Leonard's War

Trial and error: early pilot training for the RFC in the Great War

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Research I have been conducting into my grandfather’s Royal Flying Corps/RAF service in the Great War (1914-1918) has yielded unexpected detail about basic flying training for pilots in those early days. Or, more accurately, the lack of it.

When I began the research task – some three years ago – I was focusing on WW1 front line operational flying techniques. But it gradually dawned on me – as a former RAF Qualified Flying Instructor – that very little – even now – has been written about initial pilot training in 1914 and 1915.

Just consider the training context at that time. The Wright brothers first flew in 1903, so in 1914 aviation was still in its infancy.

When mankind first ventured into the sky he didn’t know what he would find, nor how to deal with it. You cannot select “the best” prospective pilots when you don’t yet know what skills or aptitudes aviators need, nor even how to recognise them when they are present in a candidate.

Indeed, the army and navy leaders in 1914 had only a rough idea of how aeroplanes might best be employed in the military context. So, beyond the obvious need to inculcate in pilots whatever magic skills are required to get the aircraft airborne and keep it there, they didn’t have a clear idea of what mission skills the crew might need, nor how best to teach them.

Right from the start, soldiers and mariners definitely knew that the ability to see over the horizon – or even over the nearby hill – would be highly desirable, and a bird’s-eye view would enable the aviators to identify and observe enemy positions and logistical preparations, then report back to surface units.

Air-to-air combat skills did not even begin to become an issue until mid-1915, because most of the aircraft in use at that time had originally been designed as unarmed reconnaissance machines.

In order to appreciate fully why pilot training was so primitive in 1914 and 1915, it is essential for researchers to remind themselves constantly how primitive the technology was, and how little the practitioners knew about aviating. In the RFC there were no trained instructors and no formal flying training syllabus until late in 1916. Learning to fly was an exercise in trial-and-error. To learn more, you had to survive each sortie.

Maurice Farman Longhorn, a training machine in 1915

Estimates of the number of pilot and observer deaths in the Great War have been set as high as 14,000, with 8,000 of them occurring during training. More recent studies, combining fatalities, missing, shot down, and captured suggest 9,000 is closer to the mark for the total, and the number of specific training casualties is uncertain – but it was staggeringly high by today’s standards. A young American aviator training with the RFC at its Montrose, Scotland training base in 1913 wrote home that “there is a crash every day and a funeral every week.” And that was just on his base.

At the end of my grandfather’s training course in June 1915, his flying log book recorded exactly 24 hours airborne time. To train for a private pilots licence today you would need 35 hours or more to gain the necessary skills to satisfy the examiner, and today’s aeroplanes are far more reliable and much easier to fly.

In the remarks column against the entry for Learmount’s last training flight at Brooklands aerodrome, Surrey, on 9 June, he wrote the following: “Pancaked over sheds, smashed undercarriage and one wing landing.” That was clearly good enough for the RFC, because three days later he joined No 7 Squadron at Saint-Omer in France “ready” to fly and survive in the hostile skies over the Western Front.

Evidence abounds that, until mid-1916, young aviators were sent to the front-line squadrons with the basic ability to get airborne, fly cautiously, and recover safely to their base aerodrome. The pilots were little more than drivers for the observer/gunners who would gather the intelligence the army needed. Mission training took place “on the job”. Pilots who survived multiple sorties, possibly by luck, acquired additional skills and knowledge by default, but almost certainly picked up many bad habits and misconceptions too.

Major Raymond Smith-Barry – a graduate of the very first course at the Central Flying School, Upavon in 1912 – and today credited with being the founder of modern aircrew training standards in the RAF – had served as an RFC pilot in France from August 1914. By 1916 he realised that the standard of flying among the arriving aviators was simply appalling, and he decided something had to be done. By late 1916 he had compiled a formal pilot training syllabus, which he first introduced at Grange airfield, Gosport, on England’s south coast near Portsmouth, where he was appointed Commanding Officer of No 1 (Reserve) Squadron – a training unit – and took up his appointment there in December 1916.

Smith-Barry also invented the Gosport Tube, a tube through which the instructor could speak to the student, which was widely fitted to training aircraft from June 1917 onward. The new flying training syllabus, plus the improved instructor communication, benefited training hugely.

Smith-Barry was clearly not the only RFC aviator who had noticed how inadequately trained the young arrivals in France were because, by mid-1916, some training bases back home were beginning to provide basic mission training for pilots who had completed their primary flying tuition. 2nd Lieutenant LW Learmount, my grandfather, who had only graduated from his primary training a year earlier, was made commanding officer of a training unit, No 15 (Reserve) Squadron, at Doncaster, South Yorkshire, in May 1916. Within days he was promoted to Lieutenant, then Acting Captain, to provide him with the authority to carry out the task.

There was clearly a realisation by then that German machines were getting faster and better armed, and that pilots were not only going to have to be drivers, but fighters and also bombers. Smith-Barry’s controversial (at first) insistence that pilots should be trained to fly their aeroplanes to the very edges of their flight envelope, and to recover successfully if they strayed outside it, was gaining ground.

Fast-forward a year or so to September 1917, and by that time Learmount – now an Acting Major – had been the commander of No 22 Squadron for about 9 months, flying Bristol Fighters over the Western Front in France, and he made it clear that he was not happy with the skills of the pilots arriving on his unit. He complained in a letter to HQ 9 Group that arriving pilots had no training in aerial gunnery, formation flying and navigation.

The written response – almost a rebuke – came direct from Brigadier General Hugh Trenchard, Officer Commanding the RFC in France, who made it crystal clear to Learmount that that the resources to do more were simply not available, and that he considered it the squadron commander’s task to bring the skills of his new pilots up to standard where they were found lacking.

You can find much more in my nine-part serial “Leonard’s War”, which traces Learmount’s path through the RFC/RAF from training in 1915 to demob in 1919. For any of you who have read it before, since then it has been considerably expanded and edited as new historic material has come to light, and it remains a work in progress to this day!

Aviation changing warfare

David Learmount Uncategorized , , , , , , , , , , , ,

About two years ago I posted a nine-episode serial about early military flying called “Leonard’s War”.

This story follows an RFC aviator on his journey from flying lessons at Brooklands, Surrey in 1915 to Squadron Commander over Flanders in 1918. Once in France, he flies with 7 Sqn over Ypres, returns to UK in 1916 to command 15 (Reserve) Squadron in Doncaster – a mission training unit – and commands 22 Sqn over Passchendaele and Cambrai.

If you missed “Leonard’s War” at the time, I recommend you try it. Even if you did read it then, I suggest you re-visit, because – following extensive research – I have added much new material and corrected earlier detail.

It has struck me that, in many accounts about military aviation in the Great War, there seemed to be two separate battles going on: one in the air where gallant aces shot each other down in dogfights, the other on the ground where soldiers crouched in trenches and emerged to die on muddy battlefields. “Leonard’s War” – as now revised – describes how the airmen and soldiers learned to cooperate, and how aviation changed everything about a war that began in 1914 with cavalry charges in Flanders and ended with airborne stereoscopic photo-reconnaissance and close-air-support to troops on the ground.

Click here for “Leonard’s War”.

Leonard’s War, episode 9: the Battle of Cambrai, Christmas 1917, a blighty for the Boss, and a springtime marriage

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(For previous episodes scroll down)

Dateline: Mid-November 1917, Estrée Blanche, north-eastern France.

The weather at Estrée Blanche aerodrome worsened in mid-November (1917), and fog made reconnaissance in the whole area extraordinarily difficult. 22 Squadron, still under the command of Major Leonard Learmount, was tasked with finding out what the enemy was up to around German-held Cambrai, information which headquarters badly needed for the planned British assault there on the Hindenburg Line, a heavily fortified German defensive line to the west of the town.

The Cambrai assault, which began on 20 November, was conceived by General Sir Julian Byng as a surprise attack from the west, across terrain suitable for tanks – unlike the Ypres area – and RFC close air support was part of the plan. The latter had proved highly effective toward the end of the Passchendaele battle.

