An Air Fighter's Scrapbook

By Ira Jones

A classic memoir of the early days of aviation by a longtime Royal Air Force pilot, including his harrowing, exhilarating adventures in the Great War.
 
Ira “Taffy” Jones was a well-known air fighter during the First World War, having scored about forty victories flying SE5 scouts in France with 74 Squadron. Familiar in flying circles, Jones recorded stories drawn from his own experiences during the war and wrote of the many personalities he had met or known by association, both during the war and in the postwar flying years.
 
An Air Fighter’s Scrapbook recreates the atmosphere of the days of the biplane, of wartime flying, of early peacetime adventures in the air, the development of civil aviation, and breathtaking record-beating flights—all evoking the sheer delight in flying that characterized those early years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Casemate Publishers
• Release date: Dec 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781612001517

Book preview

CHAPTER I

They Risked their Necks

IN writing of the pioneers of flying a host of names comes into the mind of men who played a noble part, but two stand out as being the real conquerors of a problem that baffled their predecessors—Orville and Wilbur Wright.

The sons of an American minister of religion, they were born at Dayton, Ohio, and took an interest in the possibilities of flying when mere schoolboys. Of an inventive and mechanical turn of mind, they constructed some weird devices which they hoped would fly, but didn’t. Their school days over, they started a cycle business and dabbled for some time in a publishing business, but their burning ambition was to fly. No one encouraged them. When they produced some of their flying ideas and talked of their dreams of the conquest of the air friends laughed at them: some were positively rude. The two brothers, who in addition to having a common interest, were intensely devoted to each other, decided to drop their aerial ambitions and quickly made a success of their cycle business. Indeed, flying development might have been retarded and the brothers might have remained unknown to the outside world, but for a decision they took after reading of the death of Otto Lilienthal, a German who had made many successful gliding flights and remained in the air for some fifteen to twenty seconds. Spectacular as were these gliding achievements, the Wright brothers were convinced that if flying was to develop on proper lines, the craft would have to receive its lifting power from an engine.

In the face of considerable criticism the two brothers took up flying again. They built a few gliders and carefully studied the behaviour of the craft in the air, securing data which proved most valuable. Satisfied with their prowess, they boldly approached some American engineers with a request to construct an engine. The engineers scornfully turned down the idea.

Nowhere were the efforts of the two brothers taken seriously, but that did not deter them. They built their own engine, which developed 12 h.p. and weighed 180 lb., and this they fitted into their box-like craft. After a good many minor disappointments the two brothers felt that success was now certain, and they issued invitations to a large number of people who resided in the vicinity of their American home to witness the first flight of an aeroplane under its own power. The event was treated with great contempt. It is an amazing fact, but none the less true, that only five people were present when the attempt was made on December 16, 1903. One of the five was a boy, while three of the others were told to be there in case of accidents.

The two brothers tossed a coin to decide who should pilot the craft on its first flight—the most historic flight in the history of aviation. Orville won and the plane left the ground and flew for twelve seconds. Brief, perhaps, but a great triumph! More flights were made that day and Wilbur set up a record of fifty-nine seconds, covering over 800 feet.

The two brothers, delighted with their success, then had a shock. A gust of wind blew over the craft and damaged it so badly that it could not be repaired. To-day it is one of the exhibits in the Science Museum, South Kensington, and I wonder how many airmen have troubled to go and view it.

One would imagine that such a feat would have been blazoned throughout the civilised world, that the two brothers would have been acclaimed everywhere, but nothing of the kind happened. A few paragraphs appeared in the Press, and those people in Europe who were interested in the possibilities of flying treated the reports with a good deal of reserve. And so the first real conquest of the air went almost unheralded.

Orville and Wilbur, now accustomed to an unappreciative public, but conscious that they were on the right road, built new machines and carried out a series of flights. Four years passed without fitting recognition, and reports reached them that certain French and British inventors were on the pointof making flights in craft driven by engine-power, so they decided that they should make known their achievements in Europe. Wilbur made the journey while Orville continued with his work in America.

When Wilbur reached France he received a good reception (to his amazement) and housed his machine on the race-course near Le Mans. Sceptical people journeyed there from all parts of the Continent, to witness a display that was announced for August 8, 1908—five years after the first flight. Wilbur took off, and flew for nearly two minutes, and the longdelayed glory was his!

The crowd went frantic with joy and the names of the Wright brothers were now on all lips.

Towards the end of the year he flew for nearly two hours and his displays were watched by representatives of various Governments, who ordered planes.

