In the days to come the year 1912 will be memorable for the establishment of a sure foundation of a British naval aeronautical corps. Some four or five years earlier, it had been decided arbitrarily by the authorities to divide the application of aeronautics between the land and sea services by giving to the former the aeroplane and to the latter the airship. The decision was accepted by the seamen and the construction of the lighter-than-air machine was in hand at the Barrow for the purpose of carrying out trials. Meanwhile, however, the belief that sea flying was bound to become an important asset for the Royal Navy led to developments. On 1 March 1911, four officers of the Royal Navy and Royal Marines were granted permission to undergo training in aeroplane work at Eastchurch while others, at their own expense, started experimental work with hydroplanes (seaplanes) on Lake Windermere and similar places. At this time the Government had not awakened to the necessity for creating air fleets and training airmen to navigate and handle them. The destruction of the first naval airship before she could make a trial trip acted as a deterrent to progress and the experience gained by its construction was wasted. It was the patriotism and public spirit displayed by the Daily Mail for offering prizes for long flights which gave impetus to the development of the air services and did much to make the importance of the new arm recognised in high quarters and its value to the Navy appreciated. Until towards the end of 1911, the only machines which the Navy possessed were gifts from private donors and no proper organisation for their employment existed. In the following year, under the inspiration of Winston Churchill, who had become first Lord of the Admiralty, the Navy took up the practice of aviation with enthusiasm and rapid development followed. The first four months of 1912 showed far more progress towards the provision of an adequate and qualified core of flying men with efficient machines than that made in the four preceding years. The First Lord himself qualified as an air pilot and when King George V visited his fleet at Weymouth in May the naval flyers were able to provide an exhibition of the advances made. In March 1912 a School of Naval Aviation was established at Upavon and in July the First Lord announced that a new department had been formed to coordinate the various branches of aerial navigation and develop the training and material to the best advantage. The Central Flying School on Salisbury Plain, the aerodrome of the Naval Wing in the Isle of Sheppey and the Air Department at the Admiralty were all instituted at this time. It is astonishing now to reflect that only two and a half years before the Great War none of these departments were in existence.
In fact the Royal Naval Air Service under its present name was not formed until within six weeks of the outbreak of hostilities. Today its personnel is numbered in thousands and it has aerodromes, air stations, training centres, repair depots and experimental depots in large numbers, not only in the British Isles but in many places abroad. With its organisation in such an underdeveloped state, it is little short of marvellous that the RNAS did what it did in the early days of the war. One advantage was that those who had been responsible for its establishment in peace were still in office when the war came and so had the handling of the machine they had brought into being.
In England little attention was paid to flying until Blériot flew the Channel, violating our inviolate moat. The Army had a Balloon Battalion, and it began to take an interest in heavier-than-air craft. In 1909 they enlisted the services of an American showman, Colonel Cody. Captain J. Fulton, Royal Artillery, bought the machine on which Blériot flew the Channel and taught himself to fly on it; later he became an instructor at the Central Flying School. The Navy first turned its attention to airships and laid down a most ambitious venture at Barrow in Furness, embodying many untried experiments, and bigger than anything previously attempted anywhere.
In 1910 I was appointed to HMS Hermione, which was commissioning at Portsmouth as tender to the Airship No. 1 under construction at Barrow. Hermione’s crew consisted almost entirely of Marines, the handling party for the airship. A Captain and the navigating officer were the only deck officers for the short trip to Barrow. Soon after we sailed the weather began to get sick; the captain sent for me and told me we might have to anchor and I would be in charge of the operation on the forecastle. I had never even seen a ship anchored, my job had always been aft on the quarterdeck. I saw visions of mangled Marines being pulled through the hawse pipe by the cable. I got a book on seamanship from the ship’s library and sweated at it. Of course, like a cookery book, it omitted all the things you really wanted to know; cat davits and capstans were mysteries to me. But Zeus was on my side: the weather cleared!
Many private individuals had been experimenting with aeroplanes: Maxim (of the machine gun) built a machine on very sound lines but its steam engine was too heavy. A. V. Roe was perhaps the most successful of the very early experimenters in England, and it is good to think that he remained at the forefront for many years. It is the common lot of inventors to fade away and see others exploit their ideas, but aviation furnishes a notable exception: in addition to Roe there are Short, Sopwith, de Havilland, Handley Page and Fairey. The Honourable Charles Rolls did not survive to see the engine he helped produce encircle the world; the tailplane of his aircraft broke off as he came in to land in a competition in 1910.
My personal connection with aviation began with Airship No. 1. One of my duties was that of meteorologist to the airship; of course I knew nothing of meteorology, nor did anybody else, so at least they had no solid grounds for criticism. The only book I could find on the subject was one by a naval officer. Considering the period at which it was written, it was extraordinarily good. The cyclone and the anticyclone were well described but, of course, much remained unexplained. For example, if you pointed out it was raining and the barometer had not fallen, you were told, ‘Oh that is non-isobaric rain’! It was my horrible responsibility to name the date and time for the launch. If quite a mild gust of wind struck her when partly out of her shed, she would break in two. I had to issue a weather forecast every night (the local green keeper was useful). She did, in fact, break her back at the second launching but, fortunately for me, by then I’d gone off to learn to fly heavier-than-air craft. This airship took so long to build that the press called her the Mayfly. Vickers personnel, of course, had no experience of airship building and things often had to be done over again. We were all highly amused one afternoon when a very worried young man from Vickers came into the mess carrying a paper which notified the despatch by rail of 500,000 cubic feet of hydrogen. He had calculated that that amount of hydrogen would lift the railway truck into the air! He had forgotten that it was highly compressed into heavy steel cylinders.
I never had any confidence in airships; what I knew of meteorology convinced me that their life was ephemeral, and when the Navy called for volunteers for aeroplanes my name was easily first in. The knowledge of aeronautics it was thought I possessed accounted for my being among the four officers selected from over 300 applicants. The first choice to be the senior in charge of us was Ramsay, an excellent choice (many years later he commanded the Navy at the invasion of Normandy) but it was found he was married! So, Lieutenant Commander C. R. Sampson was appointed. He came to us from the Persian Gulf where he had been hunting pirates; doubtless his fierce pointed beard helped to inspire terror in the wrongdoer.
In mid-Victorian times the thwarted swain went lion hunting in Africa; Gregory’s modern version was to go up in one of those crazy things called aeroplanes. He was very superstitious: one day he was starting a flight, and had just left the ground, when he switched off and the aircraft came to rest at the far extremity of the aerodrome. He got out and strode over to our hut; I followed to enquire the trouble, he was looking worried with a very large whiskey and soda in his hand. He said ‘My God, I nearly left the ground and it is Friday!’
Longmore says he was selected because he was regarded as expendable and would leave no widow to claim a pension. I think his good looks and tactful bonhomie must have helped. Cockburn was flying instructor, unpaid of course. He had studied with Henri Farman in France; he took infinite care and none of us so much as broke a wire up to the time of taking our ‘tickets’, though afterwards we had some adventures. Horace Short, underpaid again, taught us theory. Horace was very serious over anything to do with flying but gave full rein to humour between whiles. His favourite quip was the invention of ridiculous words, some of which passed into the language and are now found in the dictionary, e.g. Blimp for a non-rigid airship. He pretended the words were invented by his son. An expression of Henri Farman is also in the dictionary: ‘joystick’. He told us an incident at his school; a pupil got out a machine on a Sunday and put his sweetie in the backseat. Seeing a joystick between her legs she instinctively pulled it towards her and stalled the machine.
