KNIGHTS OF THE SKY?
Air combat in WWI is mythologised as an honourable fight between gentlemen, but the truth is more complex
A myth pervaded at the time, and since, is that First World War air combat was somehow a chivalric affair. This was partly based on the glowing, propaganda-based press accounts at the time. Tales of gallant single-combat in the skies served as a distraction from the faceless brutality below, and the idea has proven hard to shift. It is undeniable that air combat was based more on personal skill than most other areas of the war, and there was perhaps an illusionary impression that pilots’ lives rested mainly on their own individual actions and abilities. The nature of the pilots’ battlefield also doubtless had its appeal – flight was romantic and even exotic, and the sky wiped itself clean of the debris and bodies in stark contrast to the horrific conditions in the trenches below.
The myth has survived despite the dreadful realities of the air war, where airmen in highly flammable aircraft and without parachutes faced terrible deaths with every flight. These horrors were amply described in wartime memoirs of Richthofen and others, and even more so in post-war memoirs and fiction (most famously Captain WE Johns’ Biggles books, which pull few punches despite being aimed at a youthful audience).
Acts of chivalry did of course occur, especially earlier in the war. Pre-war aviation had been a small international community and a certain fellow-feeling endured. However, this gradually rubbed off with mounting casualties and the growth of the air services. Occasional acts continued to occur more rarely, such as after the death of Oswald Boelcke in October 1916, when the RFC dropped a wreath dedicated to “our brave and chivalrous opponent”.
“THE RFC DROPPED A WREATH DEDICATED TO ‘OUR BRAVE AND CHIVALROUS OPPONENT’”
In areas where numbers of aircraft remained small, like the Middle East, this lasted longer. Even into 1918, for example, the air units over Palestine (a handful of squadrons on each side) routinely dropped news of downed pilots to each other, and requested personal effects be dropped for those taken prisoner. One German pilot,
Gerhard Felmy, was well known for his message dropping. If he simply flew over a British airfield, the watching personnel knew that the missing crew he was dropping information on had been killed. If he dropped the message and then conducted a ‘victory roll’ (a celebratory barrel roll), they knew the crew had survived, achieving victory over the common enemies of the pitiless sky and desert.
But even the most (supposedly) glorious acts were underlined with harsh and uncompromising reality. On 23 September 1917, German ace Werner Voss encountered a patrol from No. 56 Squadron RFC. Despite being outnumbered 11-toone, Voss kept engaging the British Se5a’s even after an opportunity to escape presented itself. Eventually, after inflicting damage on every SE5A and forcing several down, Voss was caught by a burst from Lieutenant Arthur Rhys-davids and killed. Returning home, the RFC pilots toasted their gallant enemy and praised his courage, as good ‘knights of the air’ should. However, their admiration and sense of chivalry had not stopped the eleven of them from relentlessly pursing their single prey until he was shot down and killed.
The making of a legend
Today, the Red Baron is one of the most written about figures of the First World War (after Lawrence of Arabia), and is certainly its most famous pilot. Some accounts are more sensationalist than others, and many focus on his claims, victories and aircraft rather than the man himself. In popular culture he remains well known for his red Fokker Triplane. He somehow inspired a pizza brand in America (whose pilot logo looks nothing like him) and has perennial popularity as Snoopy’s adversary in the Peanuts cartoon strip. He’s appeared in songs and films, with the most recent biopic in 2008, The Red Baron, taking significant liberties with the facts (although in fairness it’s far from the worst movie about WWI air combat). The real personality of the man, however, remains elusive.
Although Richthofen wrote a memoir, The Red Air Fighter, begun during his leave in May 1917, it is not entirely reliable and was written for obvious propaganda purposes, with efforts made to stress the importance of the unglamorous work of the reconnaissance and ground-attack aircraft. It’s hard to unpick Richthofen’s actual views from those of the propaganda bureau. At times he is contradictory, often describing his joy after a ‘kill’, and yet in an addendum (admittedly not published until after the war) he added: “I am in wretched spirits after every aerial combat. I believe that… it is very serious, very grim.” Other statements are unlikely to be driven by propaganda, such as the fact that he was the sole remaining active airman from the unit he had been an observer with only two years previously. It is hard to dismiss his memoirs out of hand, but equally hard to rely on them as an accurate picture.
Thankfully, some of his pilots have left their own impressions, and these can be surprising. Surviving photos generally show a stern, Teutonic-looking Prussian officer, but his men remembered an approachable man who was always sociable and ready to join in games in the mess. He was also caring towards his younger pilots, which was by no means a typical trait among First World War fighter aces. He showed great interest in them, and devoted time and effort to training them and developing their skills.