A and B Flights of 22 Squadron with a Bristol Fighter early in 1918.

Fog made 22 Sqn’s preparatory reconnaissance sorties dangerous and reduced their effectiveness. Crews transited to the Cambrai area at about 3,000ft, then descended gingerly through the fog as low as they dared, hoping to get sight of the ground and evidence of enemy movements before colliding with church spires or rooftops.

This patch of grass was the location of the Estrée Blanche mess buildings in the corner of the aerodrome, looking south west over the village. This was an agricultural and coal-mining area, and the now-grassed-over coal slag heaps are visible in the middle distance. Mounds like them took the lives of low-flying airmen when the weather was foggy.

On 20 November the Cambrai offensive began, and yielded a suspiciously successful British six-mile advance over nine days, after which it was brought to a halt. It was still short of the town, but had breached some of the defensive lines. Very quickly, however, the advantage of surprise was lost and the Germans successfully counter-attacked. By the 6th December, they had retaken much of the ground that had been won.

Air Gunner Archie Whitehouse described 22 Sqn’s role at Cambrai: “We had the unenviable job of blowing up the enemy observation balloons, strafing road transport, and making a general nuisance of ourselves. We were down low, flying through our own shell-fire to hammer Cooper bombs on the German anti-tank gun emplacements. We strafed the roads and chased horse-drawn transport all over open fields, and generally played merry hell…

“We fired hundreds of rounds of ammunition and burned out our gun barrels. We returned again and again for fuel, bombs and the reviving encouragement of Major Learmount. Thank God for the Major during those days!”

This, it seems, was about the time when the air gunner and the squadron commander reached an unspoken awareness that they had become the only two remaining aircrew from what Whitehouse called “the Chipilly mob” who were still flying on 22 Sqn. He was referring to the location at which he had joined the squadron about six months ago, in April.

It left them with a feeling of emptiness, against which the only antidote was the adrenaline summoned up by the next sortie. Whitehouse wrote: “We flew, slept, flew, slept and flew some more. We staggered back and forth to our machines, too tired to eat. No-one spoke, no-one laughed, no-one argued. Faces were lined with weariness, pitted with cordite, and daubed with whale-oil.”

Back at Estrée Blanche there was a lull in the fighting because the weather was so bad, the Cambrai advance had petered out, and Christmas was approaching. Whitehouse wrote: “The patrols were dull…compared with the hair-raising experiences of the summer. But I was feeling the strain. I did not sleep well and went off my food completely. It was only when we settled down to put on a show for Christmas Eve that I forgot my troubles.”

Whitehouse described the festive preparations: “We got up a programme that was a honey for wartime humour. Among the mechanics we had a wealth of talent, so we could put on a show worthy of any outfit out there!” They rigged up lights powered from a dynamo lorry and searched out decorations to put up.

Finally, the dinner on Christmas Eve: “The officers, led by Major Learmount, came in and served the Christmas dinner, bundled up in aprons and mess jackets and suitably armed with towels and napkins. We sang and gave cheers for everyone we could think of. There never was such a dinner or so much fun!”

Learmount in his RAF uniform. The RFC, a corps of the army during most of the war, became the nation’s autonomous air arm on 1 April 1918.

Then they put on the show, with “the inevitable slightly bawdy female impersonator”, tricks, recitations and plenty of songs accompanied by piano. Marie and Annette, waitresses from the small estaminet in the village – and their mother – were guests of honour, along with quite a few other “puzzled-looking” civilians from Estrée Blanche, and they were given seats at the front near the piano. It all ended with God Save the King and the Marseillaise.

Then back to business. C Flight had to go on patrol on Christmas Day, but nothing much came of it. The Hun had chosen to be quiet for Christmas too, apparently.

On 20th January 1918 Archie Whitehouse, whose ambition all along had been pilot training and a Commission, was sent back to England to achieve both, wearing the ribbons for his newly-awarded Military Medal and a chest-full of campaign gongs. He reported in his memoire: “I lived to wear pilot’s wings and fly a single-seater fighter. I lived to see the Armistice!” He clearly felt lucky. He definitely was.

The squadron commander who had bid Whitehouse farewell was now the very last of the aircrew left from January 1917, but he had his work to keep him sane. He still had to lead 22 Squadron’s mechanics, armourers, stores-wallahs, cooks and caterers whose names he knew well, and to encourage the new, barely-trained young pilots and observers to believe in their roles and in their ability to carry them out.

On 22 January 1918 the Squadron moved briefly from Estrée Blanche to Auchel/Lozinghem, then again on 2 February to Treizennes, where losses were high and increasing. The Geman air force was venturing more over the Allied lines than they had been accustomed to do, seeking intelligence for planning purposes. It was on a patrol from Treizennes, on 9 March, in his Bristol Fighter, that Learmount got his blighty while attacking a German aircraft that was being far too successful at directing German fire onto British artillery positions. Although losing blood fast, his remarkable luck still held, and he got his Biff back to base. He was stretchered away from his mount.

From March 1918, No. 22 Squadron found itself dealing with German preparations for the imminent – ostensibly successful but short-lived – Spring Offensive. The German army, commanded by Gen Erich Ludendorff, had benefited from the transfer of huge numbers of troops from the Eastern to the Western Front, and consequently appeared to have assembled the means to mount an attack on a wide front. On 21 March the first of three separate chronologically sequenced attacks took place on different parts of the British sector of the Western Front. Ludendorff’s objective was to drive the British to the Channel coast and cut them off from French forces before the newly-arrived Americans were able to put their full weight behind the Allies.

The final push of the Spring Offensive, in late May, was aimed further south on the French-defended part of the line near the Champagne. But Ludendorff had dissipated his forces too widely and, despite gaining a significant amount of ground, he had failed to defeat the retreating British and French armies, which were able to re-group. By July the attack had ground to a halt without achieving any of its aims. This marked the beginning of a progressive collapse within the exhausted, demoralised German military.

The RFC shipped the badly wounded Learmount back to England, where he was sent to St Bartholomew’s hospital, London, for treatment. France awarded him the Croix de Guerre avec Palme.

At “Bart’s”, Learmount met “Peggy” Ball, a young nursing auxiliary charged with looking after him. Less than two months later – on 7th May – he married her in a church in Muswell Hill, north London, where her parents lived.

While Leonard and Peggy were exchanging vows, the German Spring Offensive was still advancing, but the Allied victory that (we now know) was to come in November was nowhere in sight at that time. Nevertheless, the newlyweds took a few days off to honeymoon at a pub on the banks of the River Thames, at Staines, 15 miles west of London – very rural in those days – and they went rowing together. Wedding photographs show Learmount left the church still using a walking stick.

A cutting from the Daily Mirror. Learmount, leaning on a walking stick, is leaving St James’s Church, Muswell Hill, London with his bride. He was 28 then, but looks much older. Convalescence would have to continue on honeymoon.

He was taken off the sick list on 22 August 2018 and posted to No 33 Training Depot Station at Witney near Oxford as an instructor on Bristol Fighters.

Upon his demobilisation in February 1919, Learmount returned to his trading job in the Far East. Once he was established there, his new wife and baby son, travelling by ship (of course), joined him there a few months later.

The marriage lasted a lifetime.

Author and son at the British Air Services Memorial, Saint-Omer aerodrome in June 2015. The memorial was erected by the First World War Aviation Historical Society in 2004. None of the buildings in view were in place during the Great War. The hangar on the left was built by the Germans in the Second World War and today is occupied by the Aéro Club de Saint-Omer. The Club keeps a museum of Great War aviation history at Saint-Omer in their hangar, and visitors are welcomed.
Learmount’s decorations. From Left: Distinguished Service Order, Military Cross, 1914-15 Star, British War Medal, Victory Medal, Colonial Auxiliary Services Long Service and Good Conduct Medal, Croix de Guerre avec Palme
Learmount did keep flying, but for leisure. Here he is – in the late 1920s – with a De Havilland Cirrus Moth float-plane at Seletar Creek, Singapore, where he was one of the founder members of what was then called the Royal Singapore Flying Club. He also founded what was known as the Royal Selangor Flying Club in Malaysia. Both clubs still operate today under different names.

