Keeping them flying

At 21 years of age, Fergus Cox became one of Australia’s first air mechanics by accident. A farrier from western Queensland, he had been serving with the Light Horse in Egypt and was sent to hospital in Cairo in April 1916 after falling ill. He was due to be invalided home but did not want to miss “the adventure of a lifetime”. Never one to follow the rules, he obtained a leave pass and left the hospital with no intention of going back. Rejoining his comrades at Heliopolis, a chance for adventure presented itself, as men were being recruited for the newly formed Australian Flying Corps (AFC). “In the early morning before breakfast, three big Leyland trucks were travelling around our tent lines with a loud hailer blaring,” he wrote. “They were calling for any men who had mechanical or engineering knowledge and wanted them to train further in the trades of riggers, fitters, engineers and so on.” Cox took one look at his mate George, and the two made a dive for the truck. He could not have guessed how this decision would change the course of his war and his life.

Cox was put through his paces in Egypt to prove his skill as a tradesman. Having made it through the initial selection process, he found himself bound for England, where he would begin training to become one of Australia’s first air mechanics. Later in the war, four AFC training squadrons were developed to take on new recruits as mechanics. Early training was comprehensive, however, and prospective mechanics like Cox underwent an eight-month course to qualify. Members of squadrons raised in Australia were initially trained at Point Cook in Victoria, and were usually sent to England afterwards to hone their skills. According to Cox, the men had “the best instructors you could expect to find anywhere”. Cox had worked as a blacksmith and farrier before the war, and with the Light Horse. Men with such trade experience were normally first in line to be selected for mechanic training. Other men at the training school had been motor mechanics, tinsmiths, blacksmiths, and sail and watch-makers in a previous life and were just what the fledgling AFC needed to support their squadrons.

Cox excelled in his course, and was selected for further training at the Rolls Royce Aero Engine Plant. “I received a 97.8% pass,” he proudly recorded in his diary. Graduating at the top of his class, he was allocated as a fitter and was responsible for servicing the engines of aircraft. He was joined by men who would begin work as riggers, electricians, magneto (generator) repairers, general fitters, blacksmiths, coppersmiths and machinists. These men served across four squadrons operating in the Middle East and on the Western Front during the First World War. AFC Squadrons undertook aerial and photographic reconnaissance, offensive patrols, ground attacks, bombing, aerial supply and artillery spotting. As well as being involved in aerial combat, the AFC revolutionised the war for Australians on the ground, offering commanders a view of the battlefield that had not been previously possible.

“The old ‘drome”

On the 22nd of September 1917, Cox arrived at the aerodrome near Baizieux, as a member of what would later become known as No. 2 Squadron, Australian Flying Corps. Typically sitting about ten or 20 kilometres behind the front line, the aerodromes would become Cox’s home. The air mechanics spent the majority of their time in hangars and workshops, repairing aircraft and replacing parts. No. 2 Squadron was initially equipped with single-seat DH-5 biplane aircraft; later in the war they were re-equipped with SE5-a fighter aircraft. Cox was assigned to the squadron’s commanding officer, Major Oswald Watt and cared for Watt’s bus, as he called it, as if it were his own. Assigning mechanics to specific pilots and aircraft had that effect, giving them a sense of pride in their work and helping form better relationships with their pilots. As squadron leader, Major Watt’s didn’t see much action in his aircraft, so Cox often helped the riggers and fitters on other aircraft when things were slow. This was common practice, fostering camaraderie and helping the mechanics to expand their skillset.

At the outbreak of the war, the military potential of aircraft was only just being recognised. Though aircraft existed before the war, they generally had not been used in combat. Aircraft had been used against civilians by European powers such as Spain and Italy during colonial conflicts, but the First World War offered commanders the opportunity to test the utility of aircraft on a much greater scale. Working with a new and changing technology meant that mechanics had to think quickly, and to work as problem solvers. Failure to resolve problems with aircraft could be fatal.

This was the case with some of the SE5a aircraft in Cox’s squadron. The single-seat fighter aircraft were equipped with wooden propellers, which were held on with a simple nut and bolt fitting. Exposed to the chopping of the wind during flight, the fitting sometimes came, loose forcing pilots to make an emergency landing or risk a crash. Cox had a solution:

I made up an aluminium cone which fitted over the bolt and nut area of the propellers and tried it on the test rig where we found a slight increase in RPM. I suggested this to the powers that be but they rejected it outright. I showed it to Captain Les Holden who wanted me to fit it to his machine. On returning from a tour he reported to me that in the air he had gained both RPM and air speed. After three trips it did not loosen so Les showed it to Major Watt … soon all our planes were fitted with them and the message must have got to other units for they started to appear on many machines.

Savvy inventions were necessary as pilots and mechanics familiarised themselves with this emerging technology. Mechanics knew the aircraft best, and were often the masterminds behind improvements that were made throughout the war. One was the ‘interrupter mechanism’, which allowed machine-guns to fire through spinning propellers without breaking them. Cox recalled how dangerous this could be: “Lieutenant Howard shot his prop and was forced to make an emergency landing at Bapaume … the problem was found to be that the air pressure on the oil at different heights and manoeuvres affected the signal timing. Once this was established to be the cause, we soon found a way to overcome the problem, for too many propellers had been damaged.”

The nature of war often demanded that mechanics took on roles outside their normal duties, making their job more complex than repairing engines and propellers. The ever-changing front line often necessitated the relocation of the aerodromes at short notice. As Cox later wrote, “We were never surprised to get word to pack up and get the hell out of it in a hurry. This was standard procedure when they thought Jerry was going to make a breakthrough.” Relocating the squadron aerodromes was no small task; it involved moving the aircraft, hangars, tents and workshops quickly, and required all hands on deck, as well as a great number of vehicles. Mechanics were responsible for a wide variety of tasks and were vital to maintaining the efficiency and safety both of aircraft and their aerodromes.