Astonishing to some, Richthofen was also far from the world’s greatest pilot. He was shot down three times during his career: the first two (on 8 March 1917 and 6 July 1917) by greatly inferior aircraft. At least twice he had very lucky escapes after poor judgement led him to fly through storms. These are important facts, as there is a prevailing view that he was killed while flying in a highly uncharacteristic way, following an enemy down low over the front lines and into an area where he became hemmed in between the land and ground fire and British fighters above. This broke Boelcke’s dicta about always having an escape route. In fact, while it is clear that Richthofen was very good at applying cold logic to situations and acting accordingly, he was not above mistakes or rashness. At least twice in 1917 (his 24th and 48th victories) he flew low over the front line areas to secure his kills, and on one occasion (his 33rd victory) he followed his victim down and strafed them on the ground. After 21 March 1918, and the German breakthrough on the Western Front, both sides found themselves regularly flying at low level over highly fluid front lines. On many occasions in the weeks before his death (including while scoring two victories on 27 and 28 March) Richthofen flew at very low level over the front lines. The ever-changing strategic situation made this a necessity.
While Richtofen was not the world’s greatest pilot (and the fact he carried a lucky mascot suggests he realised his own vulnerabilities), he was still feared by his opponents. His approach to air combat made him a dangerous adversary, and it was not long before his reputation began to grow. In December 1916 or January 1917 he, perhaps inadvertently at first, started to draw attention to himself by painting parts of his aircraft red. Contrary to popular belief, the Red Baron only flew an allred Fokker Triplane for nine of his victories. For most of the rest of the war he flew aircraft that were predominantly red – either Triplanes for another 10 of his victories, or an Albatros for the majority of the others. Many of these only had a red fuselage, and soon most of his pilots in Jasta 11 began to follow suit. Each had their own particular pattern, and it was a useful way to identify one another in the air.
By Richthofen’s own account, within weeks he was well-known among his enemies, with a downed crew on 24 January stating they had been attacked by a pilot widely known as Le Petit Rouge, and in April another saying their opponent had been Le Diable Rouge. Both of these crews were British, so the translation into French may be dubious, but it is clear that the name Red Baron does not appear
in contemporary accounts, but rather in postwar biographies.
Richthofen’s growing reputation almost certainly also appealed to his self-image as a hunter. As an excellent tactician (or stalker, in hunting parlance) and a first-class shot, he was proud of his skills and was determined to show them off. Despite his obvious discomfort with his popularity during his leave periods at home, where he began to actively avoid crowds, he was also keen to promote his reputation as an air fighter. He was determined, for example, to beat his mentor Boelcke’s score, and later to maintain his highest scoring status. As a hunter, he took trophies from his victims and ostentatiously displayed them. A famous photo of his living quarters shows walls covered in trophies taken from victories up to and including his 43rd victim, and it is unlikely he stopped there.
Richthofen also avidly collected ‘victory cups’ (‘Ehrenbecher’), silver cups engraved with the dates of his victories. Boelcke had invented the tradition of awarding such cups to each of his pilots when they achieved their first victories. However, Richthofen took the idea further and continued to order them for himself. It is unclear how long he kept this up, as his family home was
“THIS WAS BUTCHERY, NOT TO MENTION PURE EGO, WITH A VENGEANCE”
looted by the Soviets in 1945 and most of the cups have been lost, but there are accounts of cups for his 60th or even 70th victories existing. It is possible that an increasing scarcity of silver in Germany prevented him from ordering a full set, but he was clearly proud of his successes, and saw himself as a great hunter.
In his memoirs he criticises his younger brother Lothar, a fellow pilot whom he considered far too reckless: “My father discriminates between a sportsman and a butcher. The latter shoots for fun. When I have shot down an Englishman, my hunting passion is satisfied for a quarter of an hour. Therefore I do not succeed in shooting down two Englishmen in succession. If one of them comes down, I have the feeling of complete satisfaction. Only much later have I overcome my instinct and have become a butcher.”
This self-image was important to him, although once he embraced being a ‘butcher’ he rarely held back. Those words were written in May or June 1917, and it is true that it had only been in April that he had first brought down more than one aircraft in a day. On 5 April he downed two British aircraft, but on 29 April he had repeatedly taken off, determined to reach a goal of 50 victories before going home on leave. This he did by shooting down two RFC aircraft during the day, but that evening he set out again and shot down a further two to bring his score up to 52. This was butchery, not to mention pure ego, with a vengeance.
Richthofen was a complicated character.
This is probably inevitable; after all, he was only human and it’s easy to forget that he was also young, dying at the age of 25. His own wishes or instincts were also subordinated to the demands of the war and the situations he found himself in. He was a man who wanted to be recognised as the best, yet shunned public adulation. He was determined to achieve the highest victory score, but spent energy on encouraging and training the potential competitors around him. He was not the greatest pilot, so instead used his other skills – a superb tactical instinct and excellent marksmanship – to fulfil his ambition to become the greatest of the air fighters.