BY James McCudden
James Byford McCudden enlisted in the Royal Engineers at the age of fifteen. Three years later, in 1913, he transferred to the new Royal Flying Corps to be near his brother, a sergeant-pilot, and became an aircraft mechanic. Accepted for flight training in 1916, he survived the primitive course of instruction and returned to France. In the first excerpt that follows, circa November 1916, he is learning his trade in BE-2s, a pusher-fighter with a top speed of about one hundred miles per hour. In the second excerpt from January and February 1918, he is an accomplished ace flying SE-5s, the best single-seat aircraft the British had.
After he had shot down fifty-seven German aircraft and been decorated with the Victoria Cross by the king, James McCudden wrote his memoirs. First published in 1918, this long-out-
Of-print masterpiece reveals an extraordinary young man.
We find a self-confident, happy young man as at home among the enlisted fitters who worked on his aircraft as he was among the class-conscious officers, a perfectionist who tuned his own guns and engine, a well-adjusted extrovert who loved the camaraderie of the mess yet didn’t brood excessively on the many friends he lost along the way or his own probable end, a dry wit whose idea of a great leave was to see every show in London. And Jim McCudden was a hunter who could lead a scheduled patrol in the morning then go out at noon alone to stalk German observation planes “just for fun.” For you see, McCudden loved aerial combat. He found the kill-or-be-killed game in the sky the ultimate sport.
Perhaps if Jim McCudden had not spent so much of his youth in the barracks and mess halls of professional soldiers, perhaps if he had been older when he went into the crucible, we jaded survivors of this modern, violent age could understand him better. Alas, we have only his joyful recounting of battles aloft, of close calls, of evenings spent in the company of fellow warriors whom he loved. He comes to us as a knight from the age of chivalry mounted on a winged charger, vibrantly alive and athirst for battle.
Three days after completing his memoirs, McCudden, now a major, was given command of a fighter squadron in France. He left for the front in an SE-5 he had tweaked himself. On taking off from a French airfield his engine stopped and he tried to turn to glide back to the field. The plane stalled, flipped, and crashed; McCudden was killed. He was just twenty-three years old.
We continued doing our daily patrols and soon got to know our new patrol area. Nothing happened of interest until the morning of 9 November 1916.
The morning dawned bright, with good visibility, and as I dressed I remarked to Noakes that the Hun pilots were just about dressing too, saying among themselves how they were that morning going to strafe the verfluchter Englander.
Six of us left the ground about 7:30 A. M. and got our height going towards Albert, intending to go round to Bapaume and then fly north to Arras with the intention of cutting off a good slice of Hunland and strafing any Hun that we found west of us.
By the time we got to Bapaume, our patrol had dwindled down to three machines — Lt. Albert Ball, Noakes, and myself. So from Bapaume we flew bravely north, for up to the present we had not encountered any of the numerous Hun scouts that were reported to be always obnoxious in that sector.
We had just flown over Achiet-le-Grand at about 11,000 feet when I saw six specks east of us. I drew Noakes’ attention, and so we made off west a little as we were a long way east of the lines. Long before we got to Adinfer Wood the Hun machines overtook us, and directly they got within range we turned to fight.
One Hun came down at me nose on but then turned away, and in doing so I got a good view of the Hun, which I had never seen before. It had a fuselage like the belly of a fish. Its wings were cut fairly square at the tips, and had no dihedral angle. The tail plane was of the shape of a spade. We learned later that these machines were the new German Albatros D. l chasers.
By now we were fairly in the middle of six of them and were getting a rather bad time of it, for we were a long way east of the line, so we all knew that we had to fight hard or go down. At one time I saw a fat Hun about ten yards behind Ball absolutely filling him with lead, as Ball was flying straight, apparently changing a drum of ammunition, and had not seen the Hun.
I could not at the time go to Ball’s assistance as I had two Huns after me fairly screaming for my blood. However, Ball did not go down. Noakes was having a good time too, and was putting up a wonderful show.
