FINAL DAYS WITH FORTY
Forty Squadron lost another pilot on 23 September 1917, Second Lieutenant J L Barlow. John Lancashire Barlow was 19 and came from Wivenhoe, Essex. He had been on a show led by Mannock, taking off at 15.50 pm. There were five Nieuports in this Offensive Patrol: Mannock in B3541, McElroy in B3617, Barlow B1670, Harrison B3605 and Sergeant Herbert in B3512.
At 7,000 feet near Oppy, Herbert saw two enemy machines east of Oppy, waggled his wings then went down to engage one, firing 20 rounds at it as the German pilot pulled round and went east. He then went after another two-seater he spotted crossing the lines near Oppy and gave this 20 rounds too, from 300 yards, but saw no results. Mannock was close by, also firing at the first German at long range, but then the second one not only crossed the lines but must not have seen his Nieuport – probably concentrating on Herbert’s machine – and flew right across Mannock’s machine at the same height.
Lieutenant George McElroy flew Nieuports alongside Mannock in 1917 but he did not start scoring victories until the SE5 arrived.
Mannock opened fire at this machine, which he described as yellow and green, from 150 yards and it immediately started down and went into a spin whereupon the wings crumpled up. McElroy and Harrison confirmed seeing this too. Mannock later flew B3607, another type 23 which had a brief life with 60 Squadron in August but had been flown to 1 AD for some work. It was then sent to 40 Squadron – flown in by Mac Maclanachan – for the use of Brigadier General G S Shepherd, the officer commanding 1 Brigade RFC. However, an aircraft is an aircraft so it is not surprising that if short of machines, 40 used it too. After all, they serviced it. It was returned to 2 AD in October and like so many other Nieuports, wound up in Egypt.
A short time before the action on the 23rd, Maclanachan had taken off from Mazingarbe following a report of a German machine up over the lines. He saw the offending Albatros DV heading away east but Mac was then attacked by two more. He turned under these, pulled his gun down and fired up into one of them. As he did so the second German attacked but ‘Mac’ again dipped under this machine and fired again – the rest of the drum from 20 yards. This Albatros turned over and started down in a slow spin and, with the other two Germans now out of sight, he followed the spinning V-strutter down over Hénin-Liétard and then saw it in a field on the ground, one set of wings pointing skyward. It was the Scotsman’s sixth victory.
It is sometimes difficult to reconcile combat claims with losses – at least known losses. One would imagine that Mannock’s two-seater crew, having had their machine crumple up and fall to earth, would have had difficulty in surviving such an event. There were a few German two-seater crews killed this day, but not apparently in the area of Oppy. Of course, sometimes the records of where men fell and where they were buried, becomes confused, so that while a crew appear to have been brought down at A, then buried at B, the B becomes the place they fell. There appears to be no German records of lost aircraft that have survived. Even the few experts in German archival material confirm this, so that unless the personnel of these lost machines were either killed or badly injured, one can find very little about an aircraft lost where the pilot and or observer survived.
It does not help in reading British combat reports when a pilot writes that his opponent crashed, or crashed and burned. Any casualty really depends on the degree or severity of the crash. What a pilot sees from height as a crash, may in reality be little more than a rough landing. Even if the machine turns over and a wing is ripped off, this does not mean any of the occupants were more than shaken-up, with perhaps a few cuts and bruises. After all, any self-respecting fighter pilot likes to believe that his victims were smashed to pieces in a ‘crash’ but it is quite obvious that with some degree of control over a damaged aeroplane, some sort of ‘good’ landing often resulted in the inmates walking away with little more than a few lacerations. Thus in this case, while it certainly appears that Mannock’s two-seater crew would have received some sort of wound or injury, to tie it down to a specific unit or crew isn’t possible from the information at hand.
By the same token, the unsatisfactory ‘out of control’ claims are more often than not moral victories, and the vast majority of pilots on both sides did not spin uncontrolled into the ground. All that can be said is that the two-seater crew that did survive to fight another day, were at least thwarted in their assigned task, and the Jasta pilot similarly was out of the fight for the moment, and not interfering with Allied aircraft doing their work.
It was on this 23 September evening that the great Werner Voss, leader of Jasta 10 within von Richthofen’s JGI, was killed in one of the new Fokker Triplanes. His fight with SE5s of 60 Squadron and then the subsequent battle against five SE5s from 56 Squadron has gone down in history. That he put holes into, and damaged, in total, seven British fighters in this action, says much for his prowess and the nimbleness of the Triplane in the hands of a master.
Two days later Mannock was up engaging more two-seaters but they were his last for the momentous year of 1917. Mannock, in B3607, led a patrol shortly after 10 am, in company with McElroy in B3617. A second pair, Harrison in B3606 and Tudhope in B3541, took off five minutes later. Several enemy machines were observed well to the east and low down early in the patrol. Mannock went down on one north of Armentières firing a drum of Lewis at close range and the two-seater dived east apparently damaged. Changing the drum he saw another two-seater over Béthune which he was unable to engage due to its height, but at least he saw it turn east and leave the area.
Lieutenant H S Wolff, 40 Squadron in an SE5A. Note Aldis gunsight.
Spotting yet another recce aircraft at 16,000 feet he attacked and fired a drum at point blank range from behind. The German’s propeller stopped and he began to glide east. It was some way over the lines, so Mannock, now low on ammunition, left the German crew and broke off the action. Neither appear to have been claimed by him and certainly no combat reports survive, if they were ever written out, so it shows that even firing at close range did not mean certain success, but at least the observing eyes of the German crews were put off their work.