Wilbur was fêted everywhere, and with fame came fortune. He did not live long afterwards to enjoy the fruits of his earlier labours. He died in 1912.

When the news reached Europe in 1903 of the successful flights made by Wilbur and Orville Wright, there were pioneers in the realm of aviation in Britain and France. There had been balloon flights and a good deal of experimenting with gliding craft. The reported success of the Wrights with an engine-driven craft caused the pioneers to alter their outlook.

Records of early flights are most incomplete, and stated facts are even now being constantly challenged. There is a difference of opinion as to who holds the record for the first flight in Europe in an engine-driven craft. In many quarters it is contended that the honour belongs to Santos Dumont, a wealthy Brazilian, who first distinguished himself with a flight around the Eiffel Tower in an airship. He later devoted himself to aeroplanes, and on October 23, 1906, he flew a distance of about one hundred and sixty feet. However, a Dane named J. C. Ellehammer claimed to have made a flight some months before the Brazilian, but as it was not officially observed, his contention has not been accepted.

Credit for the first official flight in Britain by an Englishman is held by Lieutenant-Colonel J. T. C. Moore-Brabazon, who is also the first airman to hold the Royal Aero Club pilot certificate. His flight, which won him the honour, took place on February 27, 1909, near Eastchurch, and later that year he won a £1,000 prize, awarded by the Daily Mail for the first circular mile flight with a British aeroplane.

Lieutenant-Colonel Moore-Brabazon was not, however, the first Englishman to fly an aeroplane. That record (and aviation is full of them) is held by Henry Farman, who was born in France of English parents. He spent so much time in France that he has come to be regarded as a Frenchman.

It is impossible to deal with all the outstanding British pioneers of the air, and if any are omitted from this brief survey it is purely because of space limitations.

There was the picturesque Colonel Cody, whose aviation adventures started with experiments with man-lifting kites. He turned his attentions to airships and then to aeroplanes, and his skill and courage soon made him a favourite. Cody succeeded the original Colonel Cody, of Buffalo Bill fame; King George V once addressed him as colonel, thereafter his rank was confirmed.

Some of Cody’s earlier flying schemes were held up because of a lack of money—he spent every penny he had on building machines and then flying them, always creating some record or other. (He was the first airman to land on a cow!)

The British Government had a very high opinion of him. They paid him £5,000 for his experiments with man-lifting kites, and he won a similar sum—again contributed by the Government—for the winning machine in the Military Trials in 1912.

Captain Duncan Davies, the popular Brooklands airman, who was one of Cody’s assistants, tells me that the romantic flier was very hard up before he won the Military Trials (the original machine landed on the cow and crashed) and that there was some doubt as to whether sufficient money could be found to build another craft. Cody was killed in 1913 in a flying crash.

Then there was the Hon. C. S. Rolls, a partner in the now famous firm of Rolls-Royce, Ltd., whose headquarters at Eastchurch were always open to airmen of the day. He was the holder of No. 2 Royal Aero Club pilot’s certificate, and his most famous exploit was a double crossing of the Channel in 1910. Rolls, a magnificent airman, met an untimely end a few months later, when his plane crashed at a Bournemouth flying meeting.

Mention of the Channel brings immediately to my mind the name of Louis Blériot, the first man to fly from France to England. There were many competitors in the field for this distinction and a prize of £1,000 was again given by the Daily Mail. Blériot landed near Dover and was given a wonderful reception, this was in July 1909.

When one looks back at those early flying days, when men risked their fortunes as well as their lives (there were then no wealthy corporations or firms to finance hazardous ventures) there unrolls in the mind a magnificent panorama of pioneers. They were men who helped to unfathom the mysteries of the air, and sacrifices were great. There were such pioneers as Robert Blackburn, Tom Sopwith, A. V. Roe, G. B. Cockburn, J. W. Dunne, Pemberton Billing, Grahame-White, Gustav Hamel, Geoffrey de Havilland, Latham, Pégoud, Hucks, Léon Delarange, de Lesseps, Vedrines, Paulhan.

It was such men as these who laid not only the foundation of flying, but safe flying as we know it to-day.

All honour to them!

And it was their heroic achievements which inspired me with the desire to fly.

CHAPTER II

The Child—The Boy—The Youth

Since the days of the Brythons fighting and adventure have been in the blood of the Welsh. And whatever aptitude I have shown for air fighting and flying I attribute to a hereditary spirit, passed on from generation to generation by the Brython warriors and adventurers of old. In battle they preferred death to dishonour—hence the national motto Chwell angau na chwilydd.

General Crozier was wrong—and must have known he was wrong—when he wrote his caddish libel of the Welsh troops who fought so gallantly at Mametz Wood The Welshman is by nature a fighter, and death holds little terror for him when he is fighting for a Cause.

It was a visit to Hendon during the early summer of 1914, when I saw my first aeroplane in flight, which started a burning desire within me to fly. I was enthralled at the sight of the weird craft of those bygone days as they staggered about the sky like birds in distress. Here was adventure. When the cataclysm of 1914 started and the Royal Flying Corps called for recruits, I saw the visions of my dreams coming true.

For me, born of parents whose ancestry tilled the soil of Cymru, to fly for a living must have been the last career they could have imagined.

The motorist who drives from Carmarthen to Tenby will after nine miles pass through the attractive village of St. Clears, through which the river Gynin flows. On one side of the stream is the War memorial which I had the honour of unveiling, and on it are names which bring back sweet memories of my boyhood days. These names represent country lads—many of whom had little idea where Germany, Austria, or Turkey were—who enlisted and went to the War with light hearts because they knew it was their duty to the country which gave them proud birth.

Two miles farther on than St. Clears the motorist will be approaching the unspoilt hamlet of Llandowror. If he looks to his right he will see a large white farmstead standing alone and nestling snugly beneath a large spinney on the brow of a hill. This farmstead is called Woolstone, and it was there that I was born on April 18, 1896, during the early hours of the morn. I am told that a blizzard at gale force was raging at the time the event took place, and that dog and fox barked with terror of the night. As for myself I apparently proved to be of stubborn nature even at birth, for I refused to start breathing. (Echoes of my friends whispering to one another pity the doctor intervened!) Fortunately— for I have thus far enjoyed life—Dr Roland Thomas, once upon a time famous Welsh Rugger international and nowadays a famous character, would have none of my nonsense and taking from the nurse a wet towel and holding me in a suitable position gave my tender little bottom a good whack. Was there life in the babe? There was life and temper.

It was over Woolstone land that I made my first kill. Uncle John, on one fine summer’s day said: Ira, here are two cartridges, if you bring a rabbit back I will give you a shilling. I was then fourteen years of age, and well I remember lying near a large rabbit-warren hidden in ferns, waiting hours for a favourable shot. At long last the rabbits began to peep their little heads out of their holes; then they emerged and for some time sat on the lip of their homes basking in the afternoon sun. How my heart thumped while I waited for them to come near enough to shoot. I hardly dared to breathe lest they should take fright. Eventually several of them decided to venture out into the field to graze. Gun cocked, I waited impatiently for several of them to get into a group. Bang! Bang! and the group scattered, scampering for the nearest hole. Not so one little bunny with broken back legs, it just dragged itself round and round in small circles, squealing as it did so. As I picked it up its frightened eyes looked at me as if I were a huge monster. I tapped it on the back of its neck in the way that I had often seen my cousin Johnnie kill rabbits. For a few seconds it struggledfor its life, then as I tapped it harder its struggles became less and less violent until its body was limp and a film of death, such as the human being has at such times, came over its brown eyes. I had killed it. Suddenly the horror of the affair struck my conscience. I was ashamed of what I had done and I cried. Having recovered my composure I returned in triumph to Uncle John who was obviously pleased with my success. So was dear Auntie Ann (the sweet soul has now passed on) for she slipped half a crown into my hand unbeknown to Uncle, and having done so whispered in Welsh in my ear, And now tell me who shot it for you? But Auntie, for once, was wrong.

As a boy I was never keen on destroying animal or bird life even when they were considered vermin. The hawk was the only bird which I had no qualms destroying and I came to select him as my special prey in this way.

One day I was watching a number of baby bunnies (possibly out for their first romp) frolicking around the lip of their warren which was in the middle of Cae-bach, as the field was called. Suddenly a kestrel hawk appeared overhead. It fluttered and fluttered its large wings in quiet rhythm as it watched its prey below. Occasionally, it would cunningly glide to a position about fifty yards away, no doubt to give the bunnies confidence, and then with effortless ease sneak back to its original position. Below the innocent bunnies romped around, playing follow-my-leader and lots of other funny games. Every now and then one would try a jump and fall helplessly, rolling on to its back and kicking its little legs violently, frightened lest it did not recover its normal position. Eventually one little fellow, braver than the rest, took a stroll some distance away from its home. Above the hawk watched and smiled. It was a wicked smile, such as only witches have. Feeling sorry for the little fellow I gave a loud yell to frighten it back to its warren. Too late. Like a meteor that hawk swooped down on to its victim, and before I could shoot, it was being carried away across the beautiful valley of Clog-y-fran, to the accompaniment of the heinous screeching of the vile bird. Ever since I have hated hawks, yet it was the tactics of thehawk which I used to destroy many an enemy during the War. I reflect, however, that hawks like nations at war have to kill to live themselves.

