A H Cobby; Australia's Ace of Aces

Sopwith Camel, so named because of the hump in front of the cockpit.

It was drummed into them that two essentials to their success were marksmanship, and skill in formation flying. So in the first few weeks every pilot was using at least 2,000 rounds a day in ground target practice alone; and in the first fortnight the pilots did four times as much flying as in all their training in England. But the Camels were tricky little machines. "Formating" in them was not easy. And early in its history No. 4 had a dreadful lesson.

The Sopwith Camel shot down 1,294 enemy aircraft during World War I, more than any other Allied fighter. 

Additionally, Camels fitted with eight Le Prieur air-to-air rockets proved to be very effective against German Zeppelins and long-range bombers.

 And as this unfortunate fellow dropped towards the ground (and eventual German imprisonment) Cobby protectively followed his every movement. The Huns were still on his tail. Unaware of their companions' plight, the rest of the patrol had flown on. The trouble was that Cobby did not know whether he should have re-joined his formation, ceasing to be a protector, or whether be should have turned and attacked his pursuers. He took the harder course - he stayed with his pal. The time was soon to come when instinctively and instantly be did the right thing in an air battle.

Captain A. H. Cobby , DSO, DFC and two bars sitting in the cockpit of Sopwith Camel fighter aircraft.  He was officially credited with the confirmed destruction in combat of twenty nine machines. That was the highest number of any Australian airman of the First World War and therefore Australia's leading "Ace".
Note the checqered paint scheme on this aircraft which indicated its pilot was an instructor at the time. Cobby noted that this was "the best Camel he could find" and he flew it regularly during his posting to Number 8 Squadron (training) at Leighterton.

But first he had a most unpleasant experience. His flight commander took Cobby and "Tab" Pflamm, another fledgling pilot, over the line on a fighting patrol. First the flight commander impressed on them the necessity of sticking to him and doing as be did. Then he set so stiff a climbing pace that the less experienced pilots found him difficult to follow. Frequently they lost position. And when this bad again happened, and when the flight commander, at 18,000 feet, was hundreds of feet away, he suddenly kicked his machine over into a dive. Following their leader down, the young pilots then discovered the reason-an enemy two-seater was circling below. Cobby also noticed another Hun machine of the same type making off.

At last this was the real thing! Cobby dived on the Hun. And in this, his very first battle in the skies, he displayed one of the qualities that was to make him so deadly a foe. Although the German rear gunner had been steadily firing at him as be dived down, Cobby withheld his fire until he was within twenty feet of the enemy machine. It was only a short burst. The German gunner slumped in his cockpit. And as it pulled out of its dive the Australian machine almost touched the wings of the enemy with its wheels. Then Cobby maneuvered himself dead behind and just below the tail of his opponent. Again and then again at close range he put in short bursts. But apparently without result. For the Hun went streaking for home.

Then the Australian suddenly remembered his companions. No, they were nowhere to be seen. So what? The fledgling turned for the general direction of his aerodrome. On the way he picked up his pal "Tab." Then suddenly, past Cobby's nose, shot another Camel. It was their leader.  And as they formated home the two junior pilots by signs told each other of their experiences; the other chap had also been in a scrap. Incidentally it was extraordinary how much pilots could tell each other in sign language. Remember, fighter pilots did not have wireless in those days. But to return to our story. The flight commander, looking back and seeing the talk in signs, thought the two juniors were joking at his expense. He was in a tearing rage when he landed. He told the crestfallen pair that they had not only disregarded instructions, but they had also committed the unpardonable sin of abandoning their leader in a scrap.

They needed more training, he said, more discipline. He would recommend that they be sent back to England for it. But the culprits declared that they had not funked it. 

On the contrary, they had each been in a scrap. Cobby was sure he had hit his opponent. The other pilot was certain he bad downed another Hun two-seater. The flight commander was a fair man. He postponed his judgment until inquiries were made -perhaps observers on the ground could supply further and more conclusive information. That information was forthcoming -"Tab's" Hun was seen to crash across the line, and Cobby's had burst into flames and crashed shortly after the Australian had turned for home. The flight commander had also shot down his opponent. So in the Flight's first scrap it bad done the "hat trick." That was a great achievement. No, there was no punishment for Cobby and "Tab." It was great rejoicing in the mess that night.