Landing back at around 11.35 (McElroy had got back at 10.45), lunch was taken and then Mannock led off McElroy (B3561) and Tudhope (B3541) at 15.05 pm. Almost as soon as they were over the front line Mannock observed a two-seater Rumpler coming towards Lens from the north-east. He engaged it immediately and opened fire at 100 yards as the crew, now fully aware of the danger, turned eastwards. Mannock fired off a full drum and the Rumpler began to steepen its dive in the direction of Sallaumines. Pulling up to change drums, he then saw the German still going down, diving steeply. It seemed a certainty that the Rumpler would not pull out, and later its fall appears to have been confirmed by ‘C’ Artillery Battery near Liévin. Tudhope had also engaged another German machine and it too went down and away eastwards.
Mannock’s victims seem to have been a crew from FA224(A)w, Vizefeldwebel Karl Meckes and Leutnant Paul Friedrich Otto. Twenty-seven-year-old Meckes was badly injured and died two days later, being buried in Lambersort cemetery. Otto, from Güstrow, Mecklenburg, died instantly. The Germans reported their fall being at Gondecourt, so the wounded Meckes had struggled a short way north-east before crashing.
Another interesting pilot to join 40 Squadron, was Henry Samson Wolff, aged 18. He arrived on 23 September and would celebrate his 19th birthday in November. He was only around five foot tall so quickly gained a couple of nicknames: The ‘Mighty Atom’, and ‘Little Samson’. On 31 October he was in action, and in a letter to Norman Franks in 1972, recalled:
‘Saw two Huns east of Lens as soon as we crossed the lines. We then proceeded north and saw one solitary Hun two-seater and dived to attack, when twelve Albatros scouts came for us. A fight apparently ensued while I was attacking the two-seater. Maclanachan was leading the patrol with another pilot. Before we took-off Mac had called me to one side and said that whatever happens I was to stick close to him. Now, concentrating on the two-seater I was fired on by the Albatri and did not realise I was in a real “party scrap”. I saw the Hun two-seater go down out of control then joined up with Mac, who was never far away from me, and then we made for base.
‘When I landed I found I had several shots through my top plane but a few inches from my reserve petrol tank and realised my narrow escape. Mac came up to me and asked what I thought of the scrap. I asked, what scrap? Only then did he point to the holes in my wings. Later on in the Mess, Mick Mannock accused Mac of being a “murderer” for leading such a young one on to a decoy, which as such had stood out a mile. This of course was said in a joke as he and Mac were great pals.
Hans Waldhausen’s Albatros that Tudhope forced down on 27 September 1917.
‘With regard to Maclanachan, he was quite an outstanding pilot and full of “guts”. He was a very great friend of Mick Mannock and they often went out on patrols together. Like Mannock and McElroy, Mac was a born fighter. Another chap I recall was Lieutenant W Harrison, affectionately known as “Harry”. A tall angular fellow who had the reputation of not being able to formate and was always seen in the air just that long bit away from the Flight formation, either higher or lower or away at one side.’
John Tudhope shared a famous victory on the 27th, thereby gaining his second success. He shared it, not with another 40 Squadron pilot, but with a RNAS one, Flight Commander C D Booker DSC of 8 Naval Squadron, flying a Sopwith Camel. What made it famous was that the pilot was forced down inside British lines, where he was captured, and the man had had some recent and rapid, spectacular success.
Oberleutnant Hans Waldhausen was a 25-year-old former artillery officer, from Mainz/Rhein. An army cadet since 1911 he had served with the 1st and 4th Guards Field Artillery Regiments, and then with the 76th Baden Field Artillery but had been wounded in the early weeks of the war. In 1915 he transferred to aviation, becoming an observer with FA53 and a year later trained to become a pilot. Flying with a Bavarian unit, FA76, he volunteered for single-seaters, and following further instruction, was posted to Jasta 37 on 26 July 1917.
Lieutenant John Tudhope MC, another friend in 40 Squadron in 1917.
He learnt his trade as a fighter pilot slowly, not scoring any successes in aerial combat until he shot down a British Sopwith 1½ Strutter on 19 September, and a Martinsyde G100, which was not confirmed. He was more successful over another Martinsyde on the 24th and on the 25th flamed a balloon near Béthune. Thus on the afternoon of 27 September, with just three victories to his name, he attacked and destroyed a balloon south-west of Roulette at 17.05, then an RE8 two-seater five minutes later, while at 18.15 he attacked and shot down another balloon at Neuville St.Vaast.
It was then that his short run of luck spectacularly ran out. Charles Booker was returning from a patrol along with two of his pilots, and observed the German Albatros east of Lens. Before he could close to engage, the German pilot had darted across the trenches and flamed the balloon, but by then Booker had cut him off and attacked. Almost at the same time, Tudhope, having been sent aloft from Mazingarbe, made his attack too. Badly hit by both attacks, Waldhausen had no choice but to put down his crippled Albatros as quickly as possible, which he did near Souchez, the area covered by the British 5th Army. However, the German had managed a quick burst into Tudhope’s approaching Nieuport, forcing him to make a descent too, finishing up in a shell hole and turning over. One could say that this was victory number four for the German, his seventh in total.
It was Booker’s first victory in a Camel, and his 23rd overall. Most of his earlier claims had been whilst piloting a Sopwith Triplane. He would go on to achieve 29 victories before his own death in action in August 1918, whilst commanding 201 Squadron RAF.
The downed Albatros DV, serial number 2284/17, was given the British serial G.75. Its varnished ply-wood fuselage gave it – and all other Albatros Scouts – a yellowish colouring and on its fuselage sides, apart from the German cross, it carried a star and crescent motif. Waldhausen had been wounded in the head and one wrist, and had also suffered facial bruising upon crash-landing. History appears to accord him the title of ‘The Eagle of Lens’ but exactly when is unclear. He was hardly a well-known predator within his area of operations, and all his victories covered a period of just over one week! Nevertheless, he survived to study law and become a judge. He served in this capacity during WW2 with the German Luftwaffe, and died in 1976.
