BY Arch Whitehouse
The first genuine, certified air hero was a young Royal Navy pilot named Reggie Warneford. In 1915 Warneford received the Victoria Cross and the joyous adulation of the British for his magnificent feat of destroying a Zeppelin.
Bombing at night from a height that the aircraft of the time could not reach, the huge Zeppelins terrorized people who had read far too much of H. G. Wells and other futurists who predicted hell raining from on high. It would, but in a future war. Fortunately the hydrogen-filled Zeppelins carried small bombloads and were wildly inaccurate. To escape British artillery the Germans usually bombed England from above a cloud layer. On several occasions luckless Zeppelin skippers missed the entire island with their weapons. Still, the specter of Teuton leviathans cruising the
Night sky miles above the earth and scattering death willy-nilly shook the British public badly.
While the orchestra plays Wagner, enter Reggie from stage left.
Surprisingly enough, the first British airman to down a Zeppelin is seldom mentioned in general histories of this all-important segment of military aviation. Even today, if you ask any elderly Englishman the name of the airman who brought down the first Zeppelin, he will with no hesitation of any sort reply, “Oh, that was that chap Leefe Robinson. He brought it down one night, and it fell all ablaze at Cuffley. Got the VC for it, he did. We’ll never forget that night.”
How easily they forgot a young Royal Naval Air Service pilot, Reggie Wameford, who on June 7, 1915, destroyed the Army dirigible L.37 over Ghent, whereas Leefe Robinson’s victory was not scored until September 3, 1916. But Wameford made his “kill” over Belgium, and Leefe Robinson’s was staged high above the outskirts of London where millions looked up and beheld the first of a series of defeats that eventually drove the military dirigible out of the skies.
Reginald Alexander John Wameford was a gay composite of the British Empire of those days. His parents were jovial Yorkshire folk who had shuttled about the world on engineering missions, and young Warneford, born in India, was schooled at the English College in Simla, but later went to England where he attended the Stratford-on-Avon Grammar School. The family next moved to Canada, and Reggie, who had developed a mechanical skill, particularly with engines, joined the Merchant Marine and was serving with the India Steam Navigation Company when World War I broke out. He resigned immediately and made his way to England where he joined the Second Battalion of the much-publicized Sportsman’s Regiment, an infantry unit consisting chiefly of well-known sporting and athletic figures.
There was considerable prestige in this regiment, but in England, as in several countries, it was found that most headlined athletes were psychologically attuned for sport only, not for war. Fearing the conflict would end before the athletes could be whipped into combat condition, Warneford applied for a transfer to the Royal Naval Air Service. Whether he was an ideal candidate has been widely discussed. His best friends have generally agreed that Reggie was too cocksure, inclined to be boastful and frankly, no great shakes as a pilot. His first commanding officer, a Commander Groves, soon decided that this lad would break his neck long before he got into action. However, one or two intuitive instructors managed to curb his impetuosity, and by the time he had advanced to the Central Flying School at Upavon he had proved to be a daring young airman.
By May 1915 Warneford had won his RNAS wings and was shipped to Number 2 Naval Squadron, then located at Eastchurch (Thames Estuary). There his superior officers decided that he would be much better off where there would be some action to absorb his animal activity. He was sent across the Channel to Number 1 Naval Squadron, then under the command of Wing Comdr. Arthur Longmore, who became an air chief marshal in World War II. At Dunkirk Reggie continued his wild ways, resisting all discipline, and becoming the squadron nuisance. Longmore soon decided to turn him loose and let the Huns discipline him.
On his first flight out of Dunkirk he was given an ancient Voisin biplane, and an observer who, if he still lives, must remember that hair-raising experience. Shortly after taking off Warneford spotted a German observation plane circling over Zeebrugge. He went into immediate pursuit and ordered the observer to use the light machine gun with which he had been provided. They followed the enemy aircraft all the way back to its field, but by that time the British gun had jammed, and ignoring the flight controls, Warneford tried to get into his observer’s cockpit to remedy the stoppage. The antics of the plane under such conditions can be imagined, and it is related that Warneford had to help his observer climb down out of the plane when they returned to Dunkirk.