I have traced my skill as a marksman in air fighting to the experience which I gained as a youth when shooting at birds in flight. I often used to amuse myself studying deflection shooting, and found it astonishingly easy at first to miss my target. After a lot of practice I found a crow was not difficult to bring down, but other birds puzzled me. I was unconsciously making the same deflection allowance for all birds, although I knew that each bird had a varying pace and that I should also allow for the wind. When I took these various points into account the birds crumpled like the closing of a concertina. Incidentally, I fought for five weeks as a fighter pilot before I destroyed my first Hun. In my excitement I was aiming at the enemy machine instead of a certain distance in front. When I got into the trick of allowing correctly for deflection my enemies fell in flames or with crumpled wings.

As a schoolboy I was mad about sport and I allowed my enthusiasm for learning to take second place. Rugger, soccer, cricket, boxing, and swimming took prior place to mathematics, geometry, science, or languages. Indeed, history was the only subject which interested me. Reading of battles thrilled me. Nelson, Wolfe, Marlborough, and Clive were my particular heroes. For a birthday present I always chose either a Rugby football or a book of military adventure. The first book which I have memory of is Heroes All, which was a present from Uncle Tom; it told of the deeds of the heroes who had built the British Empire. This little book inoculated me with a passionate desire to be of service to my country, if ever the opportunity came my way.

At the age of fourteen years I joined the Carmarthen Troop of Boy Scouts, and obtained proficiency badges in cooking, tracking, swimming, drummer, and life-saving. I was delighted when I qualified for the latter because I had twice been rescued from drowning. When I was seventeen I transferred my affections from the Scouts tothe Territorials, joining the Carmarthen company of the 4th Welch Regiment. I was then five feet four inches in height and weighed less than nine stone. (I‘m not much bigger now except in girth!) My first camp at Haverfordwest nearly killed my enthusiasm for foot slogging, for the heat was terriffic during our long route marches, and I developed enormous blisters. I stuck it out for many days without complaint, but the climax came one day when I lagged behind, although my friend Tom Jones was carrying my rifle, and an officer on horseback came up to me and said curdy, Get a move on. This unfair reproof was too much for me and I decided never to route-march again during the camp. And I didn’t. The medical officer on examining my blisters said, You‘ll never make a soldier, my boy, but the visiting Inspecting General cheered my ebbing spirits when he noticed that my rifle was nearly as big as myself and said, You’re made of the right stuff, laddy. Stick it.

A few months before the War started, my friend Dick Watson and I were studying Wireless and Cable Telegraphy in London. Dick, who had a fine brain, qualified before me and when war broke out joined the Royal Naval Air Service. (He was killed in Hunnish circumstances in April 1915. The machine he was in was brought down in the sea off Ostend by anti-aircraft guns. Dick was seen by another pilot to be swimming towards the shore with Hun shrapnel splashing the water all around him. There was no chance of his ever escaping being taken prisoner.) On the news of declaration of war I took the earliest possible train to Carmarthen and reported to the 4th Welch. Imagine my feelings when I was told that I was not wanted as the war would be over by Christmas. I was told to return to London and that I would be informed if I was wanted.

As the months rolled by and I read the War news of the bravery and sacrifices of Our Contemptible little Army, I longed to be with them. With each post I expected the letter telling me to report. No letter came even after Christmas so I wrote asking if I might join some other regiment. No answer came. Then a trait in my character —which later in life became more prominent—asserted itself. I felt that I was not having a square deal, so I decided that regulations and the 4th Welch could go to hell. Promptly I joined the Royal Flying Corps. This was in early June 1915. All these months had been wasted. Red tape had once again scored a triumph.

It was a glorious morning when I drew my ration money from an officer in a bell tent on the Horse Guards Parade. I shall never forget the march to Waterloo Station; there were about two hundred of us—and what a motley crowd we were—escorted by burly guardsmen, with a brass band playing all the popular war songs. Politicians and their satellites, staff officers and dug-outs, scrimshankers and patriots waved to us from balconies in Whitehall and along the route. I remember also that our escort sponged half-crowns from us as they wished us good luck. Those guardsmen were real old soldiers.