Maclanachan had written up the whole episode, published in 1936 as part of his article on 40’s time at Mazingarbe. It makes interesting reading, not just because of Mick Mannock’s very different part in the affair, but because, like most stories, there is far more to it than just the plain facts. Mac wrote:
‘During tea [one day] [Mick] paused in the middle of an argument on the rival merits of French and British diplomacy. “Look here, young Mac, that one this afternoon pulls you level with me this month. I can’t darned well have that – shall have to look to my laurels!”
‘In my mind there was no question of any competition with Mick. This propensity of his for establishing friendly rivalries, unspoilt by any tinge of jealousy, always amused me. When he could manage it he would even play Tudhope and myself against each other, purely with the object of livening things up and of getting the best out of both of us. Mick has won the title of King of Air Fighters (vide the book of that name by Squadron Leader Ira Jones DSO MC DFC MM) but no one had less desire to be considered as the leader, the commanding officer, or the “King” than Mick. His only objective was victory for the Flight, the Squadron, and the Army. The “A” Flight pilots, NCOs and AMs knew it, and as Gilbert [F T Gilbert – see later] put it: “.. we were a happy lot.” His remarks to me that afternoon could have been translated “come on – let’s have a friendly game seeing which of us will kill most of our country’s enemies.”
‘Before we left the ground at Mazingarbe, Mick declared that the Flight’s total was going to be increased still further, “.. even though it’s got to be a balloon.” True enough; he succeeded in cutting another notch in our totem pole by sending one of the enemy down to destruction in the lines just east of Oppy [the two-seater on 23 September]. Unless there was something particularly interesting about them, we never discussed our scraps, so I never heard the details of this one.
‘The next day we held one of our Flight discussion meetings at which Mick insisted on the necessity of pressing for victories. I remember him saying at the end, “We’ll teach them; they can’t darned well show their noses near the line.”
‘Almost as if in defiance of this dictum, one particularly daring German, flying an Albatros, succeeded in carrying out three or four successful raids on our side of the lines. We heard several reports, all of which credited him with having destroyed several of our balloons, and with shooting down three or four RE8s and one AW.
‘Mannock was furious, and for two days, he, Tud, or I patrolled frantically over the lines waiting to catch the German on his next venture. There was one feature about war flying on which most pilots agreed; once a pilot has been bitten by the balloon-strafing bug, he cannot resist further temptation. We knew by this fellow’s success that he would come over again, and we hoped to be there when he did. On the evening of the 26th September [actually the 25th] he shot down a balloon, and in the early morning [evening] of the 27th another gas-bag was sent to its flaming end, along with another RE8 [an hour before].
‘In the afternoon of that day all three of us were at Mazingarbe, two waiting while the other patrolled. There was no sign of the German, and at last Mick had a brain-wave, one of those inspirations that arise after some careful thinking. “That fellow won’t come over this afternoon. He’s going to come this evening when we should be at dinner – but we aren’t going to take dinner until after we’ve got him. We’ll sit here till dark.”
‘Mick then telephoned to one of the KB [Kite Balloon] sections to ascertain if that supposition were correct. Everyone of the raids was carried out at the orthodox British meal times, during which our activity usually slackened. Lone flyers were not likely to be in the air, and the official patrols took place at too great a height to be a danger to a low flying machine. The German was clever.
‘We held a debate on the tactics we should employ were we in the position of the German, and I ended the argument by saying that if we attempted to emulate the raider, and knew of the existence of a hostile landing ground so close to the trenches, I should have one of the forward observation posts keeping a close look-out for machines descending in our vicinity.
‘“That clinches it then,” Mick said, “we’ve got to let them see us returning to Bruay, no humbug about it. Then we can come back when it’s nearly dark and patrol above the balloons.” He telephoned to the KB sections, asking them if they would send the balloons up without any observers in the baskets. On the economics of war a balloon without an observer is cheap bait for an enemy of the Albatros pilot’s calibre.
‘After a refresher in the Mess, we returned to the aerodrome, arranging that Tud was to patrol behind the two balloons nearest the Scarpe [river], Mick was to take those between Souchez and Mazingarbe, and I was to guard the two between the landing ground and the La Bassée Canal.
‘While it was still daylight, I flew about half a mile to the west of my two balloons and two or three thousand feet above them. After half an hour of watchful patrolling I felt sick and my head commenced to throb badly. Everything seemed unreal and, thinking the twilight might be playing tricks with my eyesight, I commenced to fly between the two balloons and only a few hundred feet above them.
‘Suddenly the second balloon to the south of Mazingarbe went up in flames and, as the fiery fragments slowly wound their way towards the earth, I streaked for the balloon next in line. It was too dark to see far, but I found the balloon and circled over it waiting for the attacker. The section pulled their gas-bag down slowly, and, after ten minutes, my head throbbing worse than ever, I returned to Bruay, without having seen any sign of the Albatros. There I learnt that Tudhope had crashed the German among the crumpled ruins of Souchez.
‘Major Tilney, Tud, Wolff and I, drove out to the spot and found Mannock in command of the Albatros. It was a beautiful plywood model bearing both the black German iron cross and the Turkish crescent as national markings. The pilot was wounded and the Canadian Infantry, declaring that he had shot at the observer who jumped with his parachute, wanted to reward him for his chivalry.
‘Mannock, I heard, had saved the German, a bristly headed schoolmaster, from the gentle attentions of the indignant infantrymen. It transpired that Mick had had engine trouble, had landed at Mazingarbe, and, while the mechanics were attending to his machine, Tud had landed also, with his engine missing badly. As the latter was taxi-ing towards Mick’s machine, the balloon was set alight and Mannock yelled: “Look Tud, there you go, hell for leather, you’ll get him.” Or words to that effect.