ENDS

Click here to go to Episode One of “Leonard’s War” and read it all again!

Leonard’s War, episode 8: Delivery of a better aircraft changes the game

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(For earlier episodes, scroll down)

At the beginning of July 1917, 22 Squadron moved to Izel les Hameaux, west of Arras. Its pilots were still flying the FE2bs, but as the month progressed the first of a fleet of F.2B Bristol Fighters began to arrive. These were two-seater strike fighters.

The “Brisfit”, or “Biff”, was not just faster, it was a tractor – rather than a pusher like the Fee, which made it handle very differently. Its armament gave it a formidable field of fire. There was an awful lot for the crews to learn.

The still-flying Bristol Fighter of the Shuttleworth Trust at Old Warden museum and aerodrome, Bedfordshire

The pilots – in the forward cockpit – had a machine gun with interrupter gear, enabling it to fire ahead through the propeller. The observer/gunner’s cockpit, immediately behind the pilot’s, had dual flying controls, and a Lewis gun mounted on a rotating “scarff” ring that gave it a field of fire rearward through a 180deg arc. The Brisfit was powered by a V12 Rolls-Royce Falcon engine, had an airspeed of 126mph (40mph faster than the Fee), a better rate of climb and altitude capability, plus greater range.

This is an illustration from “Hell in the Heavens”, Whitehouse’s book about life on No. 22 Squadron, RFC. Major Learmount continued to command the Squadron until mid-March 1918.

Whitehouse caught the buzz that arrived with the new fighter: “From that day on we went to work on Jerry with the Bristol Fighters, and within two weeks the General Staff and royalty were visiting the squadron, and our pictures were being splashed over every paper in the Empire”.

Meanwhile, scanning the pages of Trevor Henshaw’s remarkable gazetteer of RFC experience, “The Sky Their Battlefield”, a change in 22 Squadron’s fortunes is plainly visible in July when the Bristol Fighters began replacing the FE2bs at Izel les Hameaux. The casualties stop for some weeks, and on 29 July 22 Sqn scored its first two F2b air-to-air victories. The Bristol Fighter wasn’t invincible, but its capabilities had taken the Germans by surprise.

One new role enabled by the Bristol Fighters’ longer range was dreaded by the crews. This was operating as an escort for British bombers – de Havilland DH.4s – tasked to fly deep into enemy territory, their bombs targeting the new German airfield at Gontrode, eastern Flanders. From there, German Gotha heavy bombers were known to be taking off every day, aiming for London.

Observer/gunner Archie Whitehouse scripted a particularly lyrical account of a six-ship Brisfit formation taking-off for a Gontrode escort: “They stand throbbing, wing-tip to wing-tip, their propellers glistening in the sunshine. The leader’s hand goes up, and the pilots take the alert with hands on throttles. The leader’s hand goes down and the machines seem to stiffen for the spring as the motors open up. The rudders waggle and the colours flash. The observers in their brown leather helmets snuggle down inside the scarff-ring and flick friendly salutes to each other. Then they are away in a swirl of dust, and suddenly all climb together.”

Once airborne, the Brisfits headed for Ypres, where they rendezvoused with the DH.4s, and set course for Gontrode.

Meanwhile, evident on both sides of the Front were preparations for what became the Third Battle of Ypres, the huge slugging match fought between the end of July and early November 1917, also known as the Battle of Passchendaele. The name of that battle evokes images of men, machines and horses almost immobilised by deep mud , the result of an awful summer of continual, soaking rain and heavy shelling that broke up the ground. Army casualty numbers – on both sides – eventually matched those at Verdun and the Somme.

The summer and early autumn saw 22 Sqn concentrate its operations around Ypres and Passchendaele, and as winter approached they moved to Cambrai.

Casualty numbers at 22 Sqn began to climb as the battle progressed, and as ground commanders looked for new ways of gaining an advantage. During this Third Battle of Ypres, and other peripheral clashes in the area, a new role for air power was being developed: coordinated ground attack, and what would today be called close air support for army units on the ground. Risks were high, because all this work was carried out at low level within the range of ground fire. It included strafing, bombing of enemy airfields, and detailed reconnaissance with rapid reporting back of enemy attempts to regroup or counter-attack.

In early August, 22 Sqn had moved yet again from Izel les Hameaux to Boisdinghem. For the crews, after the relentlessness of flying under fire from above and below, precious off-duty time fostered friendships with the local people that would spawn a lifetime of memories for those few fated to survive – military men and civilians alike. Madame Beaussart’s was an estaminet in a local village, and Marie and Annette who worked there knew the squadron aircraft, their markings and who flew them. Just like the men on the aerodrome, the girls watched the aircraft go, and they counted them back again. 

On 19 August, Captain Clement’s Brisfit didn’t return. Clement had stepped in to take a mix of A and B Flight ships out on a mission, because “A” Flight had lost its leader. It was his last sortie. This was awful for the Squadron, and C Flight in particular. Clement’s younger brother Ward Clement had recently joined the Squadron as a gunner, and he and Whitehouse had become firm friends. Clement the younger was distraught and refused to believe Carl wouldn’t return. Hours later he persuaded himself his elder brother had force-landed and would make his way back. But that wasn’t true.

Whitehouse wrote: “When we went back to Madame Beaussart’s, Marie and Annette knew that ‘N’ had not come back, but they said nothing. The coffee and rum were good. I think we drank an awful lot of it.”

After an appallingly wet August, September brought drier weather and good visibility, making the RFC’s close air support in this war-torn region of Flanders highly effective. On 10 September 22 Sqn moved again, out of Boisdinghem to Estrée Blanche. For five days from 20 September 1917, at the Battle of Menin Road Ridge, the 22 Sqn Biffs were used highly effectively for ground attack, air superiority, and reconnaissance. Rapid reporting of German counter-attack manoeuvres allowed Allied artillery to be directed accurately. This clash was one of many on the periphery of the main battle.

On 26 September 1917 Learmount wrote a letter to the HQ of 9 Wing, complaining in detail about how the pilots arriving on 22 from training had not been sufficiently endowed with basic skills like navigation, formation flying and making reliable landings, let alone for air warfare. He named five pilots as an example of what he was complaining about, describing their shortcomings and specific mishaps, usually resulting in significant damage to one of the Bristol Fighters. All were described as having received no training in aerial gunnery, several as having had insufficient experience at cross-country flying (navigation), and most as lacking formation flying skills.

Learmount summed up his problem: “It is at times very difficult to obtain the necessary machines for giving this instruction and although my Squadron may be up to establishment in pilots there are invariably three or four who are not ready for war flying.”

He continued: “Many of my casualties are the result of inexperience and it stands to reason that pilots with no experience cannot put up a decent fight against the pick of the German Flying Corps.”

“I think it is hardly realised at home that the Bristol Fighter is a magnificent fighting machine, and all pilots trained for service on this machine should be of the very best type and should receive far more thorough training.”

Learmount is clearly making a pitch to get the best pilots sent to his squadron! The response arrived from Brigadier General Hugh Trenchard himself, the Officer Commanding the RFC in France, who made it crystal clear that the resources to do more were not available, and that it was the responsibility of the squadron CO to assess the arriving pilots and provide the necessary training that they needed for front line flying. He also emphasised that Learmount’s squadron “gets a fair pick of the pilots that come out from home,” and that 22 could not expect special treatment.

Finally in November came the end of the epic Passchendaele campaign, and the beginning of the Battle of Cambrai. The latter was an attempt by the British to break through the Hindenburg Line for the first time, in a massive attack combining artillery, tanks, infantry and air power.

Tomorrow: Episode 9, in which the winter weather gets very difficult, Cambrai puts new demands on the Squadron, the men put on a Christmas show, Whitehouse goes back to England to train as a pilot, and Major Learmount gets his blighty.