Wing Commander Longmore then provided Warneford with a Morane Parasol, a high-wing monoplane, originally designed as a two-seater, but which, in a few instances, had been modified as a single-seater and flown as a fighter-scout. Young Reggie was sent off in one of these machines to do his worst, and from all accounts rolled up a remarkable record, chasing enemy planes, bombing gun emplacements, and attacking troop movements. So wild were these forays, Warneford soon wore out his mount, and Commander Longmore had to find another. In this it can be seen that Warneford was forming a service pattern that was to be followed by Capt. Albert Ball and Lt. Frank Luke, a young Arizonian.
At 12:20 A. M. of June 7 Wing Commander Longmore was warned by the Admiralty that three Zeppelins that had been over Britain were on their way back. Here was a chance of a lifetime.
Wilson’s flight was warned and a broad plan, previously agreed on, was put into action. Warneford and another sublieutenant. Rose, were sent off in single-seater Moranes. Wilson and Mills took big bomb-carrying Henri Farmans to attack the Zeppelin sheds at Evere, near Brussels.
Warneford, who had never been off the ground at night, was flagged off first about 1 A. M. The Morane flew beautifully and Reggie was at 2,000 feet before he realized what he had volunteered for. He stared wide-eyed all around and tried to find his small grouping of instruments. A length of scarlet worsted that was knotted to a center-section strut flicked insistently, and he knew from this primitive instrument that he was in a dangerous side-slip. Then, gradually, as his eyes grew accustomed to the yellow-gray nothingness beyond his Triplex windscreen, he could read all his instruments. Already he was at 3,000 feet!
Rose was not so lucky. He became lost in the low mist, the light on the instrument panel went out, and he had to make a forced landing in an open field near Cassel where he turned over but was not seriously hurt.
Warneford searched for the rest of the group from Dunkirk, but no other aircraft appeared to be in the sky. He listened to the even chug-chug-chug of his rotary engine and felt his face being wasp-stung by condensation drips coming off the center section. He was fascinated by the poisonous-looking blue-yellow flame of his exhaust, a feature he had not seen before. He checked with his compass, made sure he was on the proper bearing, and began another search.
Content, if somewhat bored with the comparative inaction, Warneford kept a close watch, hoping to find two more sets of exhaust flame that would guide him to where Wilson and Mills were heading for their rendezvous. He wondered what an airship shed looked like from the air at night. Then, he suddenly saw a strange glow a few miles to the north. He squinted and looked again. Although he was attracted by another blue-yellow exhaust, he wondered what Wilson and Mills were doing up there near Ostend . . . and whatever was that long black mass floating above them?
Wilson and Mills had made immediate contact after taking off and, after clearing the low fog around Fumes, had headed for Brussels nearly seventy-five miles away. The skies were clear in that direction, and Wilson decided to fly straight for Evere which lay on the north side of the old Flemish city. Both Henri Farman pilots found their target with no difficulty. Wilson was soon caught in the blazing bar of a searchlight and some antiaircraft fire, but he used a flashlight to give the impression he was a friendly airman coming in for a landing. Uncertain what to do, the Germans did nothing, and Wilson made a clean run-in, released his rack of 20-pound bombs, making a beautiful pathfinder job for Mills who followed Wilson in. Between them they torched a great shed and an almost new dirigible, one marked L.38.
On this eventful night L.37, commanded by an Oberleutnant Von der Haegen, had been sent on a routine patrol with L.38 and L.39. L.38 returned early because of engine trouble, only to be burned in her shed by the RNAS airmen. There was nothing particularly important or offensive about L.37’s mission. It had been arranged mainly to give a number of airship designers, specialists, and technicians from the Zeppelin factory some firsthand knowledge of the various problems experienced by the crews on active service.
L.37 was 521 feet long, and her eighteen main gas ballonets carried 953,000 cubic feet of hydrogen. She was powered by four 210-horsepower Maybach engines, and
Manned by a select crew of twenty-eight skilled airshipmen. For defense, her designers had provided four machine-gun posts that were built into the outboard engine gondolas. These positions gave good visibility, a fairly wide arc of fire, and efficient defense along both sides of the airship, but there was no gun position anywhere along the upper side of the dirigible.
After flying north for a few minutes, Warneford stared in amazement as he realized he had encountered a Zeppelin, but it seemed half a mile long. He had to twist his head from side to side to take in the leviathan proportions. Several glistening cars hung from its underside, and the gleam of the fantail exhausts indicated that the rubberized covering was daubed a yellow ocher. Warneford wondered what kept anything as large as that in the air.