The Huns were cooperating very well. Their main tactic seemed to be for one of them to dive at one of us from the front and then turn away, inviting us to follow. I followed three times, but the third time I heard a terrific clack, bang, crash, rip behind me, and found a Hun was firing from about ten yards in the rear, and his guns seemed to be firing in my very ears. I at once did a half-roll, and as the Hun passed over me I saw the black and white streams on his interplane struts. This fellow was the Hun leader, and I had previously noticed that he had manoeuvred very well.
By now, however, we had fought our way back to our lines, and all three of us had kept together, which was undoubtedly our salvation, but I had used all my ammunition and had to chase round after Huns without firing at them. However, the Huns had apparently had enough too, and as soon as we got back to our lines they withdrew east.
I now had time to look over my machine on my way back to the aerodrome and saw that it was in a bad way. My tail plane was a mass of torn fabric, and various wires were hanging, having been cut by bullets. We all landed, and on getting out of our machines were congratulated by our OC, who had been informed of the progress of the fight by telephone from our Archie section, who had seen the latter part of the fight and had said that it was the best they had seen for a long time.
I really think that fight was one of the best I have ever had, although we were outnumbered and the Huns had better machines than we had.
I had a good look round my machine and found that the Huns had scored twenty-four hits. This was the greatest number I have ever had. I do not believe in being shot about. It is bad or careless flying to allow one’s self to be shot about when one ought usually to be able to prevent it by properly timed manoeuvres.
The same afternoon I went out on another machine to do an offensive patrol and, having encountered a two-seater over Gom-mecourt, fired all my ammunition at him to no avail, so I landed at the nearest aerodrome for some more, after which I left the ground again to look for the beastly Hun.
Whilst getting my height at about 4,000 feet, and feeling rather bucked with life, I thought I would try a loop; so I pushed the machine down till the speed got up to 90 mph, took a deep breath and pulled the stick back.
Halfway up the loop I changed my mind and pushed the stick forward, with the result that I transferred my load from my flying to my landing wires. The resultant upward pressure was so great that all my ammunition drums shot out of my machine over my top plane and into the revolving propeller which, being a “pusher,” of course was behind me.
There was a mighty scrunch and terrific vibration as three out of my four propeller blades disappeared in a cloud of splinters. I at once switched off and removed my gun from my knees, where it had fallen after having been wrenched from its mountings and thrown into the air owing to the terrific vibration caused by my engine doing 1,600 revolutions per minute with only one propeller blade.
I now found that I wanted full right rudder to keep the machine straight, and discovered, on looking round, that the lower right-hand tail boom had been cut clean in two by one of the flying propeller blades, and all that was holding my tail on was a diagonal 10-cwt tail-boom bracing wire.
The machine was wobbling badly as the engine was still turning round slowly, and I had just about wits enough left to pick out a field and make a landing successfully.
As soon as I stopped running along the ground the machine tilted over on one wing, as the centre section bracing wires were broken, and there was nothing, now that the machine was at rest, to keep the wings in their correct position. I got out of the machine and thanked God for my salvation.
A few minutes later an officer from Number 3 Squadron, on horseback, rode up to pick up my pieces, for as he had seen various portions of an aeroplane flying about the locality, he had come to inspect the biggest piece. I remained by the machine until the tender from Number 3 Squadron arrived with a guard for the machine, and I then went to Number 3 Squadron and telephoned to my squadron what had happened, so they promised to send a car for me at once, and a breakdown party in the morning.
My old comrades in Number 3 Squadron were very pleased to see me, and happily that evening they were giving a farewell dinner to one of the sergeants who had just won a commission. His name was Leech, and he was afterwards killed in France after having gained a DSO. We made a very cheery evening of it I can assure you and had some real fun.
About midnight my tender from the squadron arrived, so off I went on a thirty-mile journey back to La Hameau, where we arrived at 3 A. M. The next morning I saw our CO, who was pleased to have me back, as a rumour went round that I had been seen going down in flames near Gommecourt. How these ridiculous rumours do go round!
On 28 January 1918 my machine was ready, having been fitted with my special high-compression pistons, and as the engine gave many more revolutions on the test bench than did the standard 200 hp His-pano, my hopes of surpassing the Maybach-Rumpler looked like materializing.