Leonard’s War, episode 7: The pressure starts to tell

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(For previous episodes, scroll down)

When Observer/Gunner Archie Whitehouse finally took leave back in England, he found himself feeling restless and directionless, despite giving himself plenty to do. And when leave was over, he was strangely grateful to return to 22 Squadron, now at Boisdinghem, west of Saint-Omer.

But then, as more of his close friends “went west”, he immersed himself in tasks on the aerodrome between sorties “to keep myself from going completely mad”. He did not understand his feelings. “It suddenly dawned on me that the only time I was really content was when I was in the air.”

He talked to – and worked with – the mechanics, the riggers, the armourers, to better understand the machines he worked in and perhaps, by better understanding them, live to tell the tale. He found what solace he could in comradeship, but he had lost so many fellow fliers it felt like a betrayal to make new friends, and he found himself being unaccountably slightly hostile to young aviators just joining the squadron, who looked with admiration at their seniors’ flying brevets and just wanted to learn from them so they, too, could live.

C Flight, No 22 Sqn. In 1917 this was the Flight led by Carl Clement and with which Archie Whitehouse normally flew, but this photograph was apparently taken in 1916. Illuminating detail about it has been kindly provided by Nigel Newell, who writes: “The C flight 22 Sqn photo is very interesting. It is definitely pre-1st July 1916. On the extreme right is Captain Gilbert Watson Webb and on the extreme left is Lt Tudor Hart. As pilot and observer flying on the 1st July 1916 Webb was shot in the groin and subsequently died. Tudor Hart as observer somehow managed to reach over and crash land the FE2b behind enemy lines and was severely injured. He was taken POW. Gilbert Watson Webb, a Belfast man like myself is buried in Achiet-Le-Grand Communal Cemetery Extension. Another epic tale of bravery sadly lost in the mist of history. Hope this is of interest. Regards, Nigel Newell.”

Meanwhile Major Learmount’s wounding in May seemed to have woken somebody at British headquarters in Armentières. He had been awarded the Distinguished Service Order, and the citation for it reveals more about the grind of the RFC’s routine work than a dozen Daily Mirror stories of individual aces’ air-to-air victories. It describes repeated low-level aerial photography sorties by 22 Sqn Fees over the highly fortified Hindenburg Line, which the Germans had been continually engineering since the Somme offensive, and to which they had made a mass strategic withdrawal in March and April 1917.

The carefully planned withdrawal of the Germans to the Hindenburg Line had a significant effect on the course of the war on the Western front. It gave them time to regroup, resupply, and – they hoped – take a break while matters on the Russian front were resolved. They fell back from the Western Front positions to which they had been driven during the Somme battle, and as they went the Germans purposely laid waste to the territory in front of the new, fortified lines, making surprise attack by the Allies even more difficult.

Closely observing activity on the Hindenburg Line was, therefore, important, and 22 Squadron’s “oblique photography” missions were crucial in providing stereoscopic images to the increasingly skilled photography units attached to the squadrons. The sorties were especially dangerous because they had to be flown low and very steadily, about 600ft above the ground. This made the Fees sitting ducks, putting them within range of small arms and machine gun fire from the ground, let alone Archie, and attacks from German fighters. To enable them to do their work without attack from the air, the Fees were escorted by Sopwith Pup fighters of No 54 Squadron flying at a safer height from which they could dive on any attackers.

According to accounts in Peter Hart’s book “Bloody April”, chronicling the period of appalling RFC losses in that month of 1917, Captain BF Crane, a photographic officer attached to 22 Squadron reported on the results obtained on sorties that were mostly led by Major Learmount or Captain Clement: “An average of 2,000 photos daily were being turned over, all from plates exposed by 22 Squadron.”

Part of the Hindenberg Line’s heavily fortified trench system photographed by the RFC (Pinterest).

About two days before the 10th May flight out of Flez on which Learmount was injured, he was flying with a cool-headed young Canadian observer, Lieutenant PHB Ward, whose steady nerve in charge of the camera – aided by Learmount’s rock-steady flying under fire – obtained particularly sharp pictures that converted well to stereoscopic prints, according to Crane, who reported that “about 50 exposures were made and excellent results obtained, the machine returning safely to the aerodrome bearing much evidence of the heavy fire experienced.” 

On the 10th May flight – also with Ward – the purpose was to complete a multi-mission photographic task. This was achieved. Ward was killed nine days later on another such mission.

The skies were indifferent to merit and courage.

Part of Learmount’s DSO citation reads: “On nearly all the other occasions on which this officer took oblique photographs, his machine was literally shot to pieces and his escape from injury really miraculous.” It concludes: “This officer as a Squadron Commander sets a splendid example to his Squadron, leading them on patrols, bomb raids and reconnaissances [sic] and instilling in them that fearlessness with which he himself is imbued.”

Tomorrow, Episode 8: No. 22 Squadron receives its new Bristol Fighters, and takes the Germans by surprise. But the crews get new and demanding missions made possible by the Brisfits’ extra performance.

Leonards’ War episode 6: The chaos of airborne encounters

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(For previous episodes, scroll down)

The No. 22 Squadron duty armourer issues Lewis guns to crews (Imperial War Museum)

Shortly after landing from his maiden flight with Capt Clement, Air Gunner Second Class Archie Whitehouse was called out for another flight, this time with Lt Brooks. It was a patrol with a formation of C Flight Fees. They gained height over the airfield, joined up and headed east over the German lines.

After surviving fierce “Archie” [anti-aircraft fire], the flight was bounced by German machines from above. It turned out to be one of those encounters where the two formations pass through each other firing wildly, then disengage.

On the return leg, Whitehouse caught sight of a German aircraft above and behind his own that neither his pilot nor any of the others had seen. He grabbed the aft Lewis gun and let fly over the top wing. Describing the result, he wrote: “I saw a blaze. I heard a low explosion and something went hissing past our wing-tip…I saw struts flickering in the afternoon sunlight, a long, greasy trail of smoke.” Brooks looked at him with disbelief, which Whitehouse interpreted as disapproval. He began – with dread – to believe he had shot down one of the C Flight Fees by mistake. He huddled into his tub, and waited fearfully for the landing.

Once on the ground, Capt Clement grabbed him exclaiming: “Best damned gunner on the Front! He’s mine! Got a Hun first time up…Judas!”

Within minutes Whitehouse was airborne again, but with Clement. This time C Flight bounced three German machines from above, encircled them, and destroyed two. But then: “The archie barrage increased in venom. There was a tremendous crash and I saw one of our planes disintegrate. The planes fluttered away lightly, the nose and the engine seemed to hover for a few seconds and then plunged forward, the bamboo tail-booms fluttering like silly sticks.” He then described how horror became catastrophe: “I watched it and saw a man fall away, all arms and legs. The wreckage gathered speed and hurtled down – smack on top of the ship nearest to us.”

Clement and Whitehouse watched helplessly as the remains of the two Fees spun earthward in a death embrace. Seconds later Clement pointed ahead at a German Albatros, and Whitehouse went to work. “It twisted and jerked and I heard [Clement] yell…[then] we dove on it with a fierce hatred. I gave it the rest of my drum, and saw it start a tight spin.” Then, incredibly, another disaster: the wreckage of the Albatros collided with another of the Fees, and down it spiralled too.

By the time Whitehouse got back to No. 22 Squadron’s Chipilly base at the end of his first day as an aviator, he had logged eight hours airborne and shot down two German aircraft.  

In that single day in late April he had also seen a fatal aircraft structural failure over his new base before he even got airborne; witnessed a rare but catastrophic “archie” [anti-aircraft fire] hit on his formation; and seen one of his own kills collide with – and destroy – a C Flight FE.2b and its crew.

There were going to be many more days like that.

On 1st May 22 Sqn left Chipilly for Flez, and on the 10th May Whitehouse took off with Captain Bush and C Flight for a patrol which got very busy. Having brought down one German machine, Whitehouse copped a load of shrapnel in one of his shoulders and his arm stopped working. Bush realised what had happened and headed for base.

