Park

1918

It was unusual for a man to command a squadron in which he had served as a junior pilot and unusual for a man to serve all his time in France, as Park did, with a single squadron. Forty-Eight Squadron had only three wartime commanders: A.V. Bettington (7 March to August 1917), H.S. Shield (18 August 1917 to April 1918) and Park from 10 April 1918 onwards. In those twenty months it was credited with 148 aircraft destroyed, 150 driven down out of control and 103 driven down. Its pilots and observers thus enjoyed, or at least claimed, some kind of success on 401 occasions: an average of two every three days. Thirty-seven medals were awarded to members of the squadron, nearly two a month. Three went to Park for his actions in the summer and autumn of 1917.

He had proved himself a brave, skilful pilot and an able flight commander. Now, with his first independent command, he came to a turning-point in his career. It was a clear opportunity to make or break his reputation, especially since at the moment of his taking command, the squadron (and, it seemed, the entire British Army) was in imminent danger of being overwhelmed by a fierce German offensive. When that offensive began on 21 March 1918, 48 Squadron was forced to retreat over thirty miles westward, from Flez to Bertangles (north of Amiens) and then a further fifteen miles north-west to Conteville. There the retreat ended and after ten days, when the new front line stabilized east of Amiens, the squadron returned to Bertangles. The worst of the crisis was over by 10 April, when Park assumed command, although that was not immediately obvious.

The daily routine, Park remembered, was to make continuous reconnaissance of back areas, attack ground targets with bombs and machine-guns and knock down low-flying enemy aircraft which had been strafing Allied troops. Although the weather was generally bad, the squadron worked hard and kept Army Headquarters thoroughly informed about movements in the German rear. Casualties had been heavy since 21 March and the counter-offensive began, Park wrote, with not a single pilot other than himself who had had the benefit of fighting on the coast in the summer and autumn of 1917.

As for his personal contribution to all this work, squadron commanders were only to fly over the lines by permission of their wing commanders, and that permission was granted sparingly. Consequently, he was not in the air on the morning of 21 April 1918 when the most celebrated German pilot of the war, Rittmeister Manfred Freiherr von Richthofen, crashed near Bertangles. As the legend of the Red Baron flourished in later years, Park would sometimes say that he was the only Allied airman or soldier on the Somme front who neither killed Richthofen nor saw him killed. It must have been dangerous up there, he would muse gravely, with all those aeroplanes milling about, not to mention 40,000 Australian soldiers firing away. Richthofen’s body was brought to Poulainville, adjoining Bertangles, and laid ‘in state’ in one of the hangars of 3 Squadron, Australian Flying Corps. Park was among those who went to look at the body and attended his funeral next day in the village cemetery. He asked everyone not on duty to attend. It was not an order, said Captain Frank Ransley, one of his flight commanders, but one always did as Park asked.1

According to Vivian Voss, a South African pilot serving with 48 Squadron in April 1918, ‘Major Field’ returned to England and was replaced by ‘Major Sparks’. Voss first published Flying Minnows in 1935, an account of his wartime experiences, changing many names – including his own – and it was not until 1977 that their identities were revealed. Field was Shield and Sparks was Park. The new commanding officer, wrote Voss, ‘took a more active part in the life of the squadron than Major Field had done, and on several occasions he led the patrols himself.’ Consequently, he ‘was soon voted a jolly good fellow by Officers and Ack Emmas [Air Mechanics] alike.’ Park had 200 officers and men under his command, to keep eighteen aircraft in service as well as numerous ground vehicles – lorries, trailers, motorcycles, a motorcar and a water-cart. Most of his men were tradesmen in civilian life, intelligent and skilled, easier to lead than drive. Many of them had served with the squadron since its arrival in France and would go on doing so until long after the Armistice. They were its backbone and their opinions on technical matters indispensable. Unlike the air crews, who rarely lasted more than a few months in any particular squadron before they were killed, injured, captured or simply posted away to fill gaps elsewhere, many of the ground personnel who greeted Major Park in April 1918 well remembered Second Lieutenant Park of the previous summer.

In fact, Park was responsible for far more than 200 men. A dozen soldiers were attached to the squadron for ground defence, considerable numbers of photographic staff were attached from time to time, there were medical personnel and intelligence officers, tent-erecting detachments, maintenance sections and construction parties – all formally under orders from aircraft depots or Air Construction Corps, but in practice under local control. Among these were the Chinese labourers. Many of them had tame sparrows, recalled John Pugh, an observer, which they kept in cages. The Chinese were in charge of the bath hut. The baths, made of tin, were just long enough to squat in and the Chinese would fill them with boiling water and watch the airmen’s antics through the hut windows, laughing loudly and chattering to each other. But they were terrified by bombing or shelling and for a while after a nearby explosion would only work if the interpreter stood over them with a revolver in his hand.

Park redesigned the squadron’s Reconnaissance Report Form to permit information to be recorded and read more easily. The new form had provision for time, height, visibility, course taken, movement observed (railways and roads), enemy aircraft, general remarks and the observer’s name and signature. A typical report – of a reconnaissance by five aircraft, signed by the senior observer – contained detailed information about road and rail movements, rolling stock (recording the number of trucks), locomotives with or without steam up, hospitals, aircraft up or on the ground, anti-aircraft fire (location, intensity) and fires seen. All this at various times of the day and as seen from a variety of heights. Second Lieutenant J.W. Whitmarsh provided a good example of the squadron’s alertness on 5 June when he reported that he had seen fake stationary trains at Chaulnes and Nesle using smoke-bombs to simulate steam up.

On 22 May, five certain victories in air combat were claimed, the most since Park had assumed command. He himself was leading a patrol of ten Bristols that evening, with Second Lieutenant G.J. Maynard as his observer, when he caught sight of thirteen triplanes and Pfalz scouts approaching overhead from the north. Firing a red light to alert his patrol, he climbed to meet the enemy formation. It swerved away to the east, allowing the Bristols to reach the same altitude. A Pfalz scout attacked from the front, but both Park and Maynard managed to reply: ‘he gave way, turned across my sights and tried to dive away,’ wrote Park later. ‘I kept him in my sights and continued firing until the enemy aircraft fell into a side-slip, stalled, still straight in front of me, and fell into a very slow spin.’ As often happened in the hurly-burly of combat, Park had no opportunity to follow the Pfalz down and make certain of it.

Park gained his last aerial victories on 25 June, neatly picking off two Rumpler two-seaters within the space of a few minutes. It was a brilliantly successful patrol for him, but celebration was muted by the fact that in only four days (25-28 June) ten of his airmen went missing and two others were wounded. During the long summer evenings, he often flew alone to observe the tactics employed by both sides. German tactics, he thought, were better than they had been in 1917 – high and low formations cooperated effectively and rarely left reconnaissance machines unprotected – whereas cooperation between British formations was poor. Two or even three squadrons frequently patrolled a line parallel to an equivalent number of enemy aircraft, but the squadrons hesitated to attack, presumably because each leader was uncertain whether the others would follow. British pilots in 1918 were better trained than they had been in 1917, but were not, in Park’s opinion, ‘as good a type’: he had occasion to get rid of several pilots and observers who were too lazy to learn from their experienced ground crews how to get maximum performance from their aircraft, weapons or cameras and were too easily discouraged even by poor weather, let alone by enemy fighters and anti-aircraft fire. Those who had transferred from army units at the front were the best, although they needed special training – in formation and high flying, aerial firing, map reading, photography and aircraft recognition – before they could pull their weight. To help teach aircraft recognition, Park had a set of scale-models made of the most common British, French and German types.

John Pugh, an observer, who joined the squadron in July, recalled that Park expected a very high standard of performance and appearance from everyone under his command. On one occasion, all air crew were summoned to a hangar where Park pointed out how fortunate they were to be flying Bristols and that if they did not wish to continue doing so, this could be swiftly arranged. He was not, however, a hard or unreasonable man. On the contrary, everyone respected him for his strictness, tempered as it was by kindness. Pugh ‘had the honour’ (as he put it) to be chosen by Park as his observer on a special mission to attack some enemy observation balloons. They approached at low level while the rest of the formation flew high above. The Bristols were to dive and join the attack on Park’s signal. Unfortunately, they failed to see it the first time and when he signalled again, the balloons were already being pulled down. Park’s response was typical. When the patrol returned to base, he commented calmly and briefly on the need to stay awake while in the air and ordered every machine refuelled and sent off immediately on an offensive patrol. In 1981 Pugh still had a photograph of Park taken in 1919 and had always kept an eye on his career.2

An American pilot called Sydney Whipple arrived at Bertangles on 7 August 1918 to join 48 Squadron after an exhausting journey along roads crammed with troops, horses, guns and supply waggons. He found an atmosphere of intense excitement in the mess. That night Park called everyone together ‘for a little talk’. A major offensive – the Battle of Amiens – was to begin at dawn, he said. The squadron would be in the thick of it and he went on to explain what was expected of them. Whipple’s most vivid memory of his arrival at Bertangles, however, was the sight of tanks: field after field was covered with them. Over 300 tanks rolled forward, concealed by a dense mist, at dawn on 8 August. There had been no preliminary bombardment and the offensive came as a complete surprise to the enemy. Whipple had nothing to do on the first day, but casualties were so heavy that he was employed every day from then on.

In 1936, Jack Slessor (an officer who had an important influence on Park’s career during the Second World War) published an analysis of this battle. The Officer Commanding 48 Squadron, whom Slessor did not name, was ordered to reconnoitre the battle area at close intervals during the critical early days, but not enough aircraft were employed nor were enough reports obtained from a distance about German movements into that area. Although Slessor’s strictures were aimed chiefly at the overall direction of air power available, he clearly implied that Park had failed to make the best use of his (admittedly meagre) resources. No other criticism, then or later, is recorded of 48 Squadron’s performance in the Battle of Amiens and Park, having put his case to Slessor, asked him to amend his criticism. Slessor refused and Park never forgave him.

During the first half of August, German night-bombers twice attacked the aerodrome at Bertangles without causing any damage. Then, on 24 August, a raid by five Gotha bombers put Park’s squadron out of action. The first Gotha flew low over the aerodrome in brilliant moonlight, dropping three bombs. Two landed in open country, but the third exploded in a hangar containing six Bristols, fully loaded with petrol, ammunition and bombs. The aircraft burst into flames, one after another, illuminating the entire station perfectly. A few minutes later, a second hangar was hit and also the living quarters and transport lines.

Between these two hangars stood one which Park had set aside as the station cinema and concert hall. A group of entertainers from other squadrons had come to put on a variety show and at least 200 men were packed into the middle hangar that evening, among them men from other squadrons based at Bertangles and some Australian troops. The first item on the programme, recalled Stanley Rycroft (then a new pilot in 48 Squadron) was Rachmaninov’s Prelude in C sharp Minor. At the third bar, there came a loud explosion, quickly followed by others. For a moment, everyone sat in shocked silence. John Pugh remembered the compère shouting: ‘Keep calm, there’s no need to worry.’ Then came more explosions, the hangar was plunged into darkness and a wild scramble to get clear began. Rycroft had been sitting at the front, near an exit. He followed some other officers out of the hangar, across an open field and into the trenches. The Gothas were clearly visible, circling overhead, and all around there were explosions and screams from wounded and terrified men. Pugh was one of the last to get clear and ran to a slit trench, scrambling over bodies in the dark. Other men milled about aimlessly, in a blind panic, and were caught by bombs falling clear of the buildings.

Park himself started to run as he emerged from the hangar – until he realized that he had work to do. He gathered a few men and helped to drag seven aircraft clear of the burning hangars. Nearly fifty-six years later, when Park was asked to recall the events of that fearful night, he thought he had been decorated for his efforts. In fact he was not, although his bravery certainly deserved official recognition. Vivian Voss had left the squadron by that time, but the next day he was given a graphic account of the raid by Captain Edward Griffith, one of Park’s flight commanders. Park behaved magnificently, wrote Voss: ‘He was badly cut about but he at once began organizing the rescue work. He himself carried several fellows out from the blazing huts.’

Three members of his squadron were decorated for their deeds that night. Private Kenneth Paterson received the Military Medal. For about fifteen minutes, ‘while chaos reigned’ (in the words of the citation), it was partly due to his coolness and disregard of danger that small parties were organized to remove machines from burning hangars. Second Lieutenant Frank Palmer (Park’s Equipment Officer) received the Distinguished Flying Cross for helping to carry several wounded men to safety, even though he had himself been blown over by the explosions and was badly shaken. He organized a party, under Sergeant George Ridler, to continue that work. After the Gothas had departed, someone pointed out six boxes of bombs smouldering behind a small hut next to the Armoury. Ridler, with the help of Paterson, removed the boxes and extinguished burning embers. He, too, received the Military Medal.

Among the wounded was a young Russian, Second Lieutenant A. Urinowski, an observer. He had been going to play the part of a girl later in the concert and was wearing a long dress and flaxen wig. Captain Griffith last saw him being carried away, screaming with pain from splinter wounds. Sydney Whipple, who had been with the squadron less than three weeks, was hit in the neck by shrapnel and taken to a hospital in Amiens where he was put into a bed opposite Urinowski. Whipple recovered, but Urinowski died. Another American, J.E. Boudwin of 84 Squadron, had a friend killed by his side. It was a terrible experience, he wrote later, ‘more terrible than any air battle.’

Sholto Douglas (then commanding officer of 84 Squadron and, like Slessor, destined to play a vital part in Park’s later career) was another who never forgot that night. From his seat in the front row, he was able to dive under the piano when the first bombs exploded and then to sprint for the greater safety of a nearby trench before the next load came down. Twenty-five years later, while dining near Tripoli in 1943, Douglas heard German bombers droning overhead, ‘apparently looking for a chink of light on which to lob some bombs’ and was reminded of that night at Bertangles when they had found such a light. In fact, the night of 24 August 1918 had been a clear moonlit night and the Germans were well aware of the location of the several squadrons at Bertangles.

The next morning, Park led a flight of five Bristols (now the full fighting strength of his squadron) fifty miles north to Boisdinghem, west of St Omer. First-class staff work not only saw his squadron promptly restored to full strength but also provided a replacement squadron at Bertangles so that, by flying strong patrols over the area normally covered by 48 Squadron, they could conceal the heavy blow suffered. When Park and his four companions landed, they found new Bristol Fighters waiting for them. Slessor later wrote that 48 Squadron was ‘taken out of the line for several weeks to refit’ after the raid. In fact, the squadron was at work again within two days, Park and his air crews having already made themselves familiar with their new locale. Nevertheless, the squadron had been badly hurt. The effect of the raid on everyone’s nerves was very marked, Park wrote, ‘and the month of September was full of uphill work.’

Nine Bristols had been destroyed and two badly damaged. Most of the heavy transport, five hangars, the squadron office and several huts were also destroyed. Fifteen pilots and observers were so badly wounded that they were lost to the squadron (although only two died) and four more were slightly injured. Many ground personnel were struck off strength at this time, but it is impossible to tell whether these were lost because of the raid or because of the move north, nor is it known how many men were killed or injured who did not belong to the squadron. Luckily, the bombs dropped were small and, as Charles Steel (one of the wounded pilots) later wrote, many casualties were saved because Park had had all huts and hangars sandbagged to a height of four feet from the ground. As for the five Gothas, four returned home safely, but the fifth was forced to land on the British side of the lines.3

Park now had an almost new squadron under his command. For example, during the five days 9 to 13 September, seventeen new air crew were posted in; he also received a new Armament Officer with eleven men, and a photographic section of thirty-three men was attached to the squadron. These imports restored his paper strength, but building up team spirit with so many new men was certainly ‘uphill work’.

Early in September he had lost Edward Griffith, his senior flight commander. Griffith was injured in a collision with another Bristol and invalided home to England. Park drove him in the squadron car to Boulogne, where they sat on the beach for a while, talking about the year that was passing. After the war, when Park returned to England, he asked Griffith to accompany him in an attempt to fly to Australia. Nothing came of this talk, however, and Griffith did not see Park again until the early thirties. He admired Park, although he thought him too serious: dry as a stick, in fact, and quite without a sense of humour. In Griffith’s opinion, Park was a tough commander, well respected and promptly obeyed, but too remote and stern to be popular.

Stanley Rycroft remembered Park’s strong personality, his impressive appearance and his insistence on things being done properly, even to formal greetings at the breakfast table. And yet he did not find him ‘remote and stern’. The officers’ lavatory at Boisdinghem, for example, was a small, wooden ‘two-seater’ – almost as intimate as the cockpit of a Bristol Fighter, and not the place to share with a formidable commanding officer. One morning, as Rycroft pushed open the door, he saw Park already enthroned. He turned to leave, but Park smiled and called him back: ‘No, no, Rycroft. Come in and make yourself at home.’

A few days later, on 28 September, an Australian pilot – Lieutenant Cowan – told Rycroft that Park wanted him and two other pilots to provide cover at dawn next day for some artillery spotters. Cowan asked Rycroft to accompany him and he agreed at once. Early next morning, anti-aircraft fire in the Lille-Ypres area was alarmingly accurate and the Bristols were badly buffeted. The wheels of Cowan’s machine struck Rycroft’s tail and he lost control. Rycroft’s observer, Henry Wood, scrambled out of the cockpit and after some terrifying moments when the slipstream almost whipped him away from the Bristol, managed to sprawl full-length along the fuselage, gripping the gun-mounting with both hands. In this way he brought the tail down and Rycroft was able to make a heavy landing. Both men were badly injured but Rycroft managed to write to Park from hospital, telling him of Wood’s bravery and quick thinking. Park at once forwarded the letter to Wing Headquarters and in 1919 Wood was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross and the Belgian Croix de Guerre. Wood wrote to Rycroft in October from a hospital in Surrey to say that he had just received a friendly letter from Park, who was pleased with Rycroft’s performance in getting the Bristol down safely and had so informed Wing Headquarters.

Another Allied offensive had begun on 28 September with a successful surprise attack along a broad front in the general direction of Ghent, in north-east Belgium. As in 1917, the intention was to clear the Belgian coast and turn the German flank. Park’s squadron advanced twenty miles eastward to St Marie Cappel near Poperinghe on 30 September and three weeks later a further twenty-five miles to Reckem, near Courtrai, where it remained until the Armistice. Despite persistent rain and low cloud, 48 Squadron was constantly employed on every available task – photo-reconnaissance and bombing escort as well as strafing railway traffic, road transport and German troops. Park often sent out three or four groups of three aircraft under the most experienced leaders and would himself follow alone. On several occasions he sighted enemy aircraft at low level and fired signals, but these were never spotted quickly enough. By November, however, his new patrol leaders were mastering their duties and the squadron’s offensive spirit was reviving.

John Pugh’s war ended prematurely on 4 November when he and his pilot, Lieutenant J.F. McNamara, were forced down and captured. Park wrote to Pugh’s mother on the 8th, describing the last mission of ‘your brave son’ who was now missing. He enclosed the address of McNamara’s mother in case Mrs Pugh wished to write to her. This detailed, handwritten letter indicates Park’s personal concern for members of his squadron. It was but one of six letters facing him after the combats on 4 November.

Park himself came close to becoming a casualty just before the Armistice. By this time, the constant strain of managing a considerable force of men and machines had practically exhausted his limited strength. Never a robust man, for all his efforts to keep fit, he was now so tired that – with hindsight – one can see that he was likely to kill himself in a simple accident. On 9 November, he chose to test a new Bristol. It was a routine task, one which he had no need to take upon himself. He made a careless take-off, allowing his right wing to strike telephone wires strung between two hangars. By some merciful combination of luck and skill, his career did not end there and then. He avoided the hangars and the buildings near them and managed to put the Bristol down on an open space. It was severely damaged and he was thoroughly shaken, but not otherwise injured. Two days later, the war was over.4

Park survived several forced landings. He was never badly hurt and must therefore have been skilful as well as lucky. At least twice he was hit over enemy lines, but managed to glide back to safety. On one occasion, artillery fire hit his radiator and he was saved only by having good men with him who kept enemy scouts away while he nursed his Bristol home. He came down near Dunkirk, where the fields were tiny and surrounded by deep dykes full of water: not a region favourable to forced landings. On another occasion, he was manoeuvring to attack some scouts when a ‘wily little Hun’ came at him head-on, firing into his radiator. In 1940 Park often remembered this frightening moment and encouraged his pilots to do the same: ‘squirt in the front window, quite painless.’

When pressed about his victories, Park thought he might have scored ‘about eleven or twelve’. Most reference books, admittedly repeating each other, credit him with twenty. He certainly did not personally shoot down so many German aircraft. In November 1918, an official report on his conduct of 48 Squadron credited him with nine personally destroyed and eleven sent down out of control. There is an Air Ministry list (dated 23 January 1920) which credits him with fourteen victories, a figure placing him fifty-ninth in a list of 130. Most of those ahead of him achieved their victories in single-seat scouts and Park had few opportunities for aerial combat in 1918. Pilot and observer in a two-seater obviously depended on each other: each fired as and when he could and it therefore seems unrealistic – as well as unfair – to attempt to separate their victories. The most one can say is that Bristol Fighters flown by Park certainly destroyed eleven enemy aircraft and damaged at least thirteen others to a greater or lesser degree.

Park thought the average German pilot in the First World War was more experienced than his British opponent. This was because German aircraft rarely came over the lines and therefore suffered fewer casualties. British losses were heavy and air crews were placed under constant strain. And yet they were better off, Park emphasized, than the soldiers. Off duty, airmen had many comforts and could relax completely. They lived in tents, much cleaner than the billets they were offered. Park had endured many verminous, damp or dusty billets in the artillery and was glad to have escaped them.

He was a horseman before he was a pilot and it is said that horsemen made the best pilots: both had to learn to handle sensitive, unpredictable beasts, calmly but firmly. Perhaps also it was necessary to love them. Shooting German horses disrupted the movement of guns, supply and transport waggons. It was a sensible thing to do but Park never did it. As a squadron commander, he never drew attention to specific orders to shoot horses. Other orders were carried out to the letter but this one was silently left to the decision of individual crews.

Park was also a soldier and an officer before he became an airman. He knew what it was to be in the ranks and had been taught what an officer should do. He had himself marched across the country he later flew over: he knew what it was like down there, he knew what information or help soldiers needed from him and he knew how to win the cooperation of his men in providing that information or help. After the First World War, officers at the RAF Staff College often remarked on the poor relations between officers and men in the Air Service during the later stages of the war. One wrote that in 1916 it was the custom for a pilot, no matter how tired, to visit his fitter or rigger before going to bed if work was being done on his aircraft during the night. This custom was weakening in 1917 and rare in 1918. Park, however, upheld it.

Lieutenant Stanley Walters, of 20 Squadron, was once ordered to deliver a Bristol Fighter to 48 Squadron. His commanding officer having urged him to show Park’s men how to handle that machine, Walters performed a spectacular display over Bertangles, but as he landed his engine cut. He sat there in a dead aircraft, in the middle of the aerodrome, waiting for help. None came and Walters began to seethe. Eventually, a very tall mechanic appeared, who grasped the Bristol’s wing tip and rocked the aircraft vigorously. ‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’ yelled Walters. ‘Ah, the thing is alive,’ replied the mechanic, who then walked round to the propeller, tapped it with a stick, and asked if it were not supposed to go round and round. Walters expressed his feelings forcefully until the mechanic came up to the cockpit and revealed his identity. It was, of course, Park himself. Very quietly, he reprimanded Walters, making him feel small and foolish. Walters served in the South African Air Force after the war and was posted to Egypt in 1942. There he met Park again, for the first time in twenty-four years, and yet Park knew him at once. ‘It was not such a bad exhibition of flying in a Bristol Fighter really,’ he said, smiling. ‘He was a great man’, Walters thought. ‘His direction of 11 Group during the Battle of Britain will go down in history as magnificent handling and judgment.’

By the end of 1918, Park had already shown, on the ground and in the air, clear evidence of the character, energy and skill which would one day justify such a tribute. Reflecting in 1922 on the lessons he had learned during the war, Park made four points. Firstly, in a future war, squadrons should be more widely dispersed on the ground, but even if they were, continuous bombing – night and day – should be necessary to put an aerodrome out of action. Secondly, ground-strafing would best be carried out by small, fast, agile scouts with two or more forward-firing guns. Thirdly, he believed that ‘close escorts are not as effective as offensive patrols over selected areas where opposition is likely to be encountered.’ And fourthly, Park believed that ‘against an enemy of equally high morale, we shall be forced to study tactics on the ground, instead of leaving decisions and methods to be devised on the spot.’ Clearly, Park already had a sound grasp of some important problems in military aviation. Given his forceful personality and powers of application, a successful career for him in the postwar RAF could have been predicted. Yet, in the event, he needed all his determination merely to stay in the service. For some years, reflections on the principles and employment of air power were luxuries which he could not afford.5