My welcome at Farnborough came as a shock. I was wearing a bowler hat which attracted the attention of a Corporal Lester—a one-armed gentleman with a fiery-looking moustache. Come here, he bawled, pointing at me. Where the hell have you been? he then asked. Nonplussed, I replied that I did not understand, forgetting to call him corporal. "Call me corporal, curse you," he hissed, and repeated the question. I asked him what he was talking about. Grasping my ear, he shouted: The bloody war has been on for nearly a year, boy. Where the hell have you been? Letting go my ear he took my bowler hat in a rough manner from off my head and gave it a mighty kick. Some of my comrades laughed loudly, others shivered.

Three weeks of vigorous training sufficed for my stay at the depot. The actual training was excellent, for it made the body fit and the brain clear. It was Vigorous but healthy. But to a recruit who was accustomed to clean living, clean thinking, and a clean tongue, my stay at Farnborough came as a shock. Life was a great uncertainty. For instance, a drunken N.C.O. would make the recruits get out of bed and stand in their bare feet in a cold corridor with cemented floor until he came back. Of course he never did come back. Personally I went straight back to my bed as soon as he had gone and took a chance. Many of the recruits caught cold and some even developed pneumonia. The chief offender was a big flight-sergeant who had transferred from the Guards. Later he was court-martialled and sent to imprisonment for offences against recruits.

A certain amount of bullying on parade also took place, but occasionally the instructor came off second best. One renowned incident happened when I was on parade. One day a bumptious corporal put his face very close to mine, made contortions to try and make me laugh so that he could hit me with his cane (a common practice). The recruit next to me laughed. The corporal turned his attentions to him. What are you laughing about, boy? he asked. Nothing, corporal, said my comrade with a strong Welsh accent. What, said the little corporal, are you a bloody Welshman? Yes, corporal, was the soft reply, as the bloody Welshman shot out a beautiful left to the corporal’s jaw. All that was then left to do was to revive the corporal and place my comrade under arrest. The corporal lost his stripes.

Nowadays there is no bullying in the Royal Air Force. I can speak with authority on this matter, for I was doing duty at the Recruits Depot, Uxbridge, for several months prior to my retirement. The Air Force nowadays is a large happy family—taking it by and large.

I used to spend my evenings at Farnborough watching the flying. How I envied those airmen! My spirit was with them and I wondered if ever my chance would come to emulate them.

From Farnborough I went to Netheravon to join No. 10 Squadron, which was equipped with B.E.2C.‘s and awaiting orders to go to France. It was while here that I had my first flight with Air Marshal (then Captain) Sir W. G. S. Mitchell, the extremely popular flight commander of B flight. Was I thrilled? When I returned to earth again I felt that my life’s ambition had been fulfilled. I could notimagine that there could be any experience more thrilling in life.

Dodging shells, machine-gun bullets (some of them incendiary which burned the vitals), or a death duel in a single-seater fighter many miles up in the skies, were experiences yet to come.

CHAPTER III

I Find a Friend for Life

During my twenty-one years’ service with the Royal Flying Corps and Royal Air Force I have held very strong views on the Policy of Silence that has been practised by official authorities since the War. The history of our air fighters is an amazing epic of courage and tenacity. Why continue the hush hush policy? For some curious reason that story, which should stir the heart of every Briton, has not been told, as it should be. The birth of this policy goes back to the early days of the War.

The Germans and our Allies used every means to tell— and continue to tell—their public, and, indeed, the world, of the gallantry of their airmen. The feats of their aces are lauded to the sky. These stories are often exaggerated, and nothing is officially done to counteract them.

The German public were led to believe that Richthofen as an air fighter was unsurpassable. He was almost worshipped by the nation. President Hindenburg walked behind the cortège when he was re-buried in Berlin, and work in the city halted for the solemn ceremony.

My personal view of Richthofen, whose colourful career I shall deal with later, is that he was not to be compared with some of our own airmen. The deeds of our own fighters —men like Major Mick Mannock, with 73 victories to his credit—rarely leaked out to the public. Astonishing though it may sound, his very name was unknown to quite 95 per cent of the British people after the War, and I have even met Air Force officers of all ranks who had never heard of him. His V.C. was not even awarded until a year after his death.

On the anniversary of the death of Richthofen, the Berlin broadcasting station includes an eulogistic item in its programme about the German hero. The French Air Force holds a special parade—at which the Air Minister attends—to commemorate the passing of the great Guyne-mer. What does England or the R.A.F. do to commemorate Mannock’s death? Nothing. I doubt if there is one single officer or airman in the Air Force to-day who knows how he met his death and on what date. So much for tradition!

Why? it may be asked. The answer is that the authorities did not think it wise!

Yet the record of achievement of British airmen during the War is far greater than that of any other nation. It is a record of unrivalled personal courage, often against overwhelming odds; of young men‘s heroic deeds which, had they been of any other nation, would have been blazoned to the world. Let us lift the curtain, then, and behold Britain’s air heroes, most of whose names are unknown, but whose valorous deeds are worthy of the noblest tradition of our race.

During my service I have watched with admiring eyes a great tradition of valour built in the fiery skies of France and Flanders. Then, to my dismay, I have watched that tradition being allowed, through apathy, to wither and almost to die, during the calm days of peace.

It MUST be revived.

In 1914, when the German Zeppelins were expected to make their first appearance, a number of our airmen approached General Henderson, who commanded the R.F.C. in the field at that time, and asked if they might be allowed to charge these dirigibles in the air. It meant, of course, certain death for the pilot, but it also meant the end of the Zep.

This simple request, by men who never considered their own lives in time of war, was typical of the spirit that dominated our fighters throughout those horrible years of slaughter. Yet at this time this was not such a strange request if all that mattered was the destruction of the Zeppelins.

Some of my earliest recollections of flying are on what was then known as the Zep Patrol. I was in France in 1915 when the air was filled with scare rumours of impending attacks by Zeps. At the time I was an observer, and accustomed to leave with my pilot in a B.E. machine so laden with bombs that we could not hope to reach a greater height than 6,000 feet. We never met a Zep, but I have often wondered what would have happened if one had come our way, because the dirigibles generally flew at a far greater height. If our Zep Patrol machines had not carried any bombs it might have been possible to reach their ceiling, and then the only hope of destruction was to dive into their fat bodies. However, General Henderson’s reply to the charging request was No; you must use what weapons you have at your disposal.

The pilots were disappointed.

In the early days of the War pilots of all nations were armed only with revolvers. Machines would circle around each other, and pistols would go off, but the chances of a hit were amusingly remote. Yet they tried. Often the craft would fly so near that the pilots could identify each other with ease. Then ammunition would run out, and the pilots, after shaking their fists (and sometimes they even waved a cheerful au revoir), would wheel round for home. Some modern fighters are equipped with five machine-guns and a gun which fires small shells at the rate of five hundred a minute.

Such is progress!

The first fight in the air on the British front took place on the morning of August 25, 1914. An enemy monoplane, a Taube, was sighted in the vicinity of the Forêt de Mormal, and chased to the ground by Lieutenants Harvey-Kelly and Mansfield, armed only with revolvers. The Britishers landed near the enemy machine, but the occupants had fled into a nearby wood. Some of our cavalry appeared on the scene, set the German ’plane on fire—rather a pity, because it would have been a worthy exhibit for one of our war museums—and then gave our airmen a few charred bits as souvenirs!

A somewhat similar incident occurred when I was serving with 74 Squadron. Two of my pilots, Lieutenants Freddie Gordon and George Gould, shepherded a new type of German two-seater to land on territory between Ypres and Poperinghe. The Germans, who were unhurt, tried to escape into a nearby spinney. The ground was too pocketed with shell-holes for the 74 pilots to land, so they set up a barrage of machine-gun fire between their victims and the wood, causing them to halt in their flight, and eventually they were captured by Belgian troops.

The combat in which Lieutenants Harvey-Kelly and Mansfield were engaged was the prelude to air fighting on a scale then undreamed of. In those early days our airmen were showing far more enterprise than the enemy. They conducted far deeper reconnaissances, while the Germans were inclined to remain behind their own lines. Again, they invariably challenged the enemy to fight whenever met. The German High Command became perturbed, and during the battle of the Aisne sent out an order that all British aeroplanes when encountered were to be attacked.

This was the first official signal for war in the air to begin. Air fighting was no longer to be a casual affair, with the British always disposed to the aggressive. The heavens were to be the battlefield of the new heroes. Combatants were now beginning to recognise the importance of aircraft, and the fiat went forth that the armaments of machines should be increased.

Little could be done with revolvers, so our airmen adopted a new technique. It consisted of diving in close proximity to the nose of the enemy ’plane as