Before he was to increase his tally Cobby was almost defeated by death, that lurking, implacable enemy. After a big dogfight a huge bank of fog swirled across the sky, and in this wet grey blanket the British and Australian pilots lost formation and individually set off for home. Near the ground visibility was limited to twenty yards. Cobby's 'drome was under the murk. Petrol was running low. A landing simply had to be made. 

The Camel was put into a glide. The altimeter was creeping to zero. When it read 200 feet there was a sudden crash and Cobby knew no more. When he recovered consciousness he found himself pinned in wreckage - most uncomfortably and dangerously pinned. He was upside down. His body and limbs were jammed in what was left of the machine. His bleeding bead was in the snow. Petrol was running down his neck and legs. He could not move to free himself. Breathing was difficult.

Cobby's shouts at last brought an old peasant. But be was too scared to do anything, and be could not understand Cobby's clumsy French. And when, after what seemed to the imprisoned pilot a lapse of centuries, the peasant returned with a gendarme and some villagers, Cobby's troubles were not yet over. First, the rescue party had to be convinced that the distressed pilot was not a German. At last Cobby's batting French convinced them. Then he was promptly extricated. His injuries were only slight. Although stiff and cold, he was able to walk. 

What a miraculous escape his had been! The plane had crashed into the top of a tall tree. The wings were ripped off; their wreckage lay at the foot of the tree. But the fuselage had hurtled on, to land on the only haystack within miles. Knocked unconscious by the first impact, the pilot was jolted partly out when the fuselage crashed to earth. And where did his head land but in thick snow! A miraculous escape indeed. Other British and Australian machines were trapped in that fog. Many crashed. Several pilots were killed, and more were injured.

One cloudy afternoon Cobby, in company with two other machines, was over the German lines in quest of prey. He was fighting fit. Eagerly be peered ahead, to right and left and above. Suddenly there reared up before him a big sausage balloon, rolling gently in the sky. Cobby knew there were strong ground defences; knew that the anti-aircraft guns were ready to spit death at the first glimpse of a raider. He knew, too, that those gunners below would instantly know the height of an attacker. But with Cobby it was the job, not the risk, that counted. 

With guns blazing he dived. The balloon collapsed with a mighty grunt and went swiftly wobbling down in flame and smoke. Then, with his blue eyes fairly dancing, the pilot sped up and away in search of sterner prey. Suddenly his eyes narrowed to a steely glint. Out from the clouds some distance away droned four Fokkers. Three of them were flying at 10,000 feet; and there was a fourth flying about 1,500 feet below them. Then they vanished among the clouds. But that was only the beginning of the story.

With the cool daring that soon was to make him an ace, Cobby made straight for the direction of those Fokkers, flying under clouds so as to approach them unseen. Great biding places the clouds - they give an aeroplane wonderful cover for a game of hide-and-seek. Rapidly Cobby overhauled the unsuspecting machines that presently emerged from a cloud only to fly on into another. He trailed them as a hawk does its prey. 

His plan was to pounce on the lower machine. Soon his chance came. Cobby sped on, hidden in a cloud and just able to see the ghostly machines slipping through the vapour ahead. He would come out from his cloud, he decided, at the precise moment when the three upper Fokkers would begin to fly above another one. The cloud would then be between them and the lower Fokker. And so it came to pass.

Cobby hurtled straight down. He held his fire until it seemed that in a fraction of a second be must crash into the Fokker. At only fifty feet range he fired a burst-only one. The Fokker collapsed straight down into a bed of clouds. Cobby dived down after it; but it had gone for all time - crashed.

Guns, other guns, chattered viciously. Something flashed past his tail. The three Fokkers were upon him, bent on avenging their fallen comrade. But they had no revenge, for Cobby eluded them. In March 1918 narrow escapes were the rule rather than the exception. For, besides its normal fighting duties, No. 4 was doing ground -strafing and bombing; the weather was very bad; the enemy was preparing for and eventually made, a big push; and the redoubtable Richthofen Circus was operating in the sector. 

