As dawn broke on 19 July 1918, the carrier swung into the wind and aircraft engines burst into life, preparing for a historic, untested mission—attacking the Zeppelin base at Tondern with the first deck-launched airstrike in the history of warfare. (Simon Smith, www.sasmithart.co.uk)
The roots of the Tondern mission stretched back to the beginning of World War I. Throughout the war, the Royal Navy operated a variety of aircraft at sea. A 20,500-ton ex–passenger liner became the seaplane tender and aircraft carrier HMS Campania when she was commissioned in April 1915. She cruised the Mediterranean and Aegean with as many as ten small flying boats.
Probably the best-known use of Royal Navy shipboard aircraft occurred during the epic Battle of Jutland at the end of May 1916. Supporting the British battle-cruiser squadron, Flight Lieutenant Frederick Rutland and his observer G. S. Trewin, off the 1,700-ton seaplane tender HMS Engadine, spotted the smoke of the German screening vessels and radioed a contact report—the first such use of radio in combat. (“Rutland of Jutland,” spent most of World War II confined for espionage on behalf of Japan.)1
But something more potent emerged on the naval aviation horizon.
Curing Furious Headaches
Captain Wilmot Nicholson was an exceptionally versatile naval officer. With 26 years’ experience, including command of HMS Dreadnought, he had survived the sinking of his cruiser HMS Hogue in 1914. After subsequent commands, in March 1917 he took over HMS Furious, a 19,000-ton battlecruiser awaiting commissioning and modification as an aircraft carrier. He was her only wartime commanding officer.2
The Royal Navy’s BL (breech-loading) Mark I 18-inch was a step beyond the 15-inch weapons deployed in 1915. Only three 18-inchers were produced: two for the Furious and a spare. Tests showed a maximum range of 40,000 yards with an effective range of 31,000. Her fearsome armament of two 18-inch guns anticipated Japan’s World War II behemoth Yamato-class battleships, but the Furious proved unworkable.
In place of the forward turret, the Furious received a hangar capable of housing up to ten aircraft, and a flight deck was erected over what had been the forward gun position. Commissioned in June 1917, the Furious was still being modified into the world’s first “genuine” aircraft carrier. A crane lifted aircraft from the hangar to the launch deck for flight operations. Though not yet a flattop, the nascent aircraft carrier of the future was taking shape.
In August 1917, Nicholson oversaw deck-landing tests at the Scapa Flow anchorage off Scotland. Sailors reported that the massive shock of the huge stern 18-inch gun inflicted structural damage to the “flying-off” deck forward. The massive weapon fell into disuse pending removal.
The Furious’s lead aviator was Squadron Commander Edwin H. Dunning of the Royal Naval Air Service (RNAS), a 25-year-old graduate of Dartmouth Royal Naval College. Previously a seaplane pilot, Dunning was drawn to shipboard aviation and began proving the concept.
Dunning’s aircraft was the Sopwith Pup, predecessor of the famed Camel fighter. The Pup was among the most popular aircraft of the era: light, agile, responsive. But it lacked any arresting gear like that used by American experimenter Eugene Ely six years earlