On 16 November 1916 five Royal Flying Corps DH2 Scouts of 29 Squadron were patrolling their sector of the Western Front, between the River Ancre and the medieval city of Arras. Shortly after chasing off a German two-seater reconnaissance machine near Blairville, they spotted a lone Halberstadt fighter being ‘Archied’ over the village of Humbercamps, just west of Monchy-au-Bois and well inside the British lines. The flight commander promptly turned the patrol to engage the enemy machine, which appeared to be flying in circles, ignoring the desultory anti-aircraft fire, and simply enjoying the scenery. Sacrificing height for speed, one member of the RFC patrol, Sergeant Pilot James T.B. McCudden, put his machine into a shallow dive to position himself below and slightly east of the German, blocking off any escape route.
McCudden watched from below as his comrades surrounded the Halberstadt like a swarm of angry bees and began shooting for all they were worth. To their amazement, between throwing his machine all over the sky and flying rings around the DH2s, the German pilot fought like the devil, and was shooting back at everyone in turn. The fight lasted for some four or five minutes, then, suddenly, just when the British pilots thought they had him, the German dived under them and headed east. McCudden was there, waiting for the Halberstadt, latched onto its tail and began shooting from a range of less than fifty yards, but with no effect. Another member of the patrol then joined him and the pair continued firing at the German, who was now weaving left and right, unerringly making for home. Streams of bright orange tracer bullets chased after the departing Scout, though not a single round was seen to be on target. McCudden alone fired off four drums of Lewis gun ammunition, but time and again he was frustrated as the very agile Halberstadt was put through what must have been its complete repertoire of evasive manoeuvres, never holding a straight line for more than a second. It wasn’t long before McCudden was out of ammunition. He could then but watch as the enemy turned directly across his bow at less than twenty yards distance. Incredibly, he noticed the pilot was grinning like a Cheshire cat. The German made good his escape and, nearing the lines, turned on full power to zoom away. McCudden later wrote: ‘What he was doing over our lines I do not know, but he was a very cool and experienced hand, for I must admit he made us all look fools…. Anyhow, I give that Hun full marks.’
This particular incident never warranted so much as a mention in the RFC Communiqué for the day, and McCudden never found out who the impudent Hun was, but after the war it was widely believed it could only have been nineteen-year-old Werner Voss, who, at that early date, actually had little experience of flying fighting Scouts and was in fact a probationer awaiting secondment to Jagdstaffel 2. This has never been verified, but if it be true, it is entirely in keeping with his impish character to have found the failure of five RFC pilots to nail him most amusing. Voss never shunned a fight, was reckless and impetuous in action, thought nothing of taking on overwhelming odds – and consistently got away with it. This audacious behaviour was to earn him the respect of friend and foe alike. Ten months after the Humber-camps fiasco, on an evening in late September 1917, James McCudden, now a captain and flight commander in 56 Squadron, ran into this dashing young man again. On that occasion the outcome was to prove entirely different. In 1918, when commit-ting Voss’ final combat to paper, McCudden, himself acknow-ledged as one of the greatest fighter pilots of the war, penned what must be the most poignant epitaph to any airman living or dead: ‘As long as I live I shall never forget my admiration for that German pilot, who single-handed fought seven of us for some ten minutes, and put bullets through all of our machines. His flying was wonderful, his courage magnificent, and in my opinion he is the bravest German airman whom it has been my privilege to see fight.’
Not only was Werner Voss acknowledged as an exceptional pilot who displayed skill and daring whenever and wherever he met the enemies of his country, there are those who claim he falls into that rare category that epitomise the chivalrous image of the air fighter. His shooting is said to have been every bit as good as his flying, and it has been reported that on more than one occasion he brought down an enemy machine by aiming only for its engine rather than its occupants. This last accolade probably has little or no foundation in truth as it is difficult enough to hit a moving target in the air, let alone aim for a vital spot such as the engine. However, it is generally accepted that his exploits in the skies over France and western Flanders, whether real or imagined, became truly legendary. Conversely, there is conclusive evidence to prove he often strafed his helpless victims on the ground. Hardly a chivalrous act by any standards!