‘Amidst spluttering and coughing, Tud’s machine struggled into the air, and within a minute he had shot the German down. There was great jubilation that night in the balloon section. Mick’s and Tudhope’s healths were drunk in the best of all beverages.
‘This episode illustrates quite clearly how much Mannock brought his quick Irish intelligence to bear on his methods. Not one of the rest of us would have taken the trouble to enquire as to when the raids took place, and the victory was due as much to Mick’s wit as it was to Tud’s shooting, courage and determination in taking off with a dud engine. Also, Mannock’s confidence in Tudhope’s ability to catch the German was such that he himself made no attempt to join in. This was typical of Mick and his enthusiasm over the conquest was even greater than Tud’s. It was a positive joy to him when one of us obtained a victory.
‘There were two features about this adventure, however, which may require a little explanation. First my headache was caused by a very unusual fault. The propeller was loose and, when my fitter examined it the next morning he found that each of the bolts holding the boss to the plate had almost burnt its way through the wood. Had I been another ten minutes in the air the propeller would have pulled itself from the shaft. [So presumably the almost undetected shuddering had caused the headache.]
‘The second was concerning the observer in the balloon. Mannock had asked if the balloons could be left up without observers, but the commanders of the sections had evidently decided that there was no need for this precaution.
‘Many years after the War I was recounting this yarn to several friends without giving the details, which I thought would be of little interest to them, when one of my listeners offered to complete the story. Chuckling with mirth he told us that he was sitting in the basket of the balloon nearest Mazingarbe when he saw the one to the south of him descending to its flaming end. He immediately climbed on to the edge of his basket preparatory to jumping. Then, hearing the angry noise of an engine above him, he was about to let go when he caught sight of the red, white and blue circles of my Nieuport. He then related how, overcome with relief after these anxious moments, he tumbled headlong into the basket to lie there until the balloon was hauled down.’
One of 40’s senior ground crew was Frederick T Gilbert (known as ‘Bogey’), who wrote an article in the April 1935 edition of Popular Flying. He mentions this action involving Tudhope:
‘Mannock was out to win, but not to grab all the Huns for himself. On September 27th, 1917, a Sunday evening, Mannock and Tudhope had landed at Mazingarbe, Tudhope with a cylinder missing. Before it could be attended to, the telephone orderly ran out and shouted: “H.A. approaching!” Sure enough, there he was, after the kite balloon at Aix Noulette. Mannock said, “I’ll go to the line and cut him off. You try to get him, Tud.”
‘Well Tudhope with his dud engine went after the Hun. The Hun dived on the balloon, sent it down in flames. Not content, he zoomed up, and dived a second time, and machine-gunned the crew on the ground. This gave Tudhope time to get his height, and he got on the Hun’s tail, shot his switch away and wounded him. He landed at Souchez.
‘A Canadian, thinking that he had fired at the observer on the second dive, blacked the Hun’s eyes for him. He was a proper square-headed Prussian, a major just come back from the Turkish front. He had only been on the Western Front fourteen days, and he had got down seven of our machines and five balloons. The Hun’s machine was made of plywood and had the Turk’s crescent and star, and the German cross on the side. I heard that he was sent to G.H.Q. at St. Omer, but escaped and was recaptured at Aire.
‘I mention this to show that Mannock did not “hog” all the Huns. He encouraged his pilots, and trained them, and helped them to get victories.’
Fred Gilbert had a wealth of stories about 40 and Mannock. He recalled for Vernon Smyth in the 1950s the following incident:
‘Mannock was seated in the Mess one afternoon playing cards with another officer, when a stranger looked in at the door, clad in flying kit. “Come in, old man, and have a drink.” “I want your C.O.,” said the stranger in a cold and distant manner. “Never mind,” said Mick, “don’t be a bloody fool, come and have a drink.”
‘The stranger partially undid his flying regalia. It was General Longcroft. Mannock, quite unabashed, smashed his fist into his other palm – “Bang goes my squadron!” said Mick.’ [1]
As the April 1935 edition of Popular Flying came out, the same H S Wolff who had served in 40 Squadron, read the article and wrote to Mr Gilbert via the magazine. His letter dated 25 March 1935 reads:
I was extremely interested to read your article in the April issue about 40 Squadron. I went overseas with them in September 1917, returning to England in May 1918. Major Tilney was my first CO and Captain Keen my first Flight Commander. As you know, we had Nieuports in those days. Afterwards dear old Tud was my Flight Commander, then Major Dallas took command of the Squadron after poor old Tilney came down when his wings collapsed in the air.
Micky Mannock was there the whole time with me and left just before me to get his Squadron. He certainly was one of the finest airmen produced, and one of the stoutest fellows one could ever wish to meet. I recollect sitting in my Armstrong hut with him one night when we were both due to go on leave on the morrow together – he was in A Flight and I in C Flight, (I had a dawn patrol just before catching the tender for Boulogne and he [his Flight] did not have a patrol until the afternoon, and was, therefore, quite free to enjoy his leave).
He came to my hut and chatted to me about the shows we could see together in London, and remarked that it was a bit unpleasant having to patrol just before “blighty”. I naturally agreed with him and said, “Well, you’re lucky Mick, you miss yours.” “Oh,” he said, “I think I’ll try and snatch another Hun before I go.” The next morning he was up at dawn with us and practically followed me the whole way through the patrol almost like a guardian angel from beginning to end, sitting high up well in the rear. We missed him towards the end of the patrol, and when he landed, sure enough, to use his own words, he had found a nice fat one.
H S Wolff.
