line somewhere when he finds one of his Australian Squadrons running the village grocers shop and general store. Even so, my Australians were discreet enough in the way they went about their business, so that I might have ignored it, had it not been for the inhabitants of the neighbouring villages. When the latter got to hear of the bargains, they turned our place into a sort of fair and market on Sundays, and so I was compelled to put my foot down.

I do not want this to be considered a reflection on Australian discipline, which was good - good enough in fact, to ensure the highest efficiency in their work, but it was a different standard of discipline to that in force in our own squadrons. I cannot put down Tom Purdey's remarks about the combat reports sent in by these Australian Squadrons; suffice to say that they were couched in such language which would have shocked the sedate officials of the War Office, but the number of victories they related covered a multitude of sins.

Taking it all round, we got on amazingly well with our Australians, and from the day they joined the 80th Wing I would not have exchanged them for any other squadrons on the western front. Perhaps I have some sheep-stealing and cattle-lifting ancestors, whose blood gives me a sneaking sympathy with their habits of feloniously purloining anything they take a fancy to.

I learnt to value them for their wonderful sense of direction. In spite of all that is said about navigation and map reading as aids to aviation, it is a great thing to have squadron leaders who can take their formations safely home in thick weather by that so called "sixth sense". You need that extra quality badly when you have to break out of a dog fight suddenly with a failing engine and every second saved may mean the difference between landing on our side of the lines and coming down in Hunland, especially if visibility is too bad for you to spot that river or wood on your map and a bullet has smashed your compass. Those Australians were natural pathfinders; they did not need to look at a bush twice to know where it was the next time they saw it. Having flown once over a tract of country on a clear day, they would think you deserved all you got if you failed to know your whereabouts the next time you came that way just because it was a bit foggy, and I suppose they were right.

I often used to think of Murray Jones and his squadron as the sheriff and his posse going out to catch some bushrangers who had been reported to be stealing horses and cattle in the neighbourhood, and if matters became desperate - as they did with us later on - searching them out in their lairs, burning their strongholds, and giving them no quarter. They were uncommunicative folk, for they always had some plan or other that had to be kept a secret. Whether they thought the enemy would get wind of their schemes if they discussed them too openly or whether they preferred to hush up possibilities of failures, I cannot tell, but the result was always the same - they never advertised their intentions.

I often wondered what was in Cobby's mind when he went off on his own in the dark, a good hour before the dawn patrol was due to start. In all probability he was spying out the land - sitting high above von Leutzer's aerodrome and waiting to see how many machines were being run out on the tarmac by the other side for their dawn patrols. Then he would pass on the numbers by signal to his own squadron when he met them over the appointed rendezvous, after which they would go back to Recklingham for more petrol and warn Murray Jones that there were plenty about that morning.

But sometimes he was out to play the lone hand. The mechanics, pilots and observers at Fives or Lomme would be too busy seeing to the machines on the tarmac that were to take them up for the dawn patrol, and so they failed to notice the high pitched note of the Clerget and the screaming wires of Cobby's Camel as he streaked down on them from the first glimmer of dawn in the east to pour out a stream of lead from his two Vickers guns and release his twenty-pound bombs. Just a momentary vision of destruction he was; then he would disappear again into the still murky west, leaving behind him one or two machines in flames, some bits and pieces of two or three more on which his bombs had got home, and a number of dead and wounded foeman on the hard cinder track in front of the hangars.

In short when an Australian Squadron went out to fight, someone had to suffer or else the business was not worthwhile, and the Australians were not going to be sufferers if they knew anything about it. It was the old game of getting the first blow in at a time when the other fellow was not looking for it.

They continually laid traps in the air; you could depend on it that the simplest-looking Australian patrol was part of some scheme or other. If, for instance, they decided to attack a balloon, it was a dead certainty that you would find a party of them high above the assailant, watching out with eager eyes for any misguided Huns who might be foolish enough to interfere with him and thus lay themselves open to sudden deadly streams of lead. They used to take it in turns to attack balloons, and when you sent one down in flames you earned an extra turn, but they never made a habit of indulging in balloon hunts everyday, for that would have given the Hun time to get a surprise packet ready for them. They had plenty of variations to keep themselves amused and the enemy annoyed; his trains, for example, were continually interrupted on their journeys by Australian airmen and always in a different part of the line. Another playful little trick of theirs was to attack an enemy aerodrome in the evening, just when its machines were being put away for the night and the light was fading too quickly for any chance of pursuit.

In fact, Nos 2 and 4 AFC, were past masters in the art of guerrilla warfare, but it was only by becoming one of themselves, so to speak, that I could manage to adapt Wing Routine Orders to suit the methods and at the same time satisfy the demands made from higher up. Consequently I spent a good deal of time with my Australians, and my admiration for them increased daily.

I found that there was little chance of them getting rattled by persistent ill-luck or a series of heavy losses. Likewise there was no fear of their morale deteriorating from the monotony of routine work, because, given a sufficiently free hand, they could be relied on to take care that it did not become monotonous. "We came all the way from down under to help you win the war." their actions seemed to say, "and we're in a hurry to get back again, so just leave things to us, because we know what is good for ourselves and bad for Fritz."

Lieut-General (Now Field Marshall) Sir William Birdwood, who commanded the Australian Division at the time, often used to come round to Recklingham aerodrome and tell us all about the doings of other Australian units in the field. But I think his real motive was to glean the news and successes of those wonderful Australian Pilots who were making history and establishing a tradition that will never fade as long as Australia has an Air Force.

Lt Colonel Louis Strange