It speaks volumes for the quality of the pilots of No. 4 and of their war training that when they first came upon a formation of the Richthofen Circus, the Australians, although outnumbered, attacked and won the scrap. And a few days later when he was leading an Australian patrol Cobby himself shot down two machines of the Circus.

No. 4, however, was also suffering heavy casualties. But about this time the Australians came under the inspirational influence of Mick Mannock, the magnificent Irish war bird who was to become the British ace of aces - he who was officially credited with seventy-three enemy machines when his turn came to be shot down. Mick was with No. 74 Squadron, then an aerodrome neighbour of No. 4's. It wasn't his job, but he taught the Australians a lot. 

They made splendid use of this knowledge. They put into practice his advice that a bold and aggressive bearing was a great asset in a scrap, and adopted his policy of giving new members of the squadron a chance of tackling enemy two-seaters while the rest of the patrol stayed "upstairs" to guard the new chum from the attentions of marauding enemy scouts.

About this time Cobby was promoted captain and made a flight commander. Besides his mounting tally of planes and balloons, he had a prouder honour. In all the patrols he had led not a member or a plane had been lost. Of course, there had been many a narrow escape. For instance. Cobby once had his seat shot from under him. and on another occasion bullets had zipped through his flying suit. But those scraps only inspired him to further efforts. 

A little later Cobby and a few chosen pilots were leaving the big formations to lure the Huns into fights. In fact, five months after this raw squadron had first seen action it was regarding odds of two to one against them as about an even contest! So it was not surprising to find five No. 4 machines led by Cobby attacking fourteen Huns and shooting down five without loss to themselves. And another Cobby-led patrol of nine machines shot down six enemy machines before breakfast. How the Australian pilots must have enjoyed that meal!

Now came days and weeks of stirring excitement, not only for No. 4 Squadron but for all the British and Australian squadrons. For the Germans made their mighty attack on Bapaume. Ceaselessly the artillery boomed and thundered. At night the gun flashes were vivid lightning, lighting up many miles of country. Under this terrific bombardment one of the hard-pressed British armies began to give way. Ceaselessly the air force attacked the advancing Germans, crowding into Bapaume from every road. If ever, now was the time the flying daredevils must protect infantry and artillery, give them every ounce of help they possibly could.

Day after day the squadrons flew over that packed Bapaume-Cambrai road, striking with their every weapon, dropping and spitting death on the advancing enemy. On land and in the air the Hun hit back furiously. Naturally his war birds took their toll. So there were days when, after the last machine had flown home, there would be toasts in the mess for those who never more would answer the roll call.

Cobby and his comrades lived tensely through those hectic days. Theirs was the awe-inspiring sight of one great army hurling itself against another -masses of men and machines interlocked in a struggle to the death across a ruined countryside. Wherever the machines flew there was visible through the mists the dull glow of scores of villages in flames. Sometimes, high up in the mists, the war birds would fly into murky, warm clouds that were but the smoke haze from the burning buildings below. Earth and sky were filled with rolling thunder, flashes of thousands of guns. And above it all, diving down into the very heart of the melee, the war birds came roaring night and day.

One morning after the great push was over, Cobby was leading a patrol. Slowly, the air filled with huge, fleecy clouds, until the hunters could see nothing but their own mist-shrouded machines. But soon they could see the ground, and presently a railway line. Cobby flew lower still and saw a train come puffing along.

Ha! a new target, a new thrill. He dived. His machineguns ripped bullets into the engine, and then, as the plane zoomed, the bullets swept along the length of the train. Terrified the engine driver put on full speed. But Cobby had wheeled and was over the train again with his guns beating a busy "rat-a-tat-tat-tat." He chased her right into the station. Then other members of the patrol swooped, dropping bombs which blew up two ammunition trains and a goods-shed piled with war material. Heavy military lorries rumbled away from the station. These were spurred along with a hail of machine-gun bullets.