There had been another witness to the action against Waldhausen. Harry Marchant was one of the Canadian soldiers on the ground and saw the fight. He later wrote of the event, from an address at Guestling, near Hastings, Sussex:
‘I happened to be one of the Canadians at Souchez when the German was brought down, and what excitement it caused. That he deliberately shot at the observer [in the balloon] was correct enough, because we saw the tracers, and that caused the hostility. I don’t think any of us knew that it was Mannock that helped him away out of trouble. [The story] was so real and well written that I lived it all over again the evening I read it, and was there in the ruins of Souchez where he crashed.’
It is appropriate to mention here another soldier who wrote to Vernon Smyth during his research in the 1950s about Mannock. Myles Waller, then living in Boston, Lincolnshire, and in 1917 serving with the 28th London Regiment, The Artist’s Rifles, often saw Mick Mannock above them in the sky, and on several occasions actually came up to the front line on visits. He remembered him as: ‘… rather tall, somewhat untidy and most unassuming in his ways [and] had a quiet but genuine sense of humour.’
Mannock has never been described as a poet, but during research, the following poem was found. Due to the date Mannock signed it, the ditty must have followed the downing of Waldhausen.
There was a little Hun
Who ventured o’er the lines,
(a risky thing to do
In these riskiest of times).
Said the airman on his tail,
In a voice so sweet and calm,
‘Another thousand revs. wouldn’t
do you any harm.’
E Mannock
R.F.C.
Octr. 1917.
Early in October 1917 Mick took some well-earned leave, only his second since arriving in France in April. This month, on the 18th, also saw the announcement of a Bar to Mannock’s Military Cross. The famous Battle of Cambrai commenced on 20 November while he was still back in England, and then the Squadron finally changed its equipment from the Nieuport Scout to the SE5a fighters in December. The SE5 was not new to France. Indeed, 56 Squadron had brought out the first of this type way back in April, at the time of Mannock’s debut to the front. He would fly and fight with the SE5a for the rest of his combat career. He did not get off to a good start, for Mannock damaged SE5 B4884 on 23 November in a forced landing at Dainville following engine trouble.
Mannock kept up a regular correspondence with his family, and one letter that has survived is dated 21 November, to his sister Jess:
40 Sq.
R.F.C.
B.E.F.
21/11/17
Dear Jess,
Greetings. Hope all is well at Birmingham. Am still safe, but cannot tell how long I shall remain lucky. Plenty of work for the airmen and plenty of casualties.
Am doing special air work by myself now. A big feather in my cap. Am expecting the D.S.O. soon, but may get a white cross instead. Who cares anyway.
It’s great fun out here chasing the Huns on the ground. The squadron has done some wonderful work, and has been specially congratulated by the G.O.C.
How’s Ted? Ask him to write me when he can.
I suppose you are still munitioning, or have you got ‘fed up’? We want shells.
Hope Mum and Norah and the kiddies are going strong.
Cheerio,
Ed.
(PS) Have got 16 Huns down up to date.
Obviously Jess was, like many women at the time, making munitions in the factories producing guns, shells and bullets. Times were certainly changing in wartime Britain, women becoming more independent and taking on men’s work with so few males being available at home.
Of interest is him telling Jess about his lone sorties. These of course were flown from Mazingarbe, taking off rapidly whenever German machines were either seen, or reported by front line observers. On what he based his assumption of a DSO is unclear. Perhaps he was being humorous, especially when saying then that he might get instead, a ‘white cross’: i.e. a wooden cross on his grave.
His score is more or less that agreed by official figures as at this date. Arguably 15, but obviously his ‘own’ tally included one that is perhaps questioned today.
In the April 1935 edition of Popular Flying mentioned earlier about ‘40’, Mr F T Gilbert refers to several of the Squadron’s pilots, including one story about Mannock and McElroy:
‘Mannock came to Forty at Treizennes, about early April. I saw the right-hand bottom plane of his Nieuport break in two at 2,000 feet. Fortunately he did not attempt to turn, but glided over the hangars, fired his gun, and finished up in a ploughed field, unhurt. He gave his rigger some work, eighteen tail skids in succession, in bad landings.
‘Mannock was very highly strung. I saw him at our advance landing ground at Mazingarbe one day when a Hun had got on his tail, and McElroy, too. The Hun had shot part of the king-post away, which has the rudder and elevator connected. McElroy had some bullets smash one of the tubes in the fuselage at his side, and then go into the oil tank at the bottom. Poor Mac was soaked to the waist in caster oil. Mannock said, “Who the hell does he think he’s shooting at? Does he know I hold a first-class pilot’s ticket? I’ll give him shoot, trying to shoot my tail off!”’
There was a new pilot on the Squadron in December, Captain G H Lewis. Gwilym Lewis was a new flight commander, having already been in France with 32 Squadron in 1916. He would become an ace with 40 and win the DFC in 1918. Very much the gentlemen, one can imagine him being less boisterous than some of the other pilots. This is supported by a comment by C W Usher, who was in ‘Zulu’ Lloyd’s B Flight, who many years later said that Lewis was known as ‘Noisy’ Lewis: ‘… a charming but particularly silent individual.’ In 1976 Lewis wrote a book about his WW1 experiences (Wings over the Somme published by William Kimber & Co) that he formulated from his letters home. He mentions Mannock several times and knew him fairly well.
‘I think I told you that we have got an expert Hun-strafer here. Captain Mannock MC and bar; someone said he has got 17 Huns. Anyway he strafes about on his own, and seems to enjoy himself fairly well. I believe he will be going home soon. He is an excellent fellow.’
Despite the conversion to the new SE5 machines with all the potential it offered, Mannock did not get off to a great start. On 9 December he had written: ‘We chase the Huns out of the sky with our new bus. They won’t stand up to it at all. Rather rotten luck.’ However, he was less enthused a week later, writing: ‘Had a few (very few) scraps since last leave, but my guns have let me down badly. Had one a few days ago, and drove an Albatros down from 11,000 feet to 3,000 feet, then my guns jammed and he got away. Very annoying!’