On the ground, Whitehouse carefully extracted himself from his Fee with Bush’s help, and they saw a commotion around one of the other machines. The duty flight sergeant explained that Learmount had been hit. Bush asked him how bad it was, and Whitehouse’s account of the reply is rendered in East London vernacular: “Mostly ‘is feelin’s, sir. One came up through ‘is tank and spoiled ‘is trousers. You ought to ‘ear ‘im aswearin’! The Major carn’t arf say it!”

Watching this scene, Whitehouse remarked: “He just looked just angry, not hurt. I didn’t blame him. You can’t go home with a blighty in the breeches and expect to get any sympathy.”  Actually, Learmount had returned from a low-level “oblique photography” sortie, which explained the nature of his injury. For these missions, the crews have to fly so low above the battle lines that they are within easy range of small arms fire from the ground.

This painting by aviation artist Tim O’Brien depicts Learmount’s FE2b at Flez aerodrome, preparing to depart on 10 May for a low-level aerial photography using new oblique sighting techniques. The trip was one of a series of missions the objective of which was to obtain images of activity in the Germans’ highly fortified Hindenberg Line. Learmount returned wounded by small arms fire from the ground and with his aircraft extensively damaged.

As it turned out, neither airman had got his “blighty” [a wound that gives the damaged man a ticket home]. They recovered with some attention from the camp medic, and a few days off active duty.

From then on, Learmount and Whitehouse flew together a lot more, but increasingly in the new F2b Bristol Fighters that were just beginning to be delivered to 22 Sqn. Whitehouse explained: “After that, whenever the Major wanted to try any tricks [test new equipment or procedures] he usually came and rousted me out. And I loved it. He was a gallant gentleman!”

Between July and September 1917, 22 Squadron moved base three times in a northerly direction, respectively via Warloy, Izel les Hameaux, and Boisdinghem, as the offensive focus for the British-led ground forces moved northward from the Somme toward Ypres and Passchendaele, Flanders. In September they were to end up for some months at Estrée Blanche, an aerodrome on a low hill not far south of Saint-Omer, in gentle farmland disfigured by coal mine slag heaps.

Tomorrow’s episode 7: The personal cost of aerial photography, and No. 22 Squadron gets the RFC’s new hot ship, the Bristol Fighter.

Leonard’s War, episode 5: Learmount takes command of No. 22 Squadron

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(For previous episodes, scroll down)

Learmount with one of No 22 Squadron’s FE2bs. It is not clear whether this photograph was taken at Bertangles, Chipilly, or Flez, but Bertangles seems unlikely because 22 was there in winter time.

In the middle of the snowy January of 1917, Leonard Learmount was promoted to Acting Major and given command of No 22 Squadron at Bertangles, about 5km north of Amiens. In his promotion from Lieutenant he had leapfrogged the substantive rank of Captain (he had been made an acting Captain during his immediately preceding command at 15 Reserve Squadron, Doncaster, a training unit, whence he travelled to France) and gone straight to Major. War seems to make military procedure much more flexible.

22 Sqn was equipped with FE.2b pusher biplanes – dubbed the “Fee” by its fliers and mechanics. The Squadron’s main roles when Learmount joined it were aerial photography over the German lines, and reconnaissance. In this vital role, which required steady, stable flying often at low level, it was vulnerable, so a pair of Sopwith Pup fighters were attached to the squadron to fly as escorts above the FE2b formations, able to intervene from above if German fighters attacked. At 27, Learmount was older than most of his fellow pilots, and equipped with all of 22 months’ experience of military aviation since his first flying lesson at Brooklands.

A farmer’s field near the River Somme, the former site of Chipilly aerodrome. The gentleness of the countryside and the beauty of the River Somme itself belies the horrors perpetrated here.

At the end of April 22 Sqn moved east about 20km from Bertangles to Chipilly, an aerodrome a few kilometres south of Albert and just to the north of the River Somme. During a few days sojourn there before moving further east to Flez, a new young American volunteer, AGJ (Archie) Whitehouse, who had just transferred from the army to 22 Squadron as an Air Gunner Second Class, brought to his first squadron a useful familiarity with firearms he had won both as a soldier and back at his childhood home in the USA. He was about to put that skill very successfully to use in the air, in charge of a Lewis light machine gun mounted above the front edge of his slipstream-blasted, canoe-like work-space in the nose of the Fee. His “foot-bath”, as he called it, was immediately forward of the pilot’s rather deeper cockpit.

About ten years later Whitehouse, who kept a diary at the front, was to publish a memoire of his time on No 22 Sqn called “Hell in the Heavens”. Some of the experiences recorded here are from Whitehouse’s book. While there is no reason to doubt his tales of squadron life, and the airborne experiences he describes, the precise chronology of events he records – including 22’s migration from one aerodrome to another from time to time – is not reliable.

The Fee itself was stable, reliable, could take a lot of damage and still fly, but rather slow. Its strong point was that the pilot and observer/gunner had a completely unobstructed view forward, laterally, above and below, which was excellent for 22 Sqn’s main roles – reconnaissance and aerial photography. In fact the Fee has – by a modern RFC historian – been dubbed the RFC’s MRCA (multi-role combat aircraft, the name given to the joint European strike aircraft project that ultimately became the Tornado). Also the field of fire from its two pivoted Lewis guns was excellent in all directions except in its blind spot directly behind and below the tail. The observer’s gun was on the forward lip of his “tub”. The other – on a higher mount just ahead of the pilot – could either be fired forward by the pilot, or used by the observer to fire backward over the upper wing. So the Fee, although not designed as a fighter, could defend itself.

The FE2b “Fee”. This is shown without the guns on their mounts, but it clearly shows the Observer/Gunner’s shallow forward cockpit and the pilot’s deeper aft cockpit. Two Lewis guns were mounted on raised pivots, one on the front lip of the Gunner’s cockpit, the other – behind him on the front lip of the pilot’s station – could be fired forward by the pilot or rearward over the top wing by the Gunner.

The day Whitehouse reported to Chipilly, he describes himself walking between the mess huts and canvas Bessonneau hangars when he heard a wailing sound, looked up and saw the silver fuselage and tailplane of a No. 2 Squadron Nieuport Scout diving toward the ground, its wings torn away and flailing separately to earth. Nieuports were fast, nimble French single-seaters, but if a pilot pulled too hard the wings would come off, and this time they did. 

Unfamiliar with what he was witnessing, it took Whitehouse a moment to realise the Nieuport was coming straight at him, and he began to run for cover between the hangars. The wingless hull smashed into the hardened area just in front of them.  He must have dashed over, because he found himself pulling frantically at the fur coat containing the mangled corpse of the pilot, before somebody swore loudly at him and pulled him away.

They said the pilot was the CO of No 2 Squadron, which was co-located with No 22 at Chipilly, and speculated that he was showing his aircrew what the Nieuport could do. Whitehouse watched while a crew grabbed the corners of the fur coat and pulled the human remains clear of the wreckage so the squadron would have something to bury. Whitehouse himself was told to clear off, so he continued to the orderly room to report for duty.

Whitehouse had received no training for the air. He reported to stores and was issued with his sheepskin flying kit and goggles. An attempt by the stores team to wash away the blood of a former owner had not completely succeeded.  

As soon as the new gunner had carried the kit to his Nissen hut quarters, one of the flight commanders, a Canadian called Capt Carl Clement who was C Flight Commander, put his head around the door and told him to get kitted up for a sortie that would be ideal for “getting his air legs in”.

Whitehouse’s first experience of leaving the earth’s surface was to be on a post-maintenance engine test flight. Once airborne, Clement shouted at him to tell him that, on the way back, they’d pass over the aircraft-shaped practice target on the ground near the aerodrome perimeter so Whitehouse could fire the Lewis gun at it.

To direct the gun properly Whitehouse had to get on his feet, blasted by the slipstream from his knees upward. No harness, no parachute. Standing would enable him to pivot the Lewis gun widely on its mounting. He was understandably reluctant, so Clement reached forward over his cockpit coaming and yanked him by the collar to persuade him to get up. When he finally did, the Lewis gun became both his weapon and his support – the only thing he had to hold on to. “I realised how it feels to be standing on the edge of … nothing.” But then, when Clement dived steeply at the practice target, Whitehouse filled it with lead. Clement was impressed and told him so.

Tomorrow’s episode 6: Whitehouse logs more spectacular airborne time

Leonard’s War episode 4: mission training at Doncaster, and air support for the Somme offensive

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(For previous episodes, scroll down)

On 8 May 1916 2nd Lieutenant Leonard Learmount was posted from No 7 Squadron at Baillieul, Northern France to No 15 (Reserve) Squadron at Doncaster, south Yorkshire, a training unit. At the same time he was promoted to Lieutenant, and on 17 May he was made a Flight Commander, rapidly followed on 15 July 1916 by being appointed Commanding Officer of the 15 (Reserve) depot.

As an illustration of how highly-prized even a small amount of operational flying experience was, this posting for Learmount took place less than a year since he had completed his basic flight training. He had flown just 11 months over the Western Front with No 7 Squadron, had survived the experience – which many hadn’t – and here he was, commanding a training unit himself.

In that role, his career path crossed that of one 2nd Lieutenant James Kerr, whose log book Learmount signed off on 22 July, the latter having trained on both the BE2c and the Armstrong Whitworth FK3 at the 15 (Reserve) Squadron training depot. Learmount’s rank, as signed in Kerr’s log book, was Captain (presumably acting or temporary), and a note accompanying Learmount’s signature stated that Kerr had been “posted overseas” on 24 July. That was, indeed, the date that Kerr arrived in France, at Saint-Omer, and by the end of that month he had been assigned to No 5 Squadron operating out of Droglandt, not far west of Ypres, flying the BE2c and d. So it is clear that No 15 (Reserve) Squadron was not a unit preparing pilots for 15 Squadron, it was just the 15th Reserve Squadron so far formed, and its task was to meet a need by any and all active units for improved flying skills in the new trainees arriving in France.

The task of No 15 (Reserve) Squadron seems to have been to take new pilots who had learned basic flying skills and prepare them for the tasks that they would face over the Western Front – mainly reconnaissance and navigation skills, but also surviving air-to-air combat. The last few entries in Kerr’s log book contained the information that he had looped the BE2c once and the FK3 twice, a marked contrast to Learmount’s experience level at the end of his training a year earlier. “Stunting”, however, was not a part of training, and it was generally frowned upon at that time.

Back in 1915, pilots had been given no preparation for the mission skills they would need on the front line until they arrived there. Indeed, in his log book on arrival on 7 Squadron in France, Learmount remarked – on one of five familiarisation sorties out of Saint-Omer – that he had navigated by compass for the first time, and flown above cloud also for the first time. These few trips were clearly his mission preparation, and the final (sixth) one recorded in his training log book was a 10min sortie over the aerodrome at 1,000ft flown “for the benefit of Indian cavalry”.

There was clearly a growing awareness in the RFC that the quality and and quantity of training provided to pilots was insufficient. Indeed, as related in Episode 1 of this series, in July 1916 Major Raymond Smith-Barry, who had noted the low quality of trainees arriving for duty, had begun the process of compiling the RFC’s first formal flying training syllabus, but it had not yet been published and would first see the light of day in December 1916. Smith-Barry believed in the need to train military pilots to fly their aircraft to their limits, and to recover successfully if they exceeded them, rather than simply to get airborne and fly cautiously. As air-to-air combat was becoming increasingly routine, timid flying was no longer an option.

Learmount’s arrival at Doncaster in early May 1916 preceded – by a few weeks – the beginning of the massive and deadly Somme offensive by the British army 4th Corps, allied with Canadian and Australian troops. The artillery fired up early on the morning of 1st July. So supporting this push by maintaining air superiority above it was to be the task of many of the brand new pilots and observers that Learmount was preparing at Doncaster.

A general view of the Western Front 1915-16, with battle locations indicated

The priority in advance of the Somme push, was to get photographs and intelligence about the enemy’s movements, supply routes and defensive lines (trenches). The BE2c two-seater “tractor” biplane – one of the types in use for instruction at No 15 (Reserve) Squadron at that time, was a machine well-suited to the reconnaissance task, but not much more than that.

BE2c (Imperial War Museum)

In June and July – operating out of airfields in the vicinity of Arras – the BE2c for was mostly used for reconnaissance and as a light bomber, although it could be fitted with underwing-mounted rockets for attacking balloons. And unlike its unarmed BE pure reconnaissance predecessors, the BE2c observer/gunner was given a pivot-mounted Lewis gun, but more for self-defence than attack. Some BE2cs were given two Lewis guns. Unfortunately, because the observer’s cockpit was forward of the pilot’s, he was positioned more or less in line with the leading edges of the wings, which limited his field of fire considerably, with the propeller just ahead and the struts either side. The trailing edge of the upper wing, however, was cut away at its centre, allowing fire upwards, which was useful for attacking balloons.

Part of the Allied strategy leading up to the Somme push was to make good use of the RFC’s sheer numbers – far in excess of the numbers of aircraft available to the Germans – so they could keep control of the air above the battlefield. The combined aircraft fleets of the Allies exceeded significantly the numbers of German aircraft, even if their effectiveness didn’t match that of the newer German machines like the Fokker Eindecker. Often the BE2s were protected by a pair of Bristol Scouts which could escort them in their reconnaissance role.

In the last days of the Somme offensive, a BE2c (from 15 Sqn as it happened), was hit in combat with five Albatros Ds. The pilot, 2nd Lt JC Lees and observer Lt TH Clarke, were both wounded. The pilot brought the stricken aircraft to a crash landing in enemy territory near Miraumont where the two were taken prisoners of war. The German troops who attended the downed aircraft expressed disbelief that the British were still using such an old-fashioned machine. In fact they referred disparagingly to the aircraft as “kaltes Fleische” (cold meat). Over the five-month offensive from July to November the RFC lost 600 aircraft and 252 crew.

Meanwhile propaganda, normally perceived as information disseminated by the enemy, is a two-way art. Of course the RFC had to generate its own. It seems Britain’s political leaders wanted the people at home to be told about “our boys defending our skies”, because Zeppelins were now succeeding in bombing civilian targets in British cities – a development that had deeply shocked the public.

At about this time – although it was probably somewhat earlier in 2016 – Learmount was clearly chosen as the “right stuff” to provide the British people with a word-picture of what it was like to be an RFC pilot. So he duly wrote a story, published in the Daily Mirror, headlined “Mr Learmount at the Front – Experiences in the Royal Flying Corps”, claiming to be “extracts from a letter received from Lieut LW Learmount of the Royal Flying Corps from ‘Somewhere in France’”. When interpreted in the light of history, this “letter” seems to contain a compendium of experiences over quite a wide period. The newspaper cutting kept by Learmount’s family is not marked with its date, so the period of operations described in the article cannot be precisely identified.

Press cutting from the Daily Mirror in Autumn 1916, from Learmount’s family records

This is what the “letter” says:

“We are having a very strenuous time here. I suppose I put in about 5 hours every day. Not all of it is over the enemy’s lines, of course. A new duty is patrolling the town where we are stationed, as some time ago a few Huns came over and dropped bombs on us and were off again before we could get up to them, so we go up every morning and cruise around at about 10,000ft so that should any more of them venture an attack we are prepared for them.

“I had a most exciting time the other day. I was going to Ostend and just after crossing the Lines a German machine came up and attacked us with a machine gun. We soon brought ours into play, but owing to his vastly superior speed we were not altogether having things all our own way, when a little British Scout which had been patrolling somewhere near us [probably a fighter escort for the reconnaissance type] dropped from the skies and opened fire and, between us, we downed the Hun pretty successfully.

“After this we went on with our reconnaissance and on the way back we met another Hun, but on this occasion we managed to do him in ourselves, and proceeded gaily on our way, somewhat badly damaged it is true, but still we got home all right.

“These air duels are very thrilling, the sky is thick with bursting shells [“Archie”- or anti-aircraft fire] and amidst the roar of our machine guns you can hear the zip of the Hun’s bullets when they get pretty close, and all the time the two machines are circling about, dropping and climbing, each trying to get the other at a disadvantage.

“Aerial warfare becomes more and more like a sea fight as machines are improved, but unfortunately the Huns have usually got better machines than we have. I have so far flown a rather an antiquated type, a French make, but am now the proud possessor of the very latest British machine, a real beauty [BE2c?]

“We have got a most splendid lot of fellows in the RFC, and I am serenely happy among them, although I get depressed at times the way one after another of them disappears. It is so rotten to see a vacant chair at the Mess table every now and then, and to have to go and pack up some unfortunate chap’s belongings is positively horrible. It make one sick at heart to witness the slaughter, for it amounts to nothing less, of all these fine men.”

Tomorrow, Episode 5: Learmount is promoted from Captain to Acting Major, and given command of No. 22 Squadron at Bertangles, near Amiens, equipped with FE2b two-seater pushers, and gets increasingly involved in aerial photography over the heavily fortified German Hindenberg Line.

Leonard’s War episode 3: Learning night bombing with the Armée de l’Air

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(for preceding episodes, scroll down)

In early March 1916, 2nd Lieutenant Leonard Learmount was seconded from his unit, No. 7 Squadron, to the French Bombardment Group at Malzeville, close to Nancy and not far from the France/Germany border in embattled Alsace-Lorraine. His task was to observe bombing techniques – particularly night bombing – and to write a report for the RFC.

http://www.greatwar.co.uk

Selection for this duty suggests he was being prepared for command despite the brevity of experience gained in the twelve months since he had enlisted.

Here are some extracts from Learmount’s Malzeville report:

“There are 5 squadrons stationed here, each containing 10 machines. Most of these are Voisins, and the rest double-engine Caudrons. The Voisins will shortly be entirely replaced by Caudrons. These squadrons do not work other than bomb dropping, and one of them is kept entirely for night flying, the pilots being trained exclusively for this purpose.

Caudron G4 near Verdun

“The Voisins carry 10 bombs of 10 kilos inside the nacelle. They are placed in an upright position, 5 on either side, and the opening of slides permits the bombs to fall. The Caudron carried five 20-kilo bombs under the nacelle with a release similar to our own.”

Night bombardment

Learmount’s report about night bombing operations reveals a tentative, experimental approach by the French Armée de l’Air to this new type of operation.

“The most elaborate arrangements are made for flying by night, each machine carrying a red and blue light on the wing tips., and three powerful electric lights under the nacelle which can be made to face in any direction. The lighting Is obtained from an accumulator which is charged by a small dynamo driven by a fan fitted to the lower plane.

“There are searchlights at intervals of about 20 yards trained onto the aerodrome, and 3 or 4 forming a crescent round the aerodrome, which point into the air and guide the machines back.

“Machines bombard at night time in groups of 4, and before leaving the aerodrome they signal by means of their electric lights that they are starting, or, if the engine is running badly, they signal that they are going to land. All signals are repeated from the ground by a searchlight to show the machines that their message had been received. When the lines are reached, all lights are extinguished.”

Night navigation was basic: “Machines always fly up the right-hand side of the river, returning on the opposite side.” The report does not name the river or rivers, but Nancy is near the confluence of the Moselle, Meurthe and Marne. “Only towns or points near a river are bombarded at night time, and the machines only fly when the night is clear. When the first man arrives at the objective, he drops incendiary bombs, so that, in the event of all lights being extinguished, the next three can see their objective. The first man in the second group drops incendiary bombs in the same manner.

“Machines fly at about 6,000ft and are never attacked by hostile machines, and have never been damaged by anti-aircraft fire. The French artillery and infantry in the area which the machines fly over are always warned that a raid is taking place, so that they do not put searchlights on their own machines.” Daytime bombing raids, the report says, aim for munitions factories, and railway stations or junctions, so at night the implication is that any of these close to the river they followed for navigation are fair game.

The night bombing tactics clearly left the Germans at a loss as to how to respond. It seems at night they could not identify the machines nor precisely where they came from. “German machines seldom visit the aerodrome and never drop bombs in this district in any quantity. The aerodrome is protected by anti-aircraft guns and patrolled by Nieuport machines. The Nieuport is kept entirely for fighting, and the squadrons composed of these are stationed at Bar-le-Duc.”

Learmount added a personal postscript to the report: “I was very struck by the cheerfulness and confidence of all the French Officers and troops with whom I came into contact. The utmost confidence prevails with regard to the result of the battle around Verdun.”

Verdun was not far north-west of Nancy, and the battle of that name turned out to be the longest and most bloody single campaign of the Great War. Between its inception on 21 February and end on 18 December 1916, the French lost 400,000 men and the Germans 350,000. By Christmas 1916 it was apparent that the dogged French defence had prevailed.

In the light of history, it is instructive to see Learmount’s observations on French army morale, recorded at Malzeville, during the first two weeks of the Battle of Verdun. Despite being a very junior allied officer, he clearly knew that repelling the German push at Verdun was vital, and was also aware that the conflict was quickly developing into a particularly nasty encounter. “I understand that up to the time I left, no general reserves had been called upon, and only the Reserves of the Divisions involved being in action. I saw many troops travelling up to the firing line, and it was remarkable the cheerful way in which the men sang and joked among themselves. One or two occasions when I was noticed the men all called out Anglais, Anglais and cheered, shewing the greatest friendliness.” Learmount was witnessing to the fact that, contrary to established British folklore, sang froid – and cheerfulness too – wasn’t a uniquely British reaction to wartime adversity.

He added: “In conclusion I should like to say how hospitably I was treated by the French Officers. A car was placed at my disposal, and each day I was invited to lunch or dine with either the Commandant or the Officers. When dining with the latter I thought it remarkable that every officer at table had one, and in many cases, two medals, and when I questioned them about this, I was told that the reason was these medals had been given to them previous to joining the Flying Corps, and it was largely owing to their meritorious service that they had been chosen.”

Learmount’s report was dated 11 March 1916.

Tomorrow’s episode 4: Learmount is given command of No. 15 (Reserve) Squadron, an aircrew training unit at Doncaster, south Yorkshire. Although he had only 11 months of operational flying himself, his task was to supplement the basic flying training of new pilots with some rudimentary mission skills before posting to France, where they would arrive just in time to provide air support for the massive Somme offensive. Meanwhile he’s ordered by the authorities to write an article for the Daily Mirror to provide the British public with a picture of what it’s like to be a military aviator.

Leonard’s War episode 2: Fight and flight over Flanders

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(If you missed the first episode, scroll down to find it before this one)

It was on 12 June 1915 – almost the height of summer – that 2nd Lieutenant Leonard Learmount joined his first operational unit – No 7 Squadron – at Saint-Omer aerodrome, north-eastern France. His flying log book records the weather as almost perfect for flying a wood-and-fabric aeroplane: clear with a 10mph easterly breeze.

Saint Omer aerodrome 12 June 2015, exactly a century after Learmount’s arrival there. Even the weather was identical, with an easterly breeze. It still operates as the home of the Aéro Club de Saint-Omer, and one of its aircraft is backtracking for take-off from the runway’s other end.

There is no evidence that Learmount was given an aeroplane to ferry across La Manche to Saint-Omer, so we must assume that – like most men posted to France – he caught the sea shuttle from Southampton to Le Havre and took a boat up the River Seine to Rouen, thence by road to his destination.

Learmount’s flying log book shows that four short trips out of Saint-Omer aerodrome on a new aircraft type were deemed sufficient for him to master its peculiarities and to complete local area familiarisation sorties. The machine he was learning to control was the French-built two-seater Voisin “pusher” biplane [engine and propeller behind the cockpit].

His first sortie consisted of 20min flying circuits, but the second trip was a brief affair lasting 10min. His log book explains: “During spirals, five ribs collapsed. Landed safely.” The instructor had taken control and put the aircraft down without delay.

The Voisin, a French two-seater pusher biplane also used by the RFC

“Spirals” were climbing or descending turns, and if the aircraft was not kept in balance by a careful combination of aileron, rudder and elevator, a spin could develop. The Voisin had a level airspeed of about 65mph, but that was only about 40mph above its stalling speed. The evidence suggests that, before the need for a formal flying training syllabus was recognised in 1916, military aviation was seen simply as a means of putting eyes in the sky for the army, and – especially at first – there was no preparation for air-to-air combat. The pilots were just seen as drivers, their task being to fly cautiously and avoid loss-of-control so as to bring their observers home safely to pass on their vital reconnaissance information.

After his final familiarisation sortie, Learmount wrote in his log book: “Above clouds, steered by compass.” He had clearly experienced neither of those things before, yet he was deemed ready for command of a two-seater aircraft operating in hostile skies above the battlefield.

The very first RFC air-to-air combat losses were reported in early June 1915. Indeed a 7 Sqn RE5 was “shot-up” and damaged at 7,000ft over Douai/Valenciennes on 6 June, and on 6 July 2nd Lieutenants LW Yule (pilot) and RH Peck (observer) in a Voisin were both wounded by “exploding cartridges” at 7,000ft near Armentiéres. Both crews successfully recovered to Saint-Omer. (Combat detail from Trevor Henshaw’s admirable “The Sky Their Battlefield”)

Air warfare tactics in that precise location not far east of Ypres were evolving, but were about to start developing at breakneck speed. Air-to-air combat was still very rare, many of the crews armed only with rifles and revolvers, and the primary mission was still reconnaissance and artillery spotting.

In Learmount’s early operational flying with 7 Sqn, he flew the painfully slow Voisin first out of Saint-Omer, and then from other aerodromes further east in the “Ypres Salient” region of Flanders, among them Droglandt. At first, he was purely carrying out reconnaissance and artillery-spotting for the army, but the Voisin was equipped with a Lewis light machine gun, so it was capable of defending itself.

Flying with Learmount on his first operational sortie in command – on 19 June 1915 – was his observer/gunner, the same 2nd Lieutenant Peck just mentioned earlier. Indeed Peck almost certainly directed his rookie commander’s sortie! His handwritten reconnaissance report (see below) records the aircraft’s take-off from Saint-Omer at dawn (04:30), and describes observed activity behind enemy lines between Courtrai and Ghent, Flanders. The pencilled words, inscribed carefully by cold hands, provide details of train and other surface transport movements, assemblies of troops and equipment and estimated numbers. The aircraft landed at 07:45am, so they had been airborne for 3h 15min.

Copy of the 19 June 1915 reconnaissance report, filed from Learmount’s first operational flight. (National Records Office)

On the ground, beneath 7 Sqn’s patrolling aircraft, a fierce German offensive was raging against the British forces holding Ypres. The airmen, pre-briefed on what the army wanted them to look out for, provided their recce reports direct to specific units on the ground. The German offensive was eventually stalled, but at huge cost to both sides.

In a 31 July 1915 combat report filed by Learmount’s observer/gunner describing an inconclusive encounter with an enemy biplane, the Voisin crew’s armament was recorded as: “Lewis gun, rifle and pistol”. The observer, 2nd Lieutenant HH Watkins, initiated the hostile exchange with his Lewis gun, but the German machine positioned itself behind the RFC aircraft. Watkins reports: “I fired over the top plane with the pistol, and the enemy immediately turned and disappeared to the east.” The German aircraft was not identified by type, but was described thus: “Tractor biplane with covered-in fuselage. Machine gun firing to rear. Speed about 85mph.” This kind of encounter was common at that stage of the war, but exchanges quickly became more dramatic as Germany started to field armed fighters.

(National Records Office)

Meanwhile 7 Sqn aircraft were increasingly often engaged in air-to-air exchanges and, with the arrival of August, the “Fokker scourge” began to take its toll of RFC aircraft and crews. The Fokker Eindecker was, as its name implies, a monoplane, and it was a “tractor” (engine and propeller at the front), not a “pusher”. It was the first aircraft on either side to be armed with a forward-firing machine gun equipped with interrupter gear to enable it to fire ahead through the propeller. This made it a game-changer, and accelerated the development of air combat tactics.

The Eindecker’s armament might have caused far more problems than it did, but fortunately for the RFC the aircraft had an unreliable engine, and was difficult to fly, causing many training crashes. Thus only a small number were effectively deployable on a daily basis at front-line units. In fact it was so difficult to manage that the Germans took the Eindecker out of service in early September, but such was its known effectiveness in capable hands that it was declared operational again a few weeks later.

And the RFC’s airborne operations were becoming more varied. By early autumn, bombing sorties were more regularly executed – including against German aerodromes. For example a handwritten, undated operation order held by the UK National Records Office tasked five 7 Sqn pilots – including Learmount – with carrying out two bombing raids on Gits aerodrome in Flanders, near the Gits railway station just east of the Torhout-Roulers road. The first was to be at 7am, the second at 2pm to disrupt attempts at repair. Each aircraft normally carried two or three 20-pound bombs.

http://www.greatwar.co.uk

There was a difference between the overall aviation strategies of the Allies and Germany. Germany frequently had technology and performance advantages, but they had a significantly smaller aircraft fleet and knew it. The RFC leadership, notably the general commander of the RFC in France Colonel Hugh Trenchard, wanted the RFC crews to fly aggressively – whether trained for combat manoeuvres or not – and venture every mission into airspace over the German lines to gain intelligence and disrupt operations. The Germans, on the other hand, would work to limit their own losses by staying defensively over their lines, except for making brief, organised formation attacks to the west of the Front.

When the Battle of Loos began on 25 September 1915, No. 7 Sqn was flying out of Droglandt, 20km west of Ypres in Flanders, heavily involved in providing air support, bombing and reconnaissance for the allied troops, operating a mix of BE2c and RE5 aircraft. The Battle of Loos was a British offensive on the Western Front close to Lille, not far north of Arras which included the first British use of chlorine gas on the ground. But by 8 October the push came to a standstill against staunch German defences.

The original site of Droglandt aerodrome is in the farmer’s field to the right of the telegraph poles

Learmount himself was now mostly flying the BE2c out of Droglandt. The BE2 series had originally been designed – in 1912 – as a very stable, unarmed reconnaissance machine, and that was fine until the Germans introduced well-armed aircraft like the Fokker Eindecker. The Allies didn’t have an answer to the latter’s capabilities until early 1916, so the BE2c’s previously desirable stability made it a sitting duck (more about this in future episodes). Many were shot down but – fortunately – because they were such stable machines to handle, the crews were often able to control the damaged machine to a forced landing.

Royal Aircraft Factory BE2c at the Imperial War Museum

So many BE2cs had been built, however, that they continued to be used for reconnaissance and bombing into 1917, and crews began to dread being assigned to them.  

Meanwhile Learmount was recommended for a Military Cross. The citation lauded his general performance since joining 7 Sqn in June, but it described a specific action on the second day of the Battle of Loos: “Consistent good work, done most gallantly and conscientiously from 13.6.15 to present time. This Officer bombed and hit one half of a train on 26.9.15, coming down to 500ft immediately after Lieut DAC Symington had bombed the other half.” The train was on the Lille-Valencienne line, and Symington had achieved a direct hit on it close to its front, bringing the whole train to a halt. Just after that, Learmount dropped a 100lb bomb that made a direct hit on one of the coaches in the train’s centre.

The point about coming down to 500ft or less is that it puts the aircraft within easy range of machine gun fire, and trains were almost always armed.

Tomorrow: Episode 3, Learmount is seconded to the French Armée de l’Air to report on their development of night bombing techniques