We four – Lieutenant Commander C. R. Sampson, Lieutenant Gregory, Lieutenant A. M. Longmore, and myself, Lieutenant E. L. Gerrard, RM, assembled at Eastchurch, Isle of Sheppey, in January 1911 to start the difficult process of getting the Navy into the air. The Admiralty was very disinclined to start, but their hand was forced by Frank McLean who gave a gift of two Short aeroplanes and offered the aerodrome as well. For some reason the gift was not accepted and their Lordships insisted on paying him one shilling a year rent! We were fortunate in finding a tin-roofed bungalow available, practically on the aerodrome. By now I was becoming accustomed to taking on jobs of which I was completely ignorant, so raised no demur when voted in charge of domestic arrangements. Two Marine batmen had been allotted us. I fell the men in, the two-badge man to the right, the one-badge man to the left. I said to the right-hand man,‘Can you cook?’ He said ‘yes’. I said, ‘There is the kitchen’ and, to the other, ‘You take charge of the rest of the house’. It turned out afterwards that the one-badge man was much the better cook, but he got his opportunity later when we taught the two-badge man to fly. Often, when the dinner hour approached, cook was a mere dot above the distant horizon. I fed them chiefly on mutton chops, though later got more ambitious. We were lunching a Royal party, the weather was very hot so I determined on consommé glacé. I designed and built an ice chest, and put the soup in it in plenty of time in ginger beer bottles. When the great moment arrived I began to pour it out, but nothing happened, it was frozen solid. I thawed it out and then found it was lukewarm. Once more into the ice chest! The party exhibited Royal tact during the long wait and great appreciation when, eventually, lunch started.
The first naval officers to qualify as pilots were granted their certificates by the Royal Aero Club in late April and early May 1911. Major Eugene L. Gerrard, Royal Marine Light Infantry (RMLI), was one of the pioneering four who were trained at Eastchurch. Other RM officers would follow his example over the next three years. By the time that the 500th Royal Aero Club Certificate was issued in May 1913, nine members of the Corps were qualified as pilots. Eight of these were officers, but one man – the third member of the Corps to learn to fly – did not hold a commission.
John Edmonds was born in Walworth, London, on 4 December 1881 and by the age of eighteen he was earning a living as a slater’s labourer. In 1912, at the age of thirty, he became the first non-commissioned pilot of the Royal Navy, the twentieth qualified naval pilot, and one of the earliest pioneers of manned flight. He achieved this singular distinction as a private in the RMLI. Edmonds enlisted on 29 June 1900, at the age of eighteen and a half. He followed the usual recruit training at Deal until February 1901 and for the next ten years had a typical career. His first draft was what must have been a pleasant three years (1902-05) in HMS Terror, the base ship on the island of Bermuda, for duty at the ‘Commissioner’s House’. His sea time was spent mainly in cruisers, including two years on the China Station in HMS Astraea and twenty-one months in the scout cruisers Attentive and Foresight. Throughout this time he remained a private RMLI, consistently assessed as ‘VG’ and being awarded two Good Conduct badges, with no time forfeited. His ‘crime sheets’ show a couple of minor offences: one charge of ‘Parading with his rifle in a filthy condition’ shortly after leaving Deal and a charge of ‘Idling on the works’ one (probably sunny) afternoon in Bermuda. A run ashore in1908 resulted in one more serious charge: ‘did return from leave drunk and remained unfit for duty 9 hours’. In April 1911 he was drafted to HMS Wildfire, the shore base at Sheerness.
In September 1911, his career took a major change of direction. He was drafted to HMS Actaeon, also at Sheerness. Actaeon was the depot ship for torpedo training, but she was also the pay and administration base for the Naval Flying School, which had just been established on the Isle of Sheppey at Eastchurch, the cradle of Royal Navy aviation. John Edmonds was formally drafted into the Royal Naval Air Service from this date (he was, presumably, a volunteer for this exciting new trade), retaining his RMLI register number and rank of private. Strictly speaking, the RNAS did not yet exist. The Naval Flying School, Eastchurch, and the Air Battalion of the Royal Engineers were the aviation units in 1911. The Royal Flying Corps was formed on 13 April 1912 and absorbed these two units, but the staunchly independent Eastchurch organisation was soon known as the Naval Wing. On 1 July 1914 the Naval Wing became the Royal Naval Air Service under direct RN control.
From September 1911 until May 1913, Edmonds served at Eastchurch as a private, but was undoubtedly employed as an aircraft mechanic. His record of service gives no indication as to where a former slater’s labourer acquired any technical skills. Presumably, like most early aviation experience, it was gained on the job. The Commanding Officer at Eastchurch was Lieutenant Charles Rumney Samson RN, the first qualified naval pilot. It must have been under Samson’s patronage that John Edmonds was taught to fly. Why an RMLI private should have been the first man selected for this training is unclear, because the Eastchurch school had many more senior and more experienced technical ratings than Edmonds. One of Edmonds’ flying instructors was Captain Robert Gordon RM, who was noted as having flown with him in the ‘School biplane’ on 13 July at Eastchurch. Flight magazine recorded that on Friday 26 July John Edmonds went for his brevet, but was unable to land within the specified distance of the landing spot. He again tried on Saturday, but had to come down owing to engine trouble, which was apparently due to castor oil having found its way into the petrol feed through a leak in the tank. This was rectified, and on Monday he successfully accomplished the test.
In 1907 I emigrated to Montreal, Canada. I was twenty years of age, a trained and qualified architect, who had found that the old country did not want more architects. In Scotland I was offered £45 per annum. In Canada I found full scope, working ultimately on the University of Saskatchewan which was in the course of erection at Saskatoon. There I earned £250 per annum. The work, of course, ceased at the outbreak of the Great War.
I had made friends with fellow Scots who had gone out before me, colonials now, yet all of us bound by strong ties to the Mother Country. The threat of war had been already in the air and we all wanted ‘to do our bit’. My particular friend was keen to join the local Air Training Corps, and I was soon talked into taking an interest in flying. We found they were full up with recruits at Montreal and short of machines and instructors. At Toronto the situation was similar. Then we learned that the ‘flying ticket’, which was essential, could be gained at the Thomas School of Aviation at Ithaca, NY State, and I joined that private company which offered lessons and training on their ‘hydro-planes’. The advertised course proved to be a scandal; only one plane was in use, and it crashed the day I joined. As they seemed in no hurry to supply another, we students, all Canadians, combined, and with the Company, built one for ourselves! The Company supplied the engine and the float, and from drawings we made the wings which balanced the plane. We learned that the Company at that time was busy supplying planes for the British Army and Navy, and, after our arrival in Britain, we found that all those machines had been scrapped. They burned easily as they were made of thin wood.
There lay our plane on the water of Lake Cayuga. But our instructor would not go up in it, nor would he allow his pupils to face the risk. Such was his faith in the craft we had constructed that he made constant excuses as to the weather and the like, and the hydro-plane remained quietly at its moorings. Near the end of the course I asked permission to run it over the twenty miles length of the lake. On condition that I did not take it into the air, permission was granted. After taxiing around the lake for a bit, I thought I might venture a little more. I increased the rpm from 800 to the full 1,500, and, before I fully realised what had happened, I was airborne! In that early type of plane there was no cabin. One sat on a spar, with the water or the land visible under one’s feet, while the engine spluttered away at the back of one’s neck. It was an exhilarating experience and an alarming one to a tyro and, from the lack of knowledge and practice, I found difficulty in controlling the machine. How to return and land were real problems. But I managed, somehow, to get it safely back on the water, and taxied back to base, where a stern reprimand awaited me. They were quite right. I had disobeyed orders and broken my word, but I did want to fly! I got their certificate, which was essential before applying for a Probationary Commission in the Royal Naval Air Service. I still have it, dated 1915. The Company issuing it must have been French, for it is made out entirely in the French language. Why, I do not know.
We wanted to help Britain, yet we felt frustrated. So I wrote to the British Navy Officer in Ottawa, Lieutenant Commander Pinsent RN, who came to inspect the situation, and agreed that we had our grievances. He made it clear that three choices were before us.
1. To remain at Ithaca till the Company supplied another plane, and then to continue our training.
2. To join the Royal Navy in Canada and await developments.
3. To return to our bases, and await further instructions regarding a draft to Britain.
For me the first was impossible. I had no money left. There were no grants from any source, and the training had already cost me £200 – almost a year’s salary. We all chose the last option. Commander Pinsent worked nobly on our behalf; within a fortnight we had returned to our homes in Canada, and in due course were drafted to Britain for full instructions in flying. I have never met any of those friends again.