The SE5 carried two guns. Like the Nieuport it had one drum-fed .303 Lewis gun on the top wing, set to fire over the whirling blades of the propeller, that just like the Nieuport, could be pulled down to both reload with a fresh drum, or to fire upwards into the undersides of an enemy. The other was a belt-fed .303 Vickers machine gun in front of the pilot, slightly offset to the left, firing through the blades of the propeller using a synchronising gear.
The SE5 was powered by a 200 h.p. Hispano-Suiza engine, which gave it a speed of around 118 mph at 10,000 feet – more in a dive. The type had been slow to arrive in numbers due to the fact that a newer hoped-for engine had proved unreliable, which kept some 400 airframes languishing in various stores and depots until early 1918. 56, 60 and 84 were the only three operational squadrons in France, but as the year of 1917 drew to a close, 40 and 41 re-equipped, followed by 68 and 24 by Christmas.
Regarding Christmas, there is another surviving letter from Mannock to his niece Marjorie. Although it is undated, it was obviously written on the run-up to the festive period:
Dear little Marjorie,
I have very great pleasure in acknowledging your kind letter dated the 25th of last month, and thank you very much for the thought which bid you to write.
I am afraid I have no news for you, which the censor would allow me to give, but I hope if I am still spared, to see you some time just after Xmas. I tried very hard to remain out here until the war ends, but the Authorities would not allow me to stay, as they said they thought I was in need of a rest in England.
I’m sorry you don’t take kindly to your school duties, but I feel sure that when you get older, you will be sorry, like I have been, that you did not take fuller advantages of learning. It is very nice to know more about a subject, than the person to whom you are talking. And again, those persons who cannot work with their brains, have to work much harder with their hands, and it is always nicer and cleaner, if not easier, to work with one’s brain.
I’m afraid I shall not be able to send you any Xmas presents from France as the only presents we ever get out here are bullets, shells, rain, and early morning jobs. Some of us are lucky enough to get a present in the shape of a wound when we are sent home to England to get better, the sooner to get sent out here again for further altercation.
Well, I must close now as it’s about 1-30 in the morning and there are lots of jobs to do tomorrow.
Love to all,
Yours,
Uncle Eddie
Mannock’s winter gun problems were experienced by many other pilots also. Despite improvements with anti-freezing lubricants, there was always a problem in cold winter weather that caused gun mechanisms to clog and freeze up, especially at height. Thus a frustrating time for him and others, and it was not until New Year’s Day that he was again successful. It was also the day he was finally due to leave 40 Squadron. His papers and travel documents were all dated 2 January 1918.
It was another special mission, flown alone, having been sent up after a reported two-seater over the front. He left the ground at 11.10 and made height to 15,000 feet over Fampoux, east of Arras. Arriving here, he saw a German two-seater being engaged by two Sopwith Camels (8 Naval Squadron based at St Eloi, where the nearby ruined monastery was a wonderful landmark for its pilots). As he watched the German pilot seemed to elude his antagonists and dive towards the north-east.
Mannock went down after the German – which he identified as a DFW, coloured with purple chequered markings. At 12,000 feet both Mannock and the German observer began to exchange fire, but then his Lewis gun jammed. However, he closed right in, following the diving machine to around 3,000 feet, and fired 20 rounds from the Vickers. Damage from his gun and the speed of the dive caused the two-seater’s right wings to crumple up and the machine crashed near Fampoux, inside Allied lines. Another SE5 flying nearby, piloted by Lieutenant [A.B.] Shilstone, observed the combat and confirmed Mannock’s claim. [1]
Despite Mannock claiming in his combat report that his opponents had been flying a DFW, the actual machine was a Hannover CLIII, with a 200 h.p. Opel engine, from FA288(A). Mannock gives the time of the actual combat as 11.35. The wreckage was given the British serial G.121. The German crew were Vizefeldwebel Fritz Korbacher, a Bavarian aged 25 from Arnstein, south-west of Schweinfurt, but living in Munich, and Leutnant Wilhelm Klein, a month short of his 25th birthday, coming from Kaiserslautern, in the Rhineland, and listed as a Bavarian. Klein’s remains are within a Kameradengräb (mass grave) at the German cemetery of St Laurent Blangy, east of Arras.
The following day Mannock left for England. There is no doubt that his going was felt deeply by 40 Squadron pilots and ground personnel alike. His character and personality had certainly been imprinted on everyone and his slow start had been totally forgotten. He left as a valued flight commander with a reasonable score of victories achieved mostly over the summer. A Canadian with the Squadron, W G Soltau [2], related to Ira Jones for his book on Mannock, the following about the day he left for ‘Blighty’:
‘I also recollect some small incidents of his great popularity among men, both mechanics and other ranks, as well as junior officers. How he made them sing sometimes during the concerts and sing-songs, and how they always responded to his leadership in all things!
‘In January 1918, I was ordered to the south of France for a rest, and at the same time Mannock was ordered back to England. Four of us decided to make the trip to Boulogne in one car, Mannock, McCudden, McElroy and myself. As we left No.40 Squadron, the car was loudly cheered by the officers outside the Mess, and we found the road lined with cheering mechanics. I then realised Mannock’s influence over the men … Mannock was one of the most loveable men I have ever known, always cheery, witty, courteous, daring, brave, and resourceful. He personified the best type of Irishman. On the way to Boulogne we stopped at a hospital, as there was an Irish sister, named Murphy, who wanted to say au revoir to Mick. His popularity in this sister’s mess staggered us as much as it embarrassed him.’
One cannot say at this distance just why McCudden was in the car, for he certainly was not going on leave. He was flying and in action on both 1 and 3 January. 56 Squadron were based at Laviéville, down by Albert, so it seems strange he should motor to Bruay, then on to Boulogne, before returning to Albert.
