One hundred years ago this spring the triplane fighter made its combat debut. But it wasn't flown by who you think it was....

Three Wings of Death

The following excerpt from World War I German flying ace Hans von Hammer’s memoir The Hammer of Hell describes a dramatic incident that occurred in the spring of 1917, only a few months after Hammer joined Jadgstaffel (Hunter Squadron) 10, the so-called “Condor Squadron,” under Heinrich von Froenlich.

After four months with Hunt-Squad 10 I had attained a total of five victories. In addition to the three encounters described already, I had brought down a pair of B.E. 2 reconnaissance aircraft. I recall little regarding each incident beyond the fact that in each case the observer survived, while the pilot perished. Both of the unfortunate pilots were taken entirely by surprise and presented no challenge.

For all that such aircraft were entirely legitimate targets—the interdiction of enemy reconnaissance was, after all, a large part of the hunter pilot’s raison d'etre—the destruction of such virtually helpless targets felt at times little better than murder. It was best for one’s peace of mind if one did not dwell at too great length upon such things. Indeed, we successful hunter pilots tended to be an unimaginative lot in that respect.

Near the end of March we of Hunt-Squad 10 get quite a shock. One day, in late morning, Lindemann and I were preparing to go out on patrol. Froenlich had just come in from an uneventful earlier patrol of his own. As we discussed the day’s flying, we observed five aircraft approaching our aerodrome from the northeast. We did not recognize the type.

As they drew nearer, we noticed that each machine had three wings. Early in the war there had been several one-winged types, most notably Fokker’s famous one-winger. By 1917, however, the air corps of all armies had settled overwhelmingly upon biplane types. Our initial curiosity regarding the newcomers quickly turned to concern when we realized, all more or less simultaneously, that they could not be any of ours.

Sure enough, the five aircraft fanned out across the aerodrome and went into shallow dives, their machine guns firing. We had been caught out in the open, on the ground and entirely helpless, by an enemy punishment raid! We threw ourselves onto the grass as the enemy machines roared overhead. I do not know how close the enemy’s bullets came to me on that pass. They were certainly none too far away to suit me.

As our attackers wheeled round to make another pass, we all leapt to our feet. “Don’t just stand there, get one up!” Froenlich cried.

Lindemann and I, already rigged out in our flying gear, and near to our machines, hastened to comply. We had to dive for the ground again just before reaching the machines. I then fairly vaulted into the cockpit of my Albatros. Holst, faithful as always despite the almost comically agitated expression upon his face, rushed to stage my prop.

“Switch on!” I called.

“Switch on!” Holst replied.

“Contact!” I called.

“Contact!” Holst answered, and gave the prop a mighty swing. The engine startled me by catching up on the very first try. This was something I had never before witnessed, and was seldom to see again in the year’s worth of service that followed.

Before I could get under way, the enemy made still another pass. Our aircraft were of course the principal targets on this go-around. Lindemann’s machine got the worst of it. Lindemann himself caught a bullet in the left arm. I was too preoccupied with advancing the throttle to notice. I soon taxied onto the field and made my takeoff.

I climbed as rapidly as I possibly could, mentally attempting the whole time to will my Albatros to rise still faster. Such was my excitement that I nearly forgot to cock my Spandaus! I had no sooner executed this task when I saw four of the enemy aircraft receding into the distance. But where was the fifth?

I was by now too seasoned a combat flyer to assume anything other than the worst. The fifth enemy pilot was no doubt even at that moment maneuvering into position to attack from above, probably with the sun behind him as best he could manage. I glanced in the appropriate sector. I spotted him, just in time to take evasive action. He dove on past me, missing me by a comfortable margin. I had successfully wrong-footed him.

With the enemy pilot now lower than I, I had the opportunity to return the favor. Before I could do so, I saw him rising back up to altitude, climbing with extraordinary speed. I fired a burst that went nowhere near him.

We exchanged several more bursts, maneuvering all the while in a frantic quest for advantage. I found myself almost entirely outmaneuvered. The enemy machine continued to climb and maneuver far more effectively than my Albatros. I simply could not lay a finger upon him. I had all I could do to keep out of his sights.

The fight fortunately proved brief. Doubtless low on ammunition, or on fuel, or perhaps both, the enemy pilot soon disengaged and headed away to the northwest, back toward his own lines. It was well for me that he chose to disengage. I would almost certainly have been unable to end the contest upon my own terms.

I returned from this, the briefest of all my combat missions, to see what damage the enemy had done us. In addition to Lindemann, we had four ground crew wounded. One of these subsequently died. Lindemann’s combat career was over. He continued in service as a flying instructor. We had four machines damaged, of which two had to be entirely written off. We were all furious—at ourselves, for having allowed ourselves to get caught so unawares, and at the observers in our sector, for having failed to spot the enemy raiders and notify us of their presence deep behind our lines.

We were subsequently to learn that these mysterious new three-winged aircraft were the work of the British designer Sopwith. They had recently equipped certain British naval squadrons. The addition of the third wing enabled the builders to give the aircraft an abundance of lifting surface, while at the same time keeping the individual wings short. It was these characteristics which explained the machine’s remarkable agility and rate of climb. Our flyers soon had their hands full dealing with them.

German designers of course got quickly to work attempting to build three-winged hunter machines of their own. Fokker, after managing a good look at a captured Sopwith machine, soon had one in the works. Richtofen took up its cause. He and his fellows were within a few months flying the famous Fokker three-winger.

As will be seen later, I flew the aircraft as well, as part of Richtofen’s Hunter-Wing 1. Ironically, the Sopwith Triplane design had by this time been phased out of front-line service in favor of Sopwith’s tiny but deadly Camel. The British had already learned what we were to learn—that the three-winged aircraft had critical weaknesses in their wings, and were tricky to fly. But we are getting ahead of ourselves. That will wait until a later chapter.