The morning was pleasant and I left the ground at 9:30 A. M. As soon as I opened the throttle I could feel the increase in power as the fuselage at my back pressed me forward hard in its endeavour to go ahead quickly. After I had left the ground, the increase of my machine’s climb was very apparent, and although I will not mention exact figures, I was up to 10,000 feet in a little more in minutes than there are days in the week. After that morning’s patrol, during which I had several indecisive fights, I knew that my machine was now a good deal superior to anything the enemy had in the air, and I was very pleased that my experiment, of which I had entirely taken the responsibility, had proved an absolute success.
On the last day of January I was alone at 19,000 feet over Cambrai when I saw below and west of me a patrol of five Hun scouts at about 14,000 feet over Bourlon Wood. I thought if I leapt on them quickly and then got away that I should at least get one of them before I had to run to the lines, for whilst on my flights I had to be very diplomatic as to whom, how, and where I attacked, for I had to live up to my doctrine, which is to down as many as possible of the enemy at the least risk and casualties to one’s own side.
Down I went, and quickly got behind the leader, into whom I fired a burst at very close range. He at once went down vertically with pieces of three-ply wood falling off his fuselage, and he was seen to strike the ground by our Archie gunners. I hadn’t time to watch him as I was fighting four more scouts now, and had my attention very fully occupied. However, I got into position behind a Pfalz, and after a short burst from the good old Vickers he went down in a spiral dive and crashed also.
The remainder now evinced signs of alarm, and as my motto was to hit hard and hit quickly, I fired at another Albatros who spun away. Then I found an Albatros behind me firing for all he knew. But soon I reversed the position, and was getting a lovely burst into him when both guns stopped. On looking round I saw that the Lewis had finished its ammunition and the Vickers’ belt had broken, and so now I had no guns working, but I felt awfully brave, and as the remaining Pfalz and Albatros were very dud, I started chasing them about with no gun, and once very nearly ran into the tail of the Pfalz at whose pilot I could have thrown a bad egg if I could possibly have got one at that moment. However, I chased these two artists as far as south of Cambrai, and then my caution once more making itself felt, I turned west and soon landed at my aerodrome.
I at once rang up Archie to confirm if possible the destruction of these two scouts, which they did, and Captain Dixon, who had witnessed the fight, said that it was the queerest thing that he had seen since I shot that LVG down from a height of ten feet near Havrincourt, on the morning of December 29, on which occasion I was told afterwards the Hun’s undercarriage nearly got mixed up with an Archie gun that was well elevated.
At times, fighting the Hun seems rather an overrated pastime, but still there are occasions when fellows sit in the mess and absolutely roar with laughter when something occurs to them that happened in the air. For instance, on one occasion I saw a Rumpler approaching our lines, and as he saw us he turned away and dived a little, but not at all steeply, and then suddenly all his four wings fell clean off, and — reader! — can you not imagine the feelings of the Hun crew when their photographic Rumpler shed all its wings. They must have felt let down, poor devils, and probably it did not seem a bit funny to them.
The cold and frosty weather that we had been having was now breaking up, and the air was assuming that delicious warmth of the French February. I have myself spent four winters in France and, having to be very observant, I have studied the weather a great deal, and in my experience I think that the weather as a rule is milder in France in February than in April.
Early in February I went up to test the weather to see if it was good enough for our offensive patrols to leave the ground, and I was only up ten minutes, going towards Havrincourt Wood at about 11,000 feet, when I saw a Hun two-seater running away to the east. He had apparently seen me before I had seen him, for I was not expecting Huns over, as the visibility was not too good, but I suppose he was out for some urgent information.
Opening the throttle of my specially tuned engine, I overtook the LVG just as though he were going backward, for I should judge my speed to be twenty miles faster on the level than his. Although the LVG tried hard, I presented him with a very excellent burst from both guns, and he went down in a vertical nosedive, then past the vertical onto his back, when the enemy gunner shot out of the machine for all the world like a stone out of a catapult. The unfortunate fellow seemed all arms and legs.