McElroy, a particular friend now of Mannock’s, had just achieved his first victory (28 December) following the arrival of the new SE5s. He was not going on leave either, so perhaps these friends were merely escorting Mannock to the leave ship at Boulogne.
Reading Maclanachan’s book puts a slightly different light on these events. He starts by referring to McElroy’s first victory:
‘On landing, my first question to the others was to find out which of them had attacked the twelve Albatros. McIrish was the culprit, and after hearing my opinion of his courage, his success and his lack of discipline, he was attempting to defend his action by saying: “I thought you meant to attack the lot the way you swung round,” when Mick climbed out of his machine. ”Which of you was it?” “Mac,” I said, and McElroy waited, expecting some praise from his fellow-countryman. There was a lively twinkle in Mick’s eyes as he said: “What do you think our Pygmalion duty is, to risk our lives protecting you, you hot-headed Irish spleen? You might have lost Mac the whole blinking flight. Couldn’t you see what Mac was going to do?”
‘Poor McElroy, he did not know now whether we were serious or not, and only after having filled in our reports did I congratulate him on his first “blood”. There was no doubt that the Albatros had gone down to its destruction. Mick then gave him a severe lecture on tactics and flight policy – telling him that against fourteen of the enemy we should really have had little chance in a dog-fight. “Remember, McIrish, none of us want to see you “go” as you certainly will if you behave in that high-blooded Irish way of yours. You leave it to your leader. The Flight might have had half a dozen of them if you hadn’t split them up.”
‘The mess was lively that day, for two other pilots were able to claim victories, and everyone in the Squadron had been engaged in a fight of some sort. Mick openly showed his pride in A Flight.
‘Two days later, however, Mick came to the door of my hut, his old time grin covering his rugged countenance. Holding out a yellow ticket he said: “Got my ticket, old boy. Home to good old Blighty and then back for the big fight!” I was momentarily relieved, and laughed at him for having suggested that I was going home too. “Don’t you worry, Mac, you’re coming with me. Your ticket is round there as well. They wouldn’t give it to me. We’ve only got 48-hours to get out of France, and we’ll be together still.”’
Then, on their last day, Maclanachan recorded the events of 1 January:
‘This morning the temptation to have a last destructive raid against the enemy was strong. My luck was in, for after contour-chasing to Douai I dropped my bombs from 200 feet, getting direct hits on the tracks, after which I returned to empty my ammunition into the German trenches.
‘Mick’s trip was even more fortunate. Taking his usual beat between Lens and Hénin-Liétard, he met a two-seater and shot it down into our trenches. It was the first day of the year, Mick had begun well.
‘That evening there was a quiet farewell dinner:
Huites Natives, Potage de Fampaux,
Carrelets Fritz, Boeuf Roti au Ration,
Asperges en branches, Fruits de Bruay,
Bambouches des Heraldes, Dessert.
Café.
‘Combined with Lady Killers and champagne it was a merry meal, at the end of which Major Tilney made a blushing speech. He spoke in most glowing terms of Mick’s courage and of his ability as a flight commander.
‘The next morning, when the 48-hours had elapsed, I was helping Finlay to pack my belongings when the feeling of having been thwarted again returned. I went to Mick’s hut where he too was in the midst of packing. “What about a last go at them?” I asked. “That’s an idea, I wonder if we can risk it. What time is the tender coming for us?” “Two o’clock.”
‘It was then almost eleven, and we hurried to the aerodrome. Mick’s machine was nearest the entrance to the hangar, and by the time Davidge and Biggs were getting mine out Mick had revved his engine and was taking off. The sound of a machine leaving the ground drew Major Tilney’s attention from squadron affairs, and as I was about to climb into my SE he came over from the orderly room. “Look here, Mac, you can’t go up, you’re already struck off the strength.” “Hang it all, Major. Mick’s just gone up. I’m to meet him over the lines,” I said. “But neither of you has any right to have a machine.”
Mannock standing outside his hut, 40 Squadron 1917.
‘We argued about it for two or three minutes, finally agreeing that as mine was the most valuable machine in the Squadron, because of my extra “gadgets”, official anger might be mollified if I took the worst machine – Harrison’s – the machine on which we had all learnt to fly SE5s.’
Maclanachan flew out and actually encountered a DFW but just as he was starting to engage it, he lost oil pressure and had to return to the aerodrome. After a hurried lunch Mick asked Mac to do him a favour. He was meeting a Canadian pal and also wanted to see some people on the way to Boulogne, so wanted Mac to go in the car while he went in the tender.
This he did, and Mac also recorded the send off they had from everyone on the Squadron, so perhaps rather than remembering McCudden on the journey, Soltau had meant to say Maclanachan. They all met up in Boulogne, dined in a small select restaurant and then shared a room at the Hotel de Louvre, ready to sail at 09.30 the next morning. To his surprise, Mick confided to Mac that he was not looking forward to the trip as he was not a good sailor. Considering all the twists, turns and other manoeuvres Mick performed in the air, Mac could hardly believe it.
Gwilym Lewis wrote in a letter home that Mannock was leaving 40:
‘Our expert, Captain Edward Mannock, has recently been sent home, very much against his will. He has been out here about eight or ten months, and has 18 Huns to his credit. He got his last this side of the lines the day before he left. He even went up on the morning he was due to leave. I told him to be sure to call on you if he had a chance. He is one of the finest personalities I have ever met. Very popular by all he met, and a regular hero in this squadron. He loved fighting but hated killing – I believe it used to upset him for days after sometimes. He was originally in the ranks and I know you would like him if for no other reason than he is the most arrogant socialist!