Lawford
Paignton
Devon
First Flight from the Deck of a Warship
On 5 May 1912, HMS Hibernia left Sheerness for Portland Harbour, Dorset. From the fore bridge to the bows had been erected a wooden structure designed to be a runway for the first attempt of an aeroplane to fly from the deck of a warship. A varied assortment of planes was carried on the quarterdeck. (Deperdussin was the make of at least one machine.)
The machine in which the attempt was to be made was a Short ‘pusher’ biplane and this was in readiness at the aft end of the ‘scenic railway’. Embarked from Eastchurch aerodrome we carried as passengers the brothers Short, Captain E. L. Gerrard, Royal Marines, and Lieutenant Charles Rumney Samson, Royal Navy. I remember being greatly impressed by the latter with his golden beard and brilliant blue eyes – he did not seem to consider that the attempt could be anything but successful. At a lamentably early hour on 5 May, I found my way on to the forecastle armed with a large box camera, which even at that date was old and which is even now in my possession.
The ship was steaming into a fairly stiff breeze and Portland Bill was in sight right ahead, though it was somewhat hazy. The attempt was timed for 6.00am and, after what seemed to be a long wait while the engine of the machine was being warmed up, mechanics were making a last minute examination to see that all was well. At last Lieutenant Samson was satisfied and climbed into the pilot’s seat, raced the engine a bit and then after a word he started his run. As will be seen from the photograph, the machine made a perfect take-off and left the slip-way about ten feet forward of the muzzles of our forward 12-inch guns.
He was soon lost to sight, but as soon as we entered harbour and secured to our buoy, he came alongside in a picket boat and shortly after8 o’clock he was sitting amongst us in the wardroom making a hearty breakfast. He treated the whole matter with complete unconcern, rather as if he had engaged in a rather foolhardy boyish escapade and had got away with it.
He made his second attempt a day or so later, but this time the ship was moored in Portland Harbour and it was a flat calm evening. He ran right off the end of the slip-way and the machine seemed about to fall into the water, but at the very last second it recovered and slowly gained height to soar away and land in a meadow on the outskirts of Weymouth where a temporary aerodrome had been established.
It is doubtful whether, even in those days, a similar attempt would meet with success – only a Samson could have pulled a machine up in that masterly fashion.
(Signed) A. Soresby-Gissel
Captain Murray Sueter, as he then was, had been Director of the Air Department at the Admiralty since July 1912 and Captain Godfrey Paine had served as Commandant of the Central Flying School since May 1912. These and other pioneer officers of the RNAS, who managed to crowd the work of several years into the months immediately preceding the war, had been appointed during Mr Churchill’s regime at the Admiralty. Much has been heard of the celerity which the Navy itself passed from peace to a war footing; well, the same applies to the air branch. The air stations, a string of which had been disposed around the coast, were quickly mobilised and very soon in a position to undertake their war work. Very fittingly, the first occasion on which the branch was first mentioned officially as having been represented in action was in connection with the Army in France. On 16 September 1914, Commander Samson, with a small armoured car force acting in support of a flight of aeroplanes, encountered a patrol of five uhlans near Doullens on the River Authie about seventeen miles north of Amiens. The force killed four of the uhlans and wounded and captured the fifth. They themselves suffered no casualties.
On 27 August 1914 an aeroplane squadron was sent to Ostend; at the time the town was occupied by the British Marines. The aeroplanes flew across via Dover and Calais. Later this aviation camp was moved to Dunkirk, which was destined to be the centre and headquarters of a vast amount of aerial activity over land and sea. The first business of Commander Samson was to establish advanced bases some distance inland and, with the help of the armoured cars, much valuable work was done in conjunction with the artillery and infantry. Out of these early experiences grew the RNAS Armoured Car Brigade, the doings of which in France, Gallipoli, Russia and many other theatres of war would make a long chapter in themselves. While the aeroplanes in France and Belgium were thus performing good service, the air stations along the eastern seaboard were supplying machines to keep their watch and ward off the coast. Another section was assisting in guarding the transport across the English Channel. An announcement by the Admiralty described briefly how this was done:
While the expeditionary force was being moved abroad a strong patrol to the eastwards of the Straits of Dover was undertaken by both airships and seaplanes of the RNAS. The airships remain steadily patrolling the sea between the French and English coast, sometimes for twelve hours on end. Whilst further to the east a steady patrol was maintained between Ostend and the English coast, it was impossible for the enemy to approach the streets without being seen for many miles. The naval airships were used more and more as the war proceeded but thanks to the skill and efficiency of their crews, only one is recorded unofficially as lost. This vessel left an east coast station on patrol duty on 21 April 1917 and failed to return. It was apparently set on fire and destroyed in the straits by an enemy plane.
On 18 September 1913 the seaplane depot ship HMS Hermes arrived in the River Tay. Meetings were held between Captain Vivian and Commander Scarlet with Dundee Harbour Board and agreement reached for a seven-year lease of eight acres of ground at Carolina Port for the establishment of a seaplane station. Tentsmuir Point south and Buddon Ness, north of the river’s mouth, with sandbanks in between, protected the estuary from North Sea gales.(Not always, the storm in 1879 blew down the first rail bridge, but generally the water is seldom as rough as the River Forth.) This, in part, was the reason for the station being moved from Port Lang, North Queensferry. The town was also the base for a submarine flotilla whose co-operation could be sought in training.
There was little further activity until early January 1914, when Short seaplane No.42 piloted by Major Gordon RMLI with Captain Barnaby RMLI landed by the West Sands, Saint Andrews, damaging a float in the process. Despite the attentions of a crowd of well wishers, mostly very young, the aircraft survived to be repaired, fitted with a wheeled undercarriage and flown to Montrose. Upper Dysart, close to that town, was the original home of No.2 Squadron RFC, the first air station in Scotland set up in 1913 and sited on a suitably windswept hillside above bleak Lunan Bay.
In early February the hangars were dismantled at Port Lang and transferred to be erected at Dundee. On the 9th, to the excitement of spectators, most of whom had never seen a flying machine, a spindly Borel monoplane appeared over the estuary, flew upriver, turned and landed downstream, nearly hitting a barge on the way. The machine, piloted by Major Gordon, OC of the new station, with Chief Air Mechanic Shaw as passenger had flown the coastal route from North Queensferry in under an hour.
Work now commenced under Gordon with Barnaby, Chief Air Mechanic Shaw, Leading Seamen Walker and Hamilton and nine air mechanics. A Maurice Farman arrived by rail and was left in its crate, the wheeled Short and Borel were flyable, and with the arrival of the rescue launch Mylesnie the establishment was complete.
Rough weather and the lack of a slipway prevented the use of the Borel, except for the odd occasion when it could be launched down an outfall sewer. Short 42 was flown from an unsafe sloping grassy area bounded by houses, assorted buildings, telegraph wires and the river. One landing was made under the wires, presumably unintentionally. Its forays ended temporarily when engine failure forced Gordon down near Leuchars village. The repair squad then made the journey by land and water to discover they could not repair the broken inlet valve, leaving the only useable aircraft stuck in Fife. This was unfortunately several years before the well-known Leuchars Air Station was established.
In early March, the station was officially opened, and most of the personnel promptly left to prepare a temporary base at Leven on the Forth, where, with the arrival of three new wireless-equipped Shorts they would participate in the 1914 fleet manoeuvres. The weather was unhelpful. On the 17th a gale sank the Mylensie in the fish dock. Hooked out, she was taken to Leven aboard the submarine depot ship HMS Vulcan. Work started on the slipway, but in mid-month it was washed away plank by plank by another gale. Even the football match against the cast of ‘Halloo Ragtime’ from a local theatre had to be cancelled due to torrential rain.
Few of us who learnt to fly during the early days of the 1914/1918 War fully appreciated that we were indulging in a dangerous bout with the elements. Although at that time it really wasn’t natural to fly at all, we budding airmen thought otherwise and blithely undertook risks which, even today when I think of them, send shivers rippling down my spine to tickle up my third lumbar vertebra which fractured during my last crash. As a Sub-Lieutenant, probationary, Royal Naval Air Service, I was taught the preliminaries of flight at the Grahame White Flying School, Hendon. Here our civilian instructors, Mr Marcus Manton and Mr Winter, took us aloft in Bristol Boxkites. Flying these machines of wood, wire and canvas was allowed only in practically still air conditions which usually ushered in the dawn, hence the necessity for waking up our instructors before the air got weaving, said awakenings being nobly borne by our tutors. They realised that we were an irresponsible but keen bunch of quirks (service nickname) and there was a war on.
Atmospheric conditions at the aerodrome were ascertained by holding aloft a silk handkerchief; if it remained limp or fairly so, we flew – if it flew, we didn’t! Piloting a Boxkite was a novel and exhilarating experience because one was neither on, nor in, the machine but sort ofin front of most of it except the elevator. One sat on a tiny wickerwork affair attached to a framework built out from the leading edge of the lower main plane – it seemed to be a long way out too – and from this airy perch, with legs outstretched, feet on an open-air rudder bar out front, firmly grasping the joystick to starboard and engine switch to port, we made our early attempts at flight, and actually flew!
When airborne there was absolutely nothing but lots of space and air, between one’s seat and the ground below; the view looking down between one’s outstretched legs was definitely bird’s-eye and the completely unrestricted ‘look around’ quite fascinating, as was also the discovery to most of us that the horizon was terribly important and always at one’s eye level. The instructor sat on a few wooden laths behind the pupil, slightly higher so that he could lean over and grasp the joystick – he could also reach the engine switch, but had no physical control whatever over the rudder bar moved by the pupil to instructions shouted into his ear above the din of an unsilenced engine’s exhaust.
Boxkites were equipped with one ‘instrument’, a drip-feed oil pulsator which one watched as closely as circumstances permitted – say, when flying level or straight ahead. If the oil was seen to be dripping regularly and at the correct rate of flow then one knew the engine was getting its quota of oil and should be OK, but if there were pauses in the visible oil supply then one nosed to earth immediately with engine switched off and landed as best one could.
The Gnome rotary engine ran at full pelt and one’s speed through the air as well as the niceties of landing were governed by a switch one flicked on or off, thereby blipping the engine for more or less momentum as required. If one paused too long between blips one ran the risk of losing the engine, so care had to be taken during this vital operation.
Stalling a Boxkite was dangerously easy and at the low heights we flew of 100 to 200 feet, a distinct hazard, as the space required in which to recover from a stall simply wasn’t there. The margin of error between stalling and flying speeds was so narrow that one could not truthfully term that margin a safety factor! Of this we quirks were blissfully unaware as we meandered around on the fringe of both safety limit and aerodrome feeling, as we were, on top of the world at that particular spot, even during those so early hours at dawn and in the softness of a tranquil evening the sheer delight of those ambling early flights was indescribable.
So calm was the air as we practised that when executing our ‘figures of eight’ and flying dead level we’d pass through our own backwash of disturbed air when crossing over at the centre of the eight from one loop to the other; we’d get mightily bumped whilst doing this and the old Boxkite would wobble and heave uncomfortably, but that was good flying.
To qualify for one’s Brevet or ‘Ticket’, one had to carry out quite a programme, consisting of take-offs, landings, left and right hand level circuits, a climb to a minimum height (or higher) with a barograph in a sealed box slung around one’s neck, execute good figure eights, and finally volplane or glide in with engine dead and hand held well away from the switch, then make a smooth landing and come to a standstill within thirty yards of official Royal Aero Club observers who were on the ground watching one’s flight. All this required pretty good judgement, yet the surprising thing was the large number who passed the tests with flying colours.
We were taught to fly and judge our speed by capital F: Feel and capital S: Sound, a sense of balance and the noise made by the air whistling through wires and around struts. Never, we were told, NEVER rely on instruments; a sensitive seat and delicately tuned ear were much more reliable! A total flying time of six hours and twenty-four minutes, of which one hour and six minutes were flown solo, accounted for my Brevet and during my tests I, being light and small, attained the terrific height of seven hundred and eighty feet – a Hendon Boxkite record which stood for some considerable time!
After Hendon came Eastbourne where there were more advanced types of aircraft to be flown before being posted to an active service station as a fully qualified operational pilot, with between twenty and thirty hours total flying to one’s credit. The advanced types consisted of Blériot monoplanes and Curtiss biplanes, but there was also a sprinkling of Boxkites, Maurice Farmans and Caudrons. It was here that I went through what I believe still is a truly unique experience. I am pretty certain that no pilot has ever purposely spun a Blériot and got safely away with it, nor have I heard of any unintentional spins followed by one-piece landings. In fact I am convinced of the impossibility of spinning a Blériot and coming out whole because the machine was so slow in responding to the controls. The reason for this was its reliance on warping the wings when manoeuvring – it lacked the more sensitive ailerons. Wing-warping was a cumbersome strong-arm job. I know it called for considerable effort from myself, a mere five-feet-one-inch of pilot, but even taller and heftier men with longer arms and in consequence greater powers of leverage have told me that flying Blériots was hard work. As for anyone being able to control a spinning nose dive, I am sure that no wing-warping aircraft of any make could be expected to obey instructions in such a circumstance!
There were three of us who, having passed a medical examination in Whitehall, presented ourselves at Hendon Aerodrome, where we were given a trade test and three arithmetic sums before being told to report at Victoria Station three days hence. One of us had been given the rank of Leading Mechanic and he was entrusted with a railway pass for all three of us (we other two were graded as Air Mechanic 1). We were told to make our own way to Sheerness Dockyard, which we duly did, without any escort or other authority. That was on 19 September 1914, long before the days of Crystal Palace as a recruiting depot. We were housed in the naval barracks in the dockyard where we found about thirty others who had similarly joined. We underwent drill for about six weeks, under Captain Owen, Sergeant Muggeridge and Corporal Rossiter, all of the RMLI. I shall never forget the kindness and help we received from the old salts, most of whom were lost in the North Sea a few weeks later when the cruisers HMS Aboukir, Hogue and Cressy were sunk.
One of my early memories is being measured up for my uniform, which was a No. 1 suit of fine blue serge, a No. 2 suit in rough serge and a working suit of white ducks as well, of course, as the usual underclothes. All of these were a free issue but each replacement after that had to be paid for by ourselves. Pay was 4/- [20p] a day for an AM 1, of which 1/- [5p] was deducted each week for ‘breakages’.
We slept in hammocks which were slung over the mess tables at night. Another early memory is being interviewed by the Master at Arms (the ‘jaunty’ or ‘crusher’, I cannot remember which) who asked whether I would drink my ration of rum or take the money, in lieu, which amounted to 14d [6p] for each two days.
After around six weeks a number of us were posted to the Central Flying School at Upavon in Wiltshire, then commanded by a Captain Paine RN, where we underwent instruction in rigging and in splicing under Lieutenant Breeze. In those days engineer officers, and indeed all specialist officers, did not have the executive curl on their rings. It was while at Upavon that I enjoyed my first flight, in a Henri Farman, piloted by Captain Hubbeard of the Royal Flying Corps. The flight sergeant there never forgave me for speaking directly to an officer but got his own back by detailing me to scrub the floor of the hangar and by making me spend hours in the open air of Salisbury Plain washing engine parts in petrol. In due course I was posted to No. 1 Squadron, which was being formed at Fort Grange near Gosport, from whence we went to Dover and then to France in February of 1915 to relieve Commander Samson and No. 2 Squadron, which moved on to Mudros in the Greek Islands. It was while in Fort Grange that I was hit by a propeller, whilst trying to swing it, on an Avro with a Gnome engine. I remember being visited in bed by Captain Courtney RMLI and told that I was the first person to have been hit by a propeller and live. Both Captain Courtney and my first CO, Longmore, became air chief marshals of the RAF later on.
I served in France until November of 1917and finished my service in South Devon on DH 9s when the war was over. My official number was 490 (until we were all bundled into the RAF, when 200000 was added on). I am very proud of that number which shows that I was one of the first 500!
My very very dear Dads,
So you’re home again at last. I bet you had a ripping time, eh? Now to tell you about my Solo trip, which I completed yesterday. I should have wired you both but arrived back too late.
The morning dawned calm but wet, miserably wet, so I had no idea Ballooning would take place, however I was informed I must be ready to do my Solo by 12.45. Hurrying over lunch I was on the spot to time. The Balloon was inflated by 1.20 so I boarded her and rose. (Still raining at 1.25.)
On rising to a height of 2,000 I was enveloped in a cloud, the earth being quite invisible. I continued joyfully for half an hour then valved down to 500 feet with the intention of taking observations – hoping to find out where I actually was and in what direction I was making. Unfortunately at 500 feet the clouds still obscured the earth, I hadn’t the slightest idea where I was but continued my course for another twenty minutes at the same altitude. Then thinking it wise to descend still lower lest I should be making seaward, I dropped to 300 feet and discovered I was just over an immense wood.
Bye the bye, it was still raining and the floor of the basket was slightly awash, result wet feet, don’t mistake me I said wet feet not cold feet; as a matter of fact I felt perfectly happy and calm. The rain made the balloon very heavy – though I made repeated attempts to rise by throwing out bags of ballast it was useless and I continued to descend right into the heart of the trees. It was very unfortunate and somewhat unpleasant being bumped from tree to tree, but I stuck it for some while in the hope of rising, but in the end decided to rip the Balloon hoping to fall between the trees (fir trees).
Instead when all the gas had left the envelope I hung (in the basket) suspended from the topmost branches. ‘Some game Eh?’ However, I still felt ‘very bright’, being absolutely unhurt which I consider Providential.
As there was no one about I threw my trail ropes over the side of the basket and climbed down fifty feet to Earth. A telegraph boy passed by at that moment and told me I was in Addington Park, three miles from Croydon. Fortunately within a half mile there was a Convalescent Depot with 100 soldiers in camp so this boy took a message from me to the Commanding Officer who at once sent eighty-five men to my assistance. ‘Some Squad’.
Well, to cut a long story short, between us we commenced to fell this giant tree and haul it down with the end of my trail rope which we had secured halfway up. It was rather a job but I was anxious that as little damage as possible should be done to the Balloon, and when we did eventually bring it down I found scarcely any damage had been done. I quite expected it to be torn so I felt very cheered.
The men worked awfully well and to cap the lot the CO lent me a lorry to take it to Croydon and then up by rail. The officers then took me to their quarters and treated me most royally. Have just written to thank them for all their kindness. They gave me a most succulent tea.
I wondered how the CO here would take it, but he was most awfully nice, assuring me the bad landing was really quite excusable owing to the miserable weather. So now I’m as happy as a lark, as fit as a fiddle, and as sound as a bell.
Hoping to see you Saturday
Ever your loving boy,
Leslie
On 30 July 1912 John Edmonds was granted Aviator’s Certificate No. 262, qualifying at Eastchurch on a Short Biplane. Flight magazine of 3 August 1912 records:
First Marine Private Gets Certificate. The first private to qualify for the Royal Aero Club certificate at the Naval Flying School at Eastchurch is a ‘soldier and sailor too’, Private J. Edmonds, of the Royal Marines. He has been serving under Commander Samson, and used one of the Short biplanes.
Edmonds qualified as a pilot two weeks before ‘the Father of the Royal Air Force’, then Major Hugh Montague Trenchard CB (Certificate No.270), who had been a difficult pupil and was considered a poor pilot.
During the next two years, Edmonds remained at Eastchurch, except for the period May to December 1913 when he embarked in the cruiser HMS Hermes. She was an old light cruiser which had been converted to carry seaplanes. Private Edmonds joined her on the day she re-commissioned after conversion. During the remaining months of 1913 a series of successful seaplane launching and recovery trials were held in her. Hermes became the embarked HQ of the RFC Naval Wing and in July 1913 she participated in the annual naval manoeuvres to demonstrate the new capability of aerial reconnaissance at sea.
Clearly, not all this period was embarked. The Aeroplane magazine of 13 November 1913 records:
At Eastchurch Naval Flying School much flying has been done, despite the weather … Thursday was a very busy day as most of the machines were out for tuition flying and cross-country trips. The pilots flying included: Capt Lushington, RMA; Capts Courtney and Barnby, RMLI; Lieuts Davis, Miley and Osmond, RN; Eng. Lt Briggs RN; Asst Paymaster Finch Noyes, RN; Sub Lieuts Rainey, Marix, Pierce, Young and Littleton, RNR; Petty Officer Andrews RN; Ldg Seaman Bateman, RN; and Private Edmunds [sic], RMLI.
It is interesting to note that among these early naval aviators, some of whom would go on to illustrious careers in flying in the First World War, Private Edmonds was the most senior by date of qualifying as a pilot.
On final disembarkation, just before Christmas 1913, Edmonds and the rest of the Eastchurch squadron were transferred to the books of HMS Pembroke III and the administrative HQ Naval Wing moved to Sheerness. Through 1914, Edmonds still appears in the ranks of active pilots at Eastchurch.
The Aeroplane of 30 April 1914, p.507 notes:
Their Majesties’ Aerial Escort. At Eastchurch [on Tuesday 21 April]
… Comdr. Samson, RN (BE No.50), Eng. Lieut Briggs, RN (Blériot No.39),
Lieut Osmond, RN (Caudron No.40), Lieut Littleton, RNR (Sopwith No.27),
Sub Lieut Peirse, RNR (Avro No.16), Sub Lieut Rainey, RNR (Short No.3) and Pte Edmunds [sic], RMLI (Short No.34), all flew to Dover and flew over the Royal Yacht at their Majesties’ departure for France. … On Thursday … Lieut Osmond, RN (Short No.65) … and Pte Edmunds [sic], RMLI (Short No.34) were scouting. … On Friday, Comdr Samson (Short No.10) … and Pte Edmunds (Short No.2) were out.
Flight of May 1914 reports from the ‘Royal Aero Club Eastchurch Flying Grounds’ the following activity for the last days of April:
Tuesday – The following made a fine flight to Dover, flying over the Royal yacht in harbour before leaving for France and returning [seven machines led by Cdr Samson and including] 34 Short, 50h.p., Private Edmonds, RMLI.
Wednesday – Fine morning, storm midday. … The following were scouting nearly all day [four machines including] Short No 34, 50h.p., Private Edmonds, RMLI.
Private Edmonds was similarly recorded as airborne in the Short No.34 on the next two days and also in the following 1914 editions of the magazines when ‘Quite a lot of scouting was done’ from Eastchurch. Edmonds, as usual, was the only private among a group of pilots who were commissioned officers.
On 1 July 1914, the day the RNAS was formed, Edmonds was advanced to Leading Mechanic. On 20 July every serviceable naval aircraft was launched to fly in formation over the Fleet Review at Spithead and Edmonds was surely one of the pilots. Two weeks later Britain declared war on Germany and it appears that Edmonds’ active flying career came to an end as the RNAS went to war. In late August Flight Commander Samson was ordered to take his Eastchurch (Mobile) Squadron over to the Continent, initially to support the RM Brigade at Ostend. In his book Fights and Flights, published in 1930, Samson commented on this operational deployment:
the aeroplane men … were about seventy in number … I may add that among my aeroplane men were five or six whom we had taught to fly at Eastchurch. The whole lot were a splendid set of fellows, and were in fact the finest body of men it was possible to command. Practically every one of them had been personally selected by me, in the early days of Naval aviation, out of volunteers from the Navy. Never once were we let down by our men, and both in France and the Dardanelles they worked like slaves … They were the very pick of the RNAS, which means that they were absolutely second to none. I must mention some of their names … [among a list of fourteen names – nine RN, five RM – is that of Leading Mechanic John Edmonds].
At Eastchurch we found an extraordinary mixture of personalities: Frank McLean was an astronomer and coal owner, with a conscientious objection to a bank balance. He thought it to the general benefit that money be kept circulating: aviation helped a lot in putting his theory into practice; of course astronomical expeditions to the South Seas helped, and he had other devices. Mr Cockburn was flying instructor; Lord Egerton acted as a test pilot until we were sufficiently advanced to do our own testing. We offered our necks for nothing (we had little else to offer) so the Government had a really cheap do. We four drew our pay of course; mine was five shillings a day. Lord Egerton was one of those very quiet people who often have unsuspected qualities. One day he was to test the machine from the top of the aerodrome; he proposed to take off uphill, at a row of trees only a few yards away. We protested that he ought to move further back. He said nothing but put her at the trees, which he just failed to clear. There was an almighty crash; he escaped with a shaking and a few bruises. He strolled back and told his men to bring up his own machine which he put on the same spot and again charged at the trees; this time he cleared them by inches. He showed less emotion over it than many a golfer who drove out of bounds and tees up to have another slash at it. On a previous occasion he had had a crash and a broken strut had been driven into his leg, a car was rushed up to drive into hospital, but he simply sent for his own car and drove himself to hospital, seven miles!
Egerton was quiet, but an even quieter one came to stay within for a few days, no less a person than Wilbur Wright. He listened intently to everything we (mere children in aviation) had to say, but scarcely ever spoke. There was a story told of him that when he visited Paris soon after making the first ever aeroplane flight, a banquet was given for him. After several speeches in which he was referred to as the Bird Man, he was called on but dissented; however they insisted; at last he got up and this was his entire speech: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, you call me the Bird Man. The only bird that talks is the parrot, and he’s a durned bad flyer!’
A very high proportion of our own pilots are of this quiet type, introverts I suppose you might call them. They liked doing things by themselves and not having to talk about them and impress people. The extrovert, who is a bit of an exhibitionist, wants a lot of people around to see ‘how wonderful’! You can distinguish the two types, while extremely young: the latter will show you everything; they are our actors, actresses, and politicians. The former include many thinkers, scientists, and explorers. They say his friends had great difficulty in persuading Newton to publish his work. I spent an evening with Shackleton, the polar explorer; he never spoke unless spoken to. I found it hard to believe when quiet little Ball became one of the notable VCs of the war. I flew down about 100 miles (a considerable distance for those days) to ask him about it. He said, ‘It’s quite simple, you dive and come up underneath him, put your gun like that, and fire.’ Simple for him perhaps!
The air had a great attraction for stammerers also, possibly because there would be long periods when they need not talk. We had about half a dozen of these on one course at the Central Flying School. One guest night, after a very good dinner, I arranged with a couple of others to herd them all together around the fire; the chorus of ers…ers… shs…shs… and chin waggings was a wonder to behold.
To return to Eastchurch; in addition to Short, who at first built under licence from Wright, and then on his own designs, there were three or four amateurs designing and building, mostly at weekends. Professor Huntington, the metallurgist, built a machine of wood and not, as you might expect, of metal. It was too heavy. It was only after several months of charging about the aerodrome that, at last, after hitting a hard bump, he was flung in the air. We were all immensely pleased. Another ‘charger’ was not so fortunate. When he hit the bump (it was an ancient cart track) the machine went base over apex and the would-be pilot was quietly ejected on his head. After the debris was removed, I saw his chauffeur diligently examining the ground where it had been. I walked out and asked him what he was looking for. He said, ‘Well sir, the governor usually has a lot of sovereigns in his trouser pockets!’ Ogilvy was building himself a smaller and faster Wright with a view to competing in the Gordon Bennett race to be held at Eastchurch in the summer of 1911. He put up a good show but was much outpaced by the French Nieuport, which won at 76mph. Ogilvy was also busy designing an instrument to help the pilot to maintain the most appropriate speed when climbing, gliding, etc. Up to then we had no instruments. His first air speed indicator consisted of a flat plate which, under air pressure, compressed a spring and moved a finger on the dial. He was brave enough to fit it to my machine and come with me for a trial. I put the machine through various evolutions while he noticed the readings; suddenly he grasped me by the shoulders and shouted in my ear ‘Good God, we’re stalled, push her nose down!’ We certainly were near stalling point, but that was intended to give his instrument a good testing.
The Naval Director of Compasses, Captain Creagh Osborne, was also very brave and took infinite pains to provide us with an adequate instrument. The ordinary naval compass was quite useless for our purpose. The vibration started the needle swinging; also it took a long time to steady after a quick turn. He soon overcame the vibration difficulty, but the other problem was less tractable. If he made it too ‘dead beat’ it ceased to be a compass. If he made it too lively one might, if there were no landmarks of steady on, chase the needle round and round and never get anywhere. Many times he arrived with a smile on his face and his little box under his arm saying ‘I think we’ve got it this time’. Eventually he produced an excellent instrument.
Clark-Hall, the Gunnery Officer at Sheerness, designed an excellent bomb-carrier for us and fitted of a bomb sight of sorts; he put us a long way ahead of the Germans in this respect. They carried their bombs in their laps and threw them overboard when they thought the appropriate moment had arrived. The first practicable wireless telegraphy set was designed by Basil Binyon, and the first interrupter machine-gun mounting by G. V. Fowler. None of these officers received any sort of recognition or reward, although after the war civilians were awarded hundreds of thousands of pounds for apparatus which had proved useful. The same applies to Shaw, a naval warrant officer attached to us, who designed and made the first dual control for flying instruction. His idea was rapidly copied all over the world.
This brings us back to our first arrival at Eastchurch. The two machines provided for us by Frank McLean were biplanes with plenty of wood and wire about them. The pilot sat on the leading edge of the lower plane with a sort of ladder sticking out into space which carried the rudder bar. The passenger sat close behind the pilot embracing him with his legs. Behind the passenger was the engine. When under instruction one had, of course, the back seat, and by leaning forward one could reach the control lever which worked the elevators and ailerons; the rudder bar one could see but not reach, so that the pupil never touched the rudder bar unless he was in the air by himself. The rudder is, of course, used to maintain lateral stability as well as steering. This led to serious trouble for my first pupil. I taught him all I could under the circumstances and then despatched him on his first solo. He made a couple of nice circuits, and quite a neat landing. I was beginning to think I was something of an instructor when suddenly he opened the engine and charged straight at where we were standing in front of the sheds. We scattered and he crashed into a shed, breaking his thigh and doing a lot of damage. I helped to set his thigh; it required an astonishing amount of force. By then I was convinced that, so far from being a star instructor, I was just a washout. However, when he was able to tell his story, my self-esteem recovered slightly. It appeared that, finding he was not precisely head-on to wind on touching down, he had pressed the right rudder bar harder and harder in the effort to turn to the left, helping with the engine when the rudder was ineffective. I asked him why he pressed the right rudder bar rather than the left, and he said he thought he was riding a bicycle.
Shaw’s dual control soon became available and that sort of difficulty was resolved. That, and one fatal accident, were the only mishaps which occurred with the large number of officers I taught. The pupil in the fatal case was really too old and set [in his ways] to learn to fly. Being very senior, I could not force him to wear a belt. Coming into land towards the sheds, he badly overshot the mark, put the nose down steeper and steeper and fell out. I had another elderly pupil who made the same error, but he was wearing a belt and managed to pull the nose up just before it was too late.
On 25th [March] Lieutenant Oliver flew the Borel to Leven. This was an uncomfortable flight, as the windscreen had been removed to give an increase of about 3mph.
Manoeuvres began on 1 April. The aircraft were trolleyed down the beach and launched into a choppy sea. For the next few days they co-operated with the torpedo boats HMS Nith and Ness, scouting the area of the Forth for submarines attempting to penetrate the estuary ahead of the ‘enemy’ force. Despite fog and wind a couple were spotted near the May island and Bass Rock. Manoeuvres then carried on without mishap, other than a submarine ramming the schooner Tartar on its way into dock. The personnel returned to Dundee, to temporary buildings, an uncompleted slipway, and, now the weather had improved, the luxury of two newly-arrived stoves to a hangar.
On 7 May, in glorious sunshine, Gordon landed his flimsy aircraft in Saint Andrew’s Bay amidst the bulk of the visiting battleships HMS Dreadnought, Agamemnon, Bellerophon and the light cruiser Blonde. He was invited to lunch on Dreadnought and introduced several of her officers to flying.
In fair weather a period of regular flying began. This was confined mostly to the coastal area between Montrose and the popular Saint Andrews. Activities included practice with submarines, observer training, photographic work and a steady effort to advertise aircraft and their use, which was not always entirely successful. An attempt to carry Commander Fane of the Vulcan to visit ships at sea was frustrated when Short 74 refused to leave the water; a not unusual occurrence in full view of the busy estuary. At least one flight concluded with a seaplane being towed back to harbour by a passing destroyer.
Gordon and Kilner flew Shorts 74 and 75 to Aberdeen to take part in the Naval and Military tattoo. Kilner hit some debris on landing; fortunately fishermen beached the seaplane before it sank. Accidents were few and minor in result, CPO Russell’s helmet being blown off his head and fortunately missing anything of value on the way back. Kilner’s engine caught fire on the way to Saint Andrews, luckily extinguishing itself during a rapid descent.
A remarkable number of flights, usually by Short 42, ended up at Saint Andrews. These flights proved to be so popular with summer visitors and townspeople alike that, to avoid the aircraft being damaged while parked, it was agreed that a temporary station be set up on the Bruce Embankment by the West Sands. This site had hangars for two aircraft and one seaplane, the town’s price of £5 for the preparation of the site being found acceptable. It was also convenient for machines from Montrose who found the lengths of hard golden sand an attraction.
On 23 May 1914 the German light cruiser Augsburg paid a courtesy visit to Dundee, providing an aerial photo opportunity as a change from taking the rail bridge and Wormit. On 10 July King George V and Queen Mary paid an official visit to the town. The naval and air bases got a visit of their own when Churchill arrived by pinnace from the Admiralty yacht Enchantress. He was met by the duty Sub Lieutenant and, after the customary formalities, proceeded to inspect the base, machinery and the site of the new slipway. The Royal visit delighted all except the suffragettes, who chucked something towards the Royal Party from a convenient roof. The art of dropping anything from a height was still rudimentary, and that, coupled with the ladies’ restrictive clothing, ensured no harm was done. A possible attempt to blow up Dudhope Castle at the same time was foiled when wind extinguished the candle at the end of the fuse.
There was a break in the holiday season when, in mid July, aircraft from the station took part in the Spithead Review, B Flight from Dundee being under the command of Squadron Commander Gordon. Aircraft were slow to return; by 28 July Short 42 was the only aircraft on the station. Gordon and Kilner made full use of it in the summer weather, visiting the Territorial Force Camp at Buddon Ness, participating in exercises, giving lifts and making their presence felt locally. Meanwhile the Norwegian pilot Lieutenant Gran was preparing to cross the North Sea from Cruden Bay near Aberdeen to Stavanger in Norway, in an 80hp Gnome-engined Bleriot monoplane.
This pleasant period was soon to end. By 30 July the submarines and Vulcan were at sea, armed and heading for Rosyth. Guards appeared on the rail bridge, telegrams came and went. When war started the station was put on a care and maintenance basis, but this situation did not last long after the sinking of ships off the Forth. Four Shorts arrived to carry out submarine patrols, mostly between Montrose and May Island on the Forth with sorties out to sea. Aircraft on hand at various times included Shorts, Wrights and probably Small America Flying Boats.
Zeppelins were a little beyond the reach of these machines. The nearest approach came one snowy night when L14 attempted to attack Edinburgh. Hunting the Forth for a target in this miserable weather the captain noticed that the town was on the wrong side of the estuary, realised he was over the Tay, and gave up the whole thing without disturbing anybody.
Samson contrived to remain in France and Belgium until February 1915, leading a mixed RNAS force of aircraft (now re-named No.3 Squadron RNAS) in the air and an innovative unit of armoured cars (the ‘Motor Bandits’) on the ground. Jointly planned and executed operations by the aircraft and armoured cars introduced a new, ground-breaking method of warfare. During this period Edmonds is recorded by Samson as being present as his ‘personal servant’, but he was clearly more than just a batman. A typical ‘stunt’ by this pioneering unit was recorded by Samson when, in October 1914, Flight Lieutenant Marix, RNAS, had been left with an armoured car party guarding an unserviceable aeroplane in hostile territory:
to a man of Marix’s disposition a long wait was rather boring, so he had set off to see if he could come across any uhlans who might still be lurking in the neighbourhood. He took with him eight men, including Private Edmunds [sic], my servant, and Gunner Allen, one of our old Eastchurch Marines, and went towards a château in which uhlans were reported to be. Placing his party so that they surrounded the building, he advanced towards it with Edmunds and Allen. Before he got within 200 yards of it more than twenty Germans dashed out, some mounted, others on foot. He opened fire and gave chase. … The chase resulted in the death of one German and the capture of the officer and one trooper, who surrendered. The officer was very angry when he saw the small numbers of the party who had defeated him.
Samson had a high opinion of certain men in his force. He later recalled an armoured car patrol in Belgium:
I took … the 3-pounder [gun] lorry and two armoured cars. [Lt] Warner acted as gunlayer to the 3-pounder, a job he kept throughout; he was a very fine shot, and would not let anybody else fire it. Armourer’s Mate Hughes and Gunner Platford were his chief assistants, and Private Edmunds always used to come as well. With this doughty four one felt confident to take on anything.
John Edmonds was advanced to Petty Officer Mechanic on 1 January 1915. The buccaneering exploits of 3 Squadron with the BEF came to an end when they returned to England in late February of that year and were ordered to deploy to the Dardanelles to support the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force in the Gallipoli campaign. The advance party under Samson’s command was established ashore on the island of Tenedos by 26 March. Bombing of Turkish positions began on 2 April. Edmonds remained with the RNAS on Tenedos and, later, Imbros until September 1916 when he returned to England. The next part of his service is recorded as being at RNAS Cranwell, a main training base, from September 1916 to December 1917, during which period he was advanced to Chief Petty Officer Mechanic 3rd Class on 30 April 1917.
On 31 March 1918 CPO Edmonds’ naval career ended when he was transferred to the Royal Air Force, which formed the next day. His entry in the RM Medal Roll shows that he was awarded the 1914 Star and Clasp (for his service, under enemy fire, with No.3 Squadron) and the British War and Victory Medals. The 1914 Star was issued to him on 24 July 1919 at 38th Training Squadron, Tadcaster, where he was serving with the RAF. His other two medals were issued to him personally and his Clasp was issued to him on 8 November 1921. It is probable that he had by this time left the RAF.
In 1930 Air Commodore Samson noted of his early ‘aeroplane men’ from Eastchurch:
I am glad to say that a large number of these men now hold His Majesty’s Commission as officers of the RAF; but not one ever received adequate advancement.
John Edmonds, the RMLI private who led the way in those early days of flying was not among those who were commissioned.
We four came under the Admiralty for all purposes but the nearby senior Naval officers took a great interest and encouraged us. Admiral Prince Louis of Battenberg often visited us and brought VIPs with him. Once he brought Prince Henry of Prussia and it fell to me to take the Princess into the air. While the machine was being prepared, we chatted and she asked me what I did if my passenger became seriously frightened. I said I would pretend there was something wrong with the machine and land as soon as possible. I ensconced her in the machine and we started off. The engine began spluttering and I landed at once. She expostulated with tears in her eyes that she was not a bit frightened. However, we were soon off again and all was well. I knew the Admiral, having served in his flagship in the Mediterranean. Captain Godfrey Paine visited us so often that we decided to make him one of us and taught him to fly. Although above the usual age for such capers he did very well. Later he became Commandant of the Central Flying School on its inception.
Being a simple-minded person, when planning my flying teaching I put first things first and last things last and fitted in the rest. This was the general method of teaching for about four years until Smyth-Barry reversed things and put last things first. When I heard of it I said ‘The chap’s mad’ but after a few seconds reflection I said ‘I withdraw that, the chap’s a genius’. It is easy to be wise after the event and, of course, everyone realises now that a pupil on one of his early flights might – perhaps by some error of his own – find himself in a difficulty to cope with which required an advanced knowledge. Smyth-Barry gave him this advanced knowledge before his first solo flight. He was one of my pupils at the CFS in 1913, perhaps the best I ever had. He had learned all I could teach him before the end of the course, and I allowed him to do pretty well as he liked. At that time I often went to Farnborough to take delivery of a new machine or to try out de Havilland’s latest design. He liked getting outside opinions on machines, both from a flying and a service point of view. I liked all his machines and had few criticisms to offer, although he would put the rudder bar at one’s extreme reach. Other designers did the same in spite of our protests; we nearly lost one of our star fighting pilots doing a simple roll over his own aerodrome. He was rather short in the leg and not very firmly strapped in. He slipped a little in his seat, lost contact with the bar and the machine got out of control. He managed to climb up and get at the rudder bar with his hand! His reputation as a stunt pilot was certainly deserved.
One day in 1913 I took over a new type of machine and started off to the Central Flying School at Upavon. I had no belt and felt rather unhappy from the start, but thought I would get used to the thing. The weather deteriorated and I was nearly thrown out several times, often I had to drop the control stick to pull myself back into the seat and then hastily grab the stick again I was bathed in sweat and fear when I landed and told my Flight Sergeant to put the machine in the darkest corner of the shed and allow no one to touch it. One day Smyth-Barry came along and asked to try it. I said ‘Certainly not!’ but he pleaded and I thought, ‘After all, he is as good a pilot as I am, and a second opinion would be valuable’. Knowing Smyth-Barry, I made him promise to fly the thing carefully in the exact manner I laid it down. Off he went and did all the things I had told him not to do. However, he landed safely and I merely looked at him with all the reproach I could muster. He said, ‘You know Major, I felt much safer flying that machine dangerously.’ Well, I had got my second opinion. We measured up and found the centre of gravity was too far aft and, to compensate for that, the tailplane had been chocked up until it was an even greater angle than the main planes. The machine was definitely dangerous.
I did one fine piece of flying by accident. The competitors in the round-Europe race in 1911 were due at Dover one fine sunny day so I thought I would hop down and see them arrive. The part-owner of the Dover aerodrome had bragged to me what a fine aerodrome it was. On arrival I saw that all was clear, so I need not bother much about the come down into a fine aerodrome. It was a day of marvellous visibility, I could see right into France. I switched off the engine, and started circling with the intention of touching down in the middle of the aerodrome, but too late I saw that this would not allow me enough room. The engine had gone beyond recall, I could only wriggle and twist to try and gain a few yards, she went swishing along the ground and finished up in the very corner of the aerodrome – so-called – with one wing just touching a tent rope and the other just touching the hedge. The officials and people came running up, clapping and shouting ‘Magnificent landing’. I hoped they would continue shouting, not because I deserved applause, but so that they would not hear my hammering heartbeats!
I got my own back on that blighted part-owner later, but that is another story. Never again did I bother about scenery when arriving at a strange aerodrome, but I was deceived once again by bad advice as to landing ground. I was taking Mr Winston Churchill from CFS Upavon to Portsmouth where he had official business as First Lord of the Admiralty. The position of the landing ground at Gosport was correctly described to me, but I was told that the grass was rather long and the ground rough near the edges. I would be quite all right in the middle. Well, I landed precisely in the middle, but did not see a sheer three-foot hole until I was practically in it. The undercarriage was wiped off. This was doubly ignominious for not only was Mr Churchill passenger but I had taught him to fly. For an instructor to wipe off the undercarriage in the presence of a pupil was one of those things simply not done.
The only other spot of bother I had was en route to the 1912 army manoeuvres in a Nieuport. I was to spend the night at Oxford, where there was an adequate landing ground. On arrival with a nearly empty petrol tank, I was horrified to see hundreds of people completely occupy the landing ground. I had not enough petrol go off elsewhere, so I made a couple of dummy landings close over their heads. Fortunately, a few intelligent people realised the situation and cleared a lane for me, and I touched down successfully. I asked what the dickens all those people were doing and was told that two pilots had been killed there the day before. They had heard I was due, and had come out to see me killed! Next morning I started out for the manoeuvres, but had got only to about 1,000 feet when a connecting rod broke. I had to select a field in a hurry, squeaked in nicely between a couple of trees, and found I was coming across the lands of ancient plough. There was nothing to be done about it; I must just wipe off my second undercarriage. It was Friday the 13th. I sent a wire to Gregory saying it might have been very serious were it not for the date!
We were fortunate in starting flying at Eastchurch at that particular period. Had we started much later they would have been so much less to discover, and much of the feeling of high endeavour would have been lost. On the other hand, had we began much earlier, the chances of survival would have been against us; chiefly because the catastrophic loss of lift on a curved plane when it reached a certain angle of incidence was not appreciated. I think we owe this knowledge to the Nieuports. A machine might be seen to be flying quite steadily and then suddenly dive to earth. If you asked what had happened you were told, ‘Une chute mortelle!’ This was the name given to the occurrence, and no other explanation was available.
I think it was the prospect of breakage and the chute mortelle which influenced the very early pilots to fly so low. Our instructor Cockburn, for example, had never been above 200 feet, until I took him to 400 feet when he was my passenger on my ‘passing out’ flight. He gave me a push and shouted ‘Much too high!’ We arrived as new brooms and immediately adopted the opposite view. Our argument was that the higher you go, the more time for recovery if something could happen. There was also the tactical aspect; a reasonable height seemed called for. Engine failures were still numerous, ten to fifteen minutes was an average sort of flight. Of course, the knowledge that something was likely to happen every few minutes kept you all alive. As engines, and our knowledge of them, improved our flights got longer. I think that we could have captured all the records except speed, that is to say: Climb, Duration and Distance. We were busy on other things, however, and the Admiralty had prohibited participation in public contests. This was a wise decision, though disappointing to us at the time. For example, I was offered a ‘mount’ for the round Britain race of 1911, and would have accepted if permitted. I watched the start at Brooklands, and saw my mount dive into the ground before it was clear of the aerodrome. A brilliant young naval officer lost his life flying a similar machine when flying privately.
I was very proud of my pupils at the CFS. And when Henri Farman came to England, I asked him to come and see them. They did their stuff, and I asked him what he thought of them as compared with the old-time pilots. He said, ‘They are very skilful and I congratulate you, but they have not the sense of apprehension of the old pilots.’ That makes you think! On consideration, I think this sense is inborn, though of course it can be developed. A person lacking a sense of danger in the air (and on the road) is the more dangerous in that this lack may be concealed beneath a high degree of skill and judgement. When I asked Henri Farman whether he would like to try one of our machines, he picked one out and started off. Soon he disappeared into one of the numerous folds on Salisbury Plain. I was beginning to feel anxious, when he suddenly appeared only to disappear again; this porpoise-like performance continued until he landed. His undercarriage wheels had never been more than one metre from the ground. He commented favourably on the maintenance of the machine. This was an aspect not often appreciated; all praise went to the pilot. I was always very fortunate in this respect: our engine mechanic (Chapman) took infinite pains. My RE Corporal at CFS loved his engines; it was positively emotion-raising to see him fondle a piston as he placed it with extreme care in the engine he had just overhauled. I think I forgot to mention that the seven-cylinder Gnome engine prepared by Chapman for my Endurance flight ran non-stop for four hours thirteen minutes. This simple flight obtained a lot of publicity as it was the first air record brought to England.