The LVG went down on his back for a long time and finally crashed to matchwood in our lines at Velu Wood. So now, having ascertained that the weather was good enough for patrol, I flew home to my aerodrome, where I landed just twenty minutes after starting out, having destroyed an enemy machine from a height of 11,000 feet, twenty miles away from my aerodrome. Gee! What a world!
The same afternoon I was out again alone, and although I chased a Rumpler, who was very high, doing a reconnaissance, he had too long a start in height for me to overtake him in time before he was miles over the safety of his own lines.
On the 3rd February I was again up alone, and soon met one of the Hannovers, which have the biplane tail. I engaged this machine for a while, and at last drove him down east of Marquion with steam pouring from his damaged radiator, but he was under control.
During the last two months I had done a great deal of fighting in the air, and, although I had done a lot at the head of my patrol, I had done still more by myself while carrying out my own system of fighting the German reconnaissance aeroplanes that come over our lines for specially valuable information. During the winter months I had been fighting very high, always in fact above 16,000 feet, and I ask you to try to realise what it is like flying 20,000 feet at one hundred miles an hour for two hours at a stretch in the very midst of winter.
Nothing happened of much interest until the 16th of February, when I led my patrol towards the lines at 10 A. M. We were going to do an offensive patrol, in conjunction with some Bristol Fighters who were going to Le Gateau on reconnaissance. My patrol were to fly in the vicinity west of Le Gateau in order to clear the air for the Bristol Fighters on their homeward journey.
We allowed the Bristols a certain time to get their height and cross the lines, and then we went over a few miles south half an hour later. We crossed the lines at 16,000 feet over Bantouzelle, and then flew due east.
I have never seen so many Huns over the lines as that morning, for the visibility was good, and the old Hun always pushes up all his available machines on a day of good atmospheric clearness at a certain time in order to gain temporary command of the air over a certain sector, for just half an hour or so.
However, the Huns this morning were not offensive, as I expected them to be, and as we got behind the lines the Huns flew north, south and east. Soon after crossing we saw the “green-tailed” Hun marked “K” flying alone, no doubt cooperating with some of his patrol, who were most probably somewhere near in readiness for his call.
We flew east, and very soon arrived beyond Gaudry, and here I turned to wait for the Bristols. We were then east of all the Hun scout patrols. I was now anxiously looking east for little specks and black Archie bursts, denoting that the Bristols were over their objective doing their work, but there was no sign at all of them.
I now perceived a Rumpler a little east of my formation, and above, just hoarding up plenty of height to go over our lines on long reconnaissance. The Rumpler came towards us, no doubt thinking we were German scouts, for we were over fifteen miles east of the trenches, and then perceiving his mistake, he turned off east, nose down, and I went off in pursuit. Slowly I caught up with him, for the Maybach-Rumplers were undoubtedly very fast, and having got into position, fired a good long burst from both guns, after which the two-seater’s nose dropped vertically. Then all his four wings fell off and scattered to a thousand pieces and the fuselage went down with the speed of a meteor, its engine emitting volumes of blue smoke. The fuselage hit the ground east of Caudry, and the wing wreckage went floating down slowly, and, no doubt with the aid of the easterly wind, scattered itself on the country surrounding the Hun aerodrome west of Caudry, where it seemed the Rumplers’ home was.
After this I zoomed up and saw all my patrol a little west of me, for I had outdis-ing was still young and the visibility good. As I left the ground and climbed up east I experienced all these joys only known to the pilot who has done a lot of Hun stalking, though perhaps that same thrill is not unknown to big-game hunters.
Having gone as far as St.-Quentin, I turned north, and after ten minutes or so saw a hostile two-seater west of me and well above. I was now at 15,000 feet, so I remained between him and his line, so that I could climb up to his height without his seeing me, otherwise had I gone at him as soon as I had seen him I should only have alarmed him, and he would have scampered off east over his lines like a rabbit.
Very slowly I approached his height, but Galley’s machine, which I was flying, was not anything like as good as my own, which at that moment was having a new elevator fitted at the aerodrome. The Hun was now just east of Bapaume, at 16,000 feet, and was heading northeast towards Douai, in an endeavour to outdistance me, but soon I caught him, and, after a very short burst from both my guns, the Rumpler dived and, after going down five hundred feet, every one of his four wings fell off and went fluttering down like a lot of wastepaper, while the fuselage went down with that wobbling motion which a
Stick has when one sees it fall.