But this was no time for cogitation. The Zeppelin’s machine guns suddenly opened up and slugs clattered through the frail wing of Morane Parasol Number 3253. Somewhat puzzled, Reggie wisely heeled over and cleared out of range. It should be explained that this model of the Morane Parasol carried no machine gun of any kind.
The fog was clearing and the Ostend-Bruges Canal was sharply defined below, and with that position clear in his mind Warne-ford decided that the dirigible was heading for Ghent, but suddenly the big snub-nosed airship shifted course and came straight for him. Two more streams of tracer-flecked machine-gun fire were threatening. Two more bursts came from the forward gondolas and converged only a few yards from the Parasol. The RNAS pilot gave the Le Rhone all she could gulp, and tried to climb, but the crisscrossing tracers penciled in a definite warning, so Reggie had to peel off and dive.
As he studied the situation he may have turned to a light Belgian carbine, carried in a leather boot beside his wicker seat. He may have steered the Morane back into a position below and behind the mighty elevator-and-rudder framework. He may have gripped the control stick between his knees and triggered a few.303 shells at the massive target. He may have, but this is strictly conjecture. We do know he had six 20-pound bombs in a simple rack that could be released one by one by a toggle-and-wire device.
Warneford stalked L.37 for several minutes, but whenever he came within range or view the German gunners sprayed the sky with long bursts of Parabellum fire, and he was driven off time after time.
L.37 began to rise fast, for Von der Haegen had apparently dumped some water ballast over Assebrouckj leaving Warneford still scrambling to get above his present 7,000 feet. Von der Haegen then increased his speed and nosed around for Ghent. Although he knew he was outclassed, Reggie refused to give up the chase, and he settled down, determined to keep the dirigible in view, and hoped to gain some much-needed altitude.
Von der Haegen was obviously racing for safety, and while he maintained his height, Warneford was helpless, but the German airship commander realized this was no ordinary patrol and he fretted about his passengers, the technicians, when he should have concentrated on maintaining a safe tactical procedure.
At 2:25 A. M. the Morane pilot, still stalking and trying to get above the Zeppelin, was cheered to see the big airship nose down and apparently head for a break in the 7,000-foot cloud layer that spread toward Ghent. By now Reggie had browbeaten his Morane up to a position where he could use his 20-pound incendiary bombs. In a few minutes L.37 was actually below him and for the first time he saw that its upper cover was painted what seemed to be a dark green, and he was thankful no gun turrets
Were showing along this upper panel.
Again, he was astonished by the size of this monster as he moved in for an attack glide. She was so big he felt he would have no trouble in making a landing on her topside. Below, Ghent lay a dull smudge, and when the gnatlike Morane nosed down for that 500-foot-long upper panel he must have felt slight and puny against the aerial leviathan.
He set a straight course along the top of the airship and began pulling the bomb toggle.
“One. . . two. . . three!” he counted, and felt the Morane jerk with the release of each bomb. He fully expected the Zeppelin to explode immediately, but nothing happened!
“Four. . . five. . . ,” he continued to count, and then a blinding explosion ripped through the upper cover, baring the blackened tracery of the framework.
Whongff!
Spellbound, Reggie continued his run-in until the little Morane was swept up on a savage belch of flame and concussion. She whipped over with a violence that would have hurled Warneford out of his cockpit had it not been for his safety belt. He gasped in astonishment, rammed the stick forward and tried to force the aeroplane into a dive. Chunks of burning framework hurtled by as he floundered out of that aerial convulsion and streaked down through a curling pall of choking smoke. Over the next few minutes he was absorbed in skimming clear of the debris, getting back on an even keel, and frantically adjusting his air and gas mixture to dampen out a series of warning pops from the Le Rhone engine.
A few minutes afterward the doomed airship fell on the Convent of St. Elizabeth in the Mont-Saint-Armand suburb of Ghent. One man on the ground was killed and several badly burned, but the helmsman of the Zeppelin had a miraculous escape. According to some eyewimesses he jumped clear of the tumbling wreckage at about two hundred feet, landed on a roof of the convent, crashed on through as though it had been made of matchwood, and landed in an unoccupied bed, suffering only minor injuries. He was the only man aboard the ill-fated airship to survive. However, survive he did, and is said later to have opened a beer hall where for years he related his adventure and confirmed Warneford’s official account.