“Here they come!”

Air Mechanic Stanley Tuck, a plumber and tinsmith from Victoria, was serving with No. 3 Squadron when it was forced to evacuate its aerodrome at Bailleul in 1918. “We worked at top speed pulling down the gear and loading it into tenders,” he recorded in his diary. When Tuck returned to the aerodrome the following day, he found that several men, including fellow air mechanic Bert Dewhirst, had been killed by enemy shell-fire while working to clear the aerodrome. Squadrons moved in a great hurry; there was no time to spare as the enemy was closing in. Cox learned this the hard way when his squadron was making one of its many moves in 1918. “We loaded our equipment onto the truck when we noticed two different colours of smoke coming towards us. I yelled out ‘GAS’ and for all to get their masks on and cover their arms and legs. I did mine and looked at the others to find them arguing about how much gas would give them [some time] in Blighty. I pulled my mask back to yell at them and it was long enough for me to get some in the lungs.”

Aerodromes remained a prime target throughout the war, even without the threat of an imminent breakthrough. Air Mechanic Harold Edwards had been a watchmaker in Bendigo before joining No. 3 Squadron. He returned to his workshop one day and found “A foot long hole had been ripped in the hut wall under my bench. One or both feet could well have been severed if I had been at my usual duty!” The risk of air raids and artillery hitting the aerodrome was constant, as there was no better way to keep your enemy from the sky than to destroy their equipment and the men who could repair it. Raids over aerodromes were a constant source of danger for the men who lived and worked there.

Air mechanics also encountered danger in the sky. Pilots sometimes took their mechanics up for test flights and joy flights, while other mechanics flew on longer journeys in case repairs were needed. Once airborne, they encountered many of the same risks as pilots. Air Mechanic Douglas Sloane and his pilot, Lieutenant Frank Shapira, were killed in the fiery wreckage of their RE8 when it crashed en route to the Western Front. A witness to their accident later wrote: “She went down in a spinning nose dive to earth and the machine was blazing from end to end.” Air Mechanic Sydney Banks-Smith met a similarly grisly end when he went up with a pilot to test a machine-gun. Both wing tips broke off as the pilot attempted to flatten out, causing the aircraft to crash into the ground, killing both occupants instantly. The risks of flying and working with new and unpredictable technology were ever present, not just for pilots but for mechanics too.

Discipline in the ranks

“I was called into the office of the CO one day, for what reason I could not work out but then again I was quite used to being called down for some misdemeanour and reprimanded,” Cox wrote in the summer of 1918.  By this stage a lieutenant colonel, Oswald Watt informed Cox that he had received his pay-book from Egypt, and that his kit was in the AIF stores in London. “Oh, my past had caught up with me,” Cox mused. Finally caught for sneaking out of hospital and finding his way into the AFC, Cox wasn’t reprimanded at all, as he might have been in other branches of the armed forces. Officers and mechanics of the AFC often had more informal relationships than their British counterparts. As they worked closely together, pilots often developed trusting relationships with the mechanics allocated to their aircraft. They had to, as quite often a pilot’s life depended on the ability of his mechanic to keep the aircraft in working order.

Cox thought highly of most of the pilots he knew, and they seemed to share his sentiment. In the winter, he found himself in hospital with frostbitten feet, and was paid a visit by two pilots. “On their way back to their units, they called in again with a large pair of Gum Boots and a beautiful pair of pilot’s fur-lined flying boots. I tried to find out how much I owed them but the reply I got from each was ‘oh, he paid for them.’ What could I do but feel grateful?” He later received a visit from Lieutenant Colonel Watt, his earlier misdemeanour seemingly forgiven.

Cox had no hesitation, however, in putting those he disagreed with in their place, pilot or not. “One new pilot allotted to us had the ability to fly his aircraft to destruction. On some occasions he had a genuine fault with the motor but on three occasions he managed to strip bolt threads out of the crankcase.” He recalled,

I suddenly woke up to what was causing it and said “It’s the same old tale, another motor blown just because the pilot does not know how to fly it.” He flew into a rage and called me an absolute bastard and even repeated it. I told him they were fighting words and for him to apologise or put them up. He chose to put them up and came in flying but left an opening and I landed a beauty on him and laid him out.

Cox wrapped up this encounter by throwing an engine cover over the unconscious officer, leaving him where he had fallen.

Stanley Tuck also struggled with the attitudes of non-commissioned-officers who, he said, “proved to be a pack of dopes at their work” and were always “toadying” to the officers. He also held the pilots in disdain, criticising them for being “easily flattered by toadies and other crawlers”. Tuck’s attitude was typical of mechanics, who resented the airs and graces of officers who had not yet earned the respect of their men. Likewise, mechanics had to earn the respect of their pilots, whose lives dependedon the quality of their work. As trust developed between the officers and men, so too did better relationships. Respect in the AFC was earned, not given.

Cox and Tuck returned to Australia in 1919. Cox settled in Yuleba, Queensland, where he bought a garage, and continued with the trade he had learned during the war. Tuck settled in the suburbs of Melbourne and married his sweetheart in 1920. They went on to have three children.

Later in life, Cox reflected in his memoirs, “not only were the pilots working overtime and tired, so too were we ground staff.” His words recognised the dedicated efforts of AFC mechanics who toiled in the hangars and airfields of the Western Front to keep the aircraft flying and give their pilots the best chance of survival. Without them, the war in the air could never have taken off.

About the author                     

Meghan Adams works in the Military History Section at the Memorial. She currently researches and writes biographies for the Last Post Ceremony.