Next evening coming home after a slow day Cobby saw a two-seater plane spying out our artillery posts. He dived, giving it a sharp burst as he flashed by behind, then whipped up underneath its tail. Again his guns blazed. Another Hun machine had flown its last flight.

Every day brought its adventure and hairbreadth escapes to the pilots of No. 4 Squadron, as it did to all the squadrons. And daily each squadron board proudly chalked up its tally. No plane was counted unless it bad actually been seen to crash. Many a machine brought down out of control must have failed to return to the enemy lines; but if it was not actually seen to crash, it was not counted. This rule was very strict.

Now Cobby was coming to be regarded as the deadliest hunter of all the Australian squadrons. He bad perfected many a trick in air fighting-tricks to deceive an enemy pilot while in fight in the air, tricks to deceive the gunners of the anti-aircraft batteries, tricks to beat the balloon barrages, and tricks to beat rifle and machine-gun fire from the ground. Too often, the stories of mistakes were written in blood. A fighting pilot, to live, must learn quickly. For the eagles of the air on both sides were not only cool and brave men, but very cunning ones. Every brush with the enemy taught something new; every discussion back at the mess bad a lesson. Many were the talks on tactics and strategy, on gadgets and alterations that improved speed, rate of fire, accuracy of bombing. Thus, on every succeeding flight a good pilot became just a little better than he was before.

But besides the tricks, the ever-increasing knowledge, and the martial qualities, Harry Cobby also bad a dash of mischief. Even in the doing of his duty be could make or find fun. There were, for example, what he and his close comrades -used to call "special missions" or "pleasure cruises." Such a one was when he, Malley and Crosse "left their cards" on an enemy 'drome on the outskirts of Lille, then in German bands. There were two Albatros Scouts on the tarmac. These the Australians fired on and set ablaze.

"Then," said Cobby, telling the story, "we chased away every one who put his nose in sight, and finished up flying across the aerodrome with our wheels on the ground, and firing, into the open doors of the hangars, hoping we would burn up a few more enemy machines. But we were not successful in this. We then crossed Lille about twenty feet above the roof-tops, waving our bands to the people in the streets, and quite a number waved back. We were fired at by the forts around the town. But all the way we kept right down to the ground and twisted this way and that, so that enterprising field gunners and people with machine-guns could not get a shot at us.

"It was amusing to see odd batches of troops come out of billets and hutments and start to wave to us, and then go to ground like startled rabbits when they recognized us as the enemy. Here and there we could have knocked their caps off with our wheels, but contented ourselves with zooming up after passing them, and looking down our tails at them as they lay on the ground, while facetiously blowing kisses to them, or putting our fingers to our noses. I expect they thought us quite mad. But it must have had some moral effect to see us sporting around their territory without hindrance.

For all its considerable military value, it was a gloriously irresponsible prank. And not every one would agree with Captain Cobby's idea of "pretty safe." But it is easy to understand why the official history of the Australian Flying Corps described Cobby as 44 one of the most daring spirits of the Australian air service."

It was when the big push had been launched in 1918 that Captain Cobby had one of the highest service honours paid him. It was not a decoration or a promotion, but a job of work. He was chosen to lead a great air attack on an enemy aircraft park at Haubourdin. The attack fleet was made up 3f five British and Australian squadrons, each flying up to eighteen machines. Each had its job and its operational height, layers of fighters above, bombers below. As the official language has it, they were in "V" flights, echeloned in height. From the ground they looked like a vast herringbone.

Cobby, in the lower formation and at the bead of his flight, led the attack. He dived-and his flight roared down after him. They smashed a Fokker as it frantically rose to escape, and carried straight on to the great hangars rising up to meet them. Low over the roofs of the hangars, they flattened out and released their bombs. Spouts of flame shot up; explosion after explosion shook earth and sky. Hangars, machines, barracks, workshops went up in a holocaust of flame and smoke. Squadron after squadron came roaring down to join in this ordered riot of destruction. This bad been a great supply depot, a hive of industry. They left it a fiery, smoke-shrouded wreck.