But what about the young British pilot who was now tossed across the flame - and smoke-streaked sky with a recalcitrant engine? He gingerly tested his plane controls and gradually brought the Morane back on an even keel. He fully expected his monoplane wing to part company from the fuselage, so violent had been the concussion. Then when the Le Rhone began to behave and respond, she snorted her wrath and quit cold. Warneford watched the gleaming wooden prop wigwag to a halt, and he had to ram his nose down to prevent a stall.
He did not have to look about, he knew he was at least thirty-five miles inside the German lines. There wasn’t an earthly chance of stretching a glide, and it was obvious that the best he could hope for was a safe landing, and a long spell in a German prison camp.
Despite the darkness, the unfamiliar topography, and the lack of any ground lighting, Reggie landed his beat-up Morane safely in an open field — a turfed stretch shielded along one side by a long strip of woods. There was an old farmhouse nearby, but no one emerged to question his arrival, and no German troops appeared to take him prisoner. His initial impulse was to destroy the Morane, but he first tried to find out what had caused the Le Rhone to stop.
What now occurred may be a legend, but it was often told in those days. Warneford was a better than average mechanic and certainly knew the rotary engine, and it took him but a short time to discover that a length of fuel line running from the tank to the fuel pump had broken. There was still enough fuel to get him back across the line, either to Dunkirk or Fumes. A quick search through his pockets produced a cigarette holder. The wide outer end was perfect for making a temporary repair, and the two ends were bound secure with strips of his handkerchief.
In his official report, hurriedly scribbled after his arrival back at Fumes, there is no mention of this, just, “I was forced to land and repair my pump.” Obviously, there was more to it than that for it must have taken some substitution and improvisation. In fact, Reggie spent about twenty minutes remedying the break and starting the engine again. An experimental tug on the prop assured him that fuel was being drawn from the tank to the carburetor device used on rotary engines. Fortunately, the engine was still warm, and after running through the starting sequence twice to draw vapor into the cylinders, Reggie cut in the switch and snapped her over. The Le Rhone caught immediately, and he had to scramble to duck under the wing and climb into the cockpit, but all went well. He taxied around for a good takeoff and in minutes was roaring away.
As he approached the coast again he flew into more fog, so he cmised up and down until he found a hole and glided through. He had little idea where he was, and on landing was told he was at Cape Gris-Nez, ten miles below Calais. He was welcomed warmly, given more gasoline, and permitted to call his squadron headquarters at Dunkirk. He told his story briefly, and was advised to sit out the bad weather and return when it cleared.
By the time Warneford returned to his squadron the news that a German Zeppelin had been sent down in flames had seeped out of Ghent, and within hours his name was ringing from one end of the Empire to the other. His photograph was flashed on hundreds of theater screens to the delight of cheering audiences.
Within thirty-six hours King George V awarded the Victoria Cross to Warneford, and the French government added their Cross of the Legion of Honor, but Flight Sublieutenant Warneford lived only ten more days to enjoy the laurels of victory. He was sent to Paris on June 17 to be decorated, and after the ceremony was ordered to Buc to pick up a new Farman biplane. The machine had been assembled hurriedly, and most of its standard equipment had not been fitted.
An American newspaperman, named Henry Needham, had asked to go along to Fumes where he planned to write a special story about Warneford and his Zeppelin victory. Reggie cheerfully agreed, and they climbed into the biplane and took off. Almost immediately, the Farman started to pitch and behave strangely, finally rolling over completely out of control. When it was on its back Warneford and Needham were thrown out and killed. Some reports have it that Reggie made a wild takeoff that was too much for the Farman; the tail was wrenched off and the rest of the machine fluttered over on its back. It was also said that neither man had bothered to fasten his safety belt.
Following Warneford’s victory, the war news and rumors were well garnished with reports of other Zeppelin conquests. One of the most fantastic, that persisted for weeks, was that of a Frenchman who had tried to down a dirigible over Paris by using a machine gun. When that method of attack failed, he boldly rammed the raider in midair by flying his Morane Bullet straight through the aluminum framework, crashing out the other side. After that, so the story went, the Zeppelin folded in the middle and dropped in a French cornfield. There was no truth in the report, but faked photographs of this astounding adventure were on sale for weeks throughout France.
World History