This statement should, however, be taken in context. Instances of the practice were common to all sides during the first air war, and rarely considered an act of wanton barbarism. On at least one occasion the highest scoring British ace, Edward ‘Mick’ Mannock, was guilty of repeatedly attacking a defenceless enemy on the ground, and was soundly admonished by his flight commander for doing so; but that was as far as it went. Voss was very much a man of his times, and the times called for the defeat of the enemies of his country by whatever means – fair or foul. Yet recorded instances of his attacks on downed enemies on the ground relate solely to two-seater observation and photo-reconnaissance machines, which minutes earlier had been either photographing or ranging artillery fire on German positions. It is now widely accepted that the first duty of a Scout pilot was to prevent reconnaissance machines returning with information to their home bases at all costs. Therefore, utterly destroying them and their precious intelligence, either in the air or on the ground, was considered justified. In a letter home Voss once touched on the unhappy plight of Allied two-seater crews, revealing that he was not without a degree of compassion. He referred to them as ‘Verachtliken’ – poor devils – adding: ‘I know how they felt. I have flown in such a type. They must be destroyed because they spy out our secrets but I would prefer to shoot down fighters.’ In this respect Voss was the antithesis of Manfred von Richthofen, Germany’s highest scoring ace, who many historians now argue habitually sought out lame-ducks and the often vulnerable reconnaissance machines rather than chance a full-blooded encounter with a highly manoeuvrable Allied Scout. In truth this is a little uncharitable. Richthofen was undoubtedly a very brave man and an exceptional leader of men – however, the methods he employed to destroy his enemies are another story.
Voss’ career as a fighter pilot lasted ten short months. At the time of his death he was credited with forty-eight victories and was running a close second to Richthofen and, had fate not played its fickle hand, it is entirely possible he would have overtaken ‘The Red Air Fighter’ by the early months of 1918. Voss was also acknowledged as the greatest exponent of Germany’s much acclaimed wonder weapon and the best known of all German fighters, the Fokker Triplane, the first examples of which arrived at the Front in late August 1917. Its sleek lines and incredible performance was what every German fighter pilot dreamed of. Though relatively slow for the period it had few equals in a dogfight, and what it lacked in speed was more than compensated for by its incredible manoeuvrability and amazing rate of climb. Voss tested the prototype V4 triplane at the Fokker factory at Schwerin in mid-summer 1917 and immediately fell in love with it. Once in the air he and this superlative example of a fighting machine became as one – a formidable, singular entity, ready to take on anything the Allies could throw at it, including the much vaunted SE5s and Sopwith Camels that were then arriving on the Western Front in ever increasing numbers. Few doubt that his boundless enthusiasm and glowing report on the triplane were instrumental in convincing Richthofen and the office of Kommandierenden General der Luftstreitkräfte, (General in Command of the German Army Air Service – commonly abbreviated to Kogenluft) that this was the machine that could help maintain German air superiority.
Over a period of twenty days in September 1917, and whilst flying one of the first pre-production triplanes, Voss shot down ten Allied machines, and still managed to squeeze in a leave that covered at least eleven of those heady days. In the same period Richthofen accounted for two, his sixty-first and sixty-second victories. Due in part to an enforced leave, it was to be two months to the day since Voss had been killed before Richthofen scored again. He then took seven long months to reach his final total of eighty. Moreover, by the end of the war only two other German pilots had surpassed the tally notched-up by Voss: his fellow Jasta 10 comrade Eric Löwenhardt, who was killed shortly after downing his fifty-fourth, and the diminutive Ernst Udet, who survived the war and was credited with sixty-two victories. [Recent research now suggests that Joseph Peter Jacobs, who finished the war as commander of Jasta 7, actually equalled the score of Voss.]
Ironically, few historians have offered more than a chapter or two on the short life of Werner Voss. Yet his prowess as a flying tiger, the forty-eight confirmed victories that finally placed him fourth among the list of elite German fighter aces, and his incredible encounter with 56 Squadron RFC on the evening of 23 September 1917, must rank him high among the leading fighter pilots of that first great war in the air.