The German aces bad their machines brightly painted often with fantastic figures representing demons charging through the air, or open-mouthed sharks, or other grotesque figures intended to give their machines a terrifying aspect. The British machines were of uniform colour but the pilots generally carried some decoration or mascot. Cobby, while on leave in England had souvenired two notices from a train. 

One read, "Caution-it is dangerous to lean out of the windows. " The other was, "Please do not spit!" He had screwed these notices one on each side of the fuselage. But his mascot was a figure of Charlie Chaplin made of painted aluminium. A contrast wasn't it? - the German aces with their vivid colours and ferocious devices, and the Australian ace with homely notices and a homely little figure.

The pilots of No. 4 Squadron loved collecting strange souvenirs. One pitch black night they tried to souvenir a huge Great Dane, but the dog, very willing to come, could not get over the high fence. At the critical moment the owner came out. His French was very rapid, very excitable; but the Australians sensed what he meant. They left.

On another occasion they tried to souvenir a group of statuary in the centre of a French town. It was a nice, dark night. The town was quiet. But the statuary was very heavy, very cold to handle, and very firmly emplaced. In the middle of the operations the gendarmes came running along; and again the Australians thought it best to retire. But one of the statues bad lost his sword.

The envy of the four Australian squadrons was the most unusual souvenir owned by No. 2 Squadron. It was a two-seater aeroplane, and they called it "Sophie." "Sophie" bad been left behind when some French squadrons retired; she was then in very poor health. But No. 2 Squadron bad some excellent "doctors"; so "Sophie" flew away, never to return.

The strain of air war is terrible. So often death rides with a machine. Little wonder, then, that these high-spirited boys let themselves go whenever there occurred a chance of fun. No wonder Cobby and his cobbers, when on mischief bent, made the most of it. On leave one time in Edinburgh they bad two rare pranks. Cobby with two others "borrowed" three hansom cabs, climbed into the drivers' seats, and went at a spanking trot down the main streets. The citizens turned to stare, then laugh, as with whips cracking, the cabs came trundling by. Those drivers wore officers' uniforms and their chests were bright with ribbons. Edinburgh had never seen such cabbies.

But ~,~-ho do you think these cabbies picked up as fares? No less important personages than the members of the Japanese Trade Mission, then visiting the Scottish capital on important business. The Japs thoroughly enjoyed the joke. The military police didn't.

A few days later one of the jokers gave the citizens another big laugh. He climbed the great memorial statue the centre of the city. It was a very ticklish job, shinning up those glistening columns of marble. A crowd quickly began to gather until, as the officer climber higher and higher, the great square became filled with thousands of people, staring up.

He got right to the very top. Perched there dizzily, he waved his cap to the crowd. They laughed and cheered, thinking it great fun.

And then-the climber couldn't climb down. He tried his hardest; he just couldn't. And there he perched until the police called out the city fire brigade. These came with a clatter and clang and ran up the big extension ladder to the rescue. And didn't the crowd cheer! And didn't the war birds laugh! And didn't the police chief have something to say!

But when he was aloft and a war bird he was a different Cobby. His bright blue eyes that could dance with fun were steely, his every action purposeful and assured. Here was a leader himself setting a lead to his pilots, not only in deeds, but in tallies of the enemy. By now be was outstandingly the leading ace of the Australian squadrons. He was to finish the war with an official tally of twenty-nine enemy planes and thirteen balloons. 

He was to be awarded the Distinguished Service Order, and the Distinguished Flying Cross and two bars. He was to have several mentions in dispatches and was to be appointed fighting instructor to the wing, with the rank of acting major. And all this was done, all these honours won, in less than eleven months. Small wonder, then, that when both the King and the Prince of Wales visited No. 4 Squadron, not the least of, their interest was in a young ex-bank clerk from Victoria named Harry Cobby.

Harry Cobby, ace of the Australian squadrons of the Great War, is now back in uniform. He is a group captain in charge of recruiting. Even to fledglings, the ribbons on his tunic say: Here indeed is a great war pilot!