I thought how ghastly it must be to have to fly over enemy lines on a machine which one knew would fall to pieces as soon as one did a small dive. I now flew back to the aerodrome, having again in the space of one day destroyed four enemy two-seaters. After lunch I again flew to the lines on my own machine, which had now been repaired, and although I saw several Huns I did not find a good chance of attacking them with any hope of a decision.
The next morning, February 17th, I left the ground about nine-thirty and got my height going towards Arras, and soon saw that enemy aerial activity was pronounced. I climbed to 15,000 feet east of Arras, and then saw two enemy two-seaters south of me, so I flew to the attack and found that the machines were an LVG escorted by a Hannover, the latter of which at once ran away. I secured a firing position behind the LVG, and after a good burst from both guns he went down out of control in a long diving side-slip, but he went too far east to watch him crash, so I could only claim him “out of control.”
On turning away I found that a portion of my Vickers gun had broken, so I was now obliged to sacrifice 15,000 feet of valuable height in order that I might have the broken portion renewed at my aerodrome. Of course I could have stayed up and used my Lewis gun alone, but still when one has two guns going it gives one a great deal more confidence.
After my guns were going well again, I left the ground in search of prey. I had been up for about forty minutes when I saw a Rum-pier cross our lines at 17,500 feet. He was above me, for I was at 17,000 feet. I followed him all the way to Arras and then back to Bourlon Wood, where we arrived at about
18.000 and 18,300 feet, respectively, the Rumpler still being above, for by now I had found that this Rumpler had about the best performance of any that I had seen up to that time.
At Bourlon Wood the Hun turned west again, and I followed him as far as Bapaume, and again back to Bourlon Wood, over which we now arrived at 20,000 feet, with the Rumpler still a little above, for up at 20,000 feet it is impossible to zoom up to an opponent who is 200 feet above. By now the old Hun, realizing that he was still safe, turned once more west and flew to Peronne and again back to Bourlon, where we now arrived at
21.000 feet, with the Hun still a little higher. Then he started to fly, nose down, east, as
Apparently he had completed his task.
At last I was able to get a good position, after chasing him for fifty minutes, but on opening fire at close range, both my guns stopped at once, the Vickers owing to a broken belt, and the Lewis because of the intense cold. I could not rectify the Vickers, but after reloading the Lewis it fired fairly well. By now the Hun was diving fairly steeply and presented a very easy target, so I fired another burst from the Lewis, but apart from seeing my tracer bullets enter his fuselage it had no apparent effect.
We were now down to 10,000 feet, west of Cambrai, in a very short time, and seeing many other enemy machines about, I turned away.
I felt very ill indeed. This was not because of the height or the rapidity of my descent, but simply because of the intense cold which I experienced up high. The result was that when I got down to a lower altitude, and could breathe more oxygen, my heart beat more strongly and tried to force my sluggish and cold blood around my veins too quickly. The effect of this was to give me a feeling of faintness and exhaustion that can only be appreciated by those who have experienced it. My word, I did feel ill, and when I got on the ground and the blood returned to my veins, I can only describe the feeling as agony.
There are times while flying when one experiences such hardship and suffering that one is inclined to say, “No more flying for me,” but after passing that state one becomes keen again and the fascination of the whole thing begins afresh.
I was very disappointed about the last Rumpler getting away, for I did try so hard to get him, and on that flight alone I spent over an hour between 17,000 and 22,000 feet.
One day about this time much amusement was caused by one of our pilots, now a prisoner, who had been fighting a Hun. When he came down he rushed into the mess, shouting, “Come and see my machine, you chaps! I’ve got some Hun blood on it!”
We all went out expecting to see his machine covered in Teuton gore, and found some sticky red substance on the undersurfaces of his wings. We had a look at this and found that it was some rust preventative which had run off the cross-bracing wires inside the wings. Poor old Mac — he was so disappointed, too!
World History