‘He told me he would be staying at the RFC Club, so if he doesn’t call on you, you may think it worthwhile to rout him out. He was jolly good to me when I arrived first. A new flight commander to an old squadron is always looked on with suspicion, and by his being nice to me everyone was.’
At this juncture it seems pertinent to look at Mannock’s victory score. In all, his biographer, Ira Jones, gave him a score of 21 while flying with 40 Squadron. Mannock had submitted, as far as is known, 23 combat reports, although not all would have concerned a positive victory. It is difficult to reconcile any figure and substantiate it with information known today. In mid-August 1917 Mannock had noted his score as nine, and then after 11 September, he gave it as 13½. The half would have been a share, although RFC pilots hardly ever counted shares in fractions. 13½ would mean 14, even if some of the 13 had also been shared. A victory, whether claimed singly or by two or three pilots, gave each participant ‘one’ victory. This system should not be confused with scoring in WW2 where halves or quarters, etc, were noted as just that. Where that system fell down for the historian is that a score of say, 8½ could not only mean eight singly plus one shared with another pilot, but could also mean seven destroyed and three half shares, which, when added together, made 8½!
Captain Gwylim Lewis of 40 Squadron pictured in 1918.
There are undoubtedly anomalies in looking at Mannock’s combat record, for there are enemy aircraft driven down, and at least one other ‘forced to land’. In the early days of air fighting, a victory was almost anything. The mere driving away of a hostile machine was, in its day, a sort of victory. A victory need not, and indeed did not, mean a hostile machine ‘destroyed’. Again, in the early days of men such as Albert Ball VC, German pilots were far more inclined to go down and land, with reasons for doing so varying from what was politely called ‘wind up’ – wonderful WW1 expression for frightened or scared – to a mortal wound. In those early air battles where aircraft numbers were far fewer than the summer of 1917 onwards, it was far less likely that a German airman who decided to land – for whatever reason – would be shot-up on the ground. Chivalry was still respected. For that reason, where the result was in doubt, a ‘victory’ might be awarded for forcing an opponent to land. After all, quite apart from the possibility that the enemy pilot might be seriously or even mortally wounded, he had been stopped from carrying out his assigned mission. If that had been directing artillery fire on to British troops, then it was indeed some sort of ‘victory’. There could also be confusion in surviving records about those ‘driven down’ claims. Driven down meant just that, driven away from the front, interrupting the opponent’s task, and with the time it took to fly away and regain the necessary height to start that task again, might well exceed the fuel limit of the aeroplane. The confusion also continued when the ‘out of control’ claims might also be termed as ‘driven down out of control’. Driven down meant driven off, ‘driven down out of control’ should mean a possible kill, although more likely just a hostile pilot spinning down out of the combat zone which had become too dangerous.
Looking at Mannock’s record rationally one could come to a total of 16 victories, made up of three definitely destroyed, including one balloon, four forced down inside Allied lines in various states of disrepair and captured, and ten ‘out of control’. So, without the ‘probables’ he had achieved seven definite kills, but the total of 16 must still be considered his score at this time. It must be remembered that all WW1 British fighter aces worked with this system. Only with the resurgence of interest in WW1 aviation in the late 1950s did some comparisons start to be made using yardsticks from the recent conflict of WW2.
In the Second World War, a pilot was only credited with victories which were deemed as definitely destroyed. Probables and damaged were noted but not included as part of an overall score. Thus a pilot who had achieved ten destroyed, four probables and two damaged (10-4-2), had a score of 10, whereas in WW1, that figure would most likely be recorded somewhere as a possible 16. The early pulp-fiction writers of the 1930s, the time WW1 aviation first had its enthusiasts and followers, often knew little of the niceties of the scoring system, and more often than not a pilot’s score was referred to as, say, 20 ‘destroyed’ rather than 14 destroyed and six out of control. When I [Norman Franks] started out on the road of WW1 aviation history more than forty years ago, one thought in my head was that if a man like McCudden had ‘destroyed’ 57 German aircraft, how many others had he damaged or had probably destroyed? It took a while before I realised I was confusing WW2 to WW1 scoring and their different crediting systems, and that amongst those 57, the probables – the out of control claims – helped to make up that total.
[1] Brigadier-General C A H Longcroft was OC 5 Brigade, RFC, and later the first Commandant of the RAF College, Cranwell, in 1920. He retired in 1925, Air Vice-Marshal Sir Charles Longcroft KCB DSO AFC Ld’H. He had learnt to fly in early 1912, during service with the Welsh Regiment (Aero Certificate Number 192). On the occasion of this incident, Longcroft was 34 years old, so just four years older than Mick. Longcroft died in February 1958.
[1] The authors tried to discover who Lt Shilstone was and with which squadron he was flying, as Mannock mentions him by name in his combat report. The only Shilstone we could find was Arthur Bernard, born in Simla, India, where his father was assistant secretary to the R.W. Dept at Ranchi. After Cambridge, Shilstone joined the Artist’s Rifles and in early 1917 learnt to fly with the RFC. He went to France on 12 July 1917 but by the end of the month had been posted back to England due to ill-health, and in fact struck off charge and sent to the 2nd Battalion of the Northamptonshire Regiment. When the RFC accountants chased him for being overpaid with flight pay, Shilstone told them that he had no idea he had been posted to this regiment, but meantime had returned to the RFC in September 1917. He was again deleted from RFC records in March 1918, and again sent to the Northamptonshires.
[2] Wilfred Gustave Soltau was with the Intelligence Corps and not with the RFC but the Imperial Army. He had been a private (476033) with the PPCLI and had qualified for the 1915 Star in late 1915. He was commissioned in October 1916 and it is assumed he had some dealings with 40 Squadron due to his intelligence duties. Perhaps being with the Canadian forces that were on 40 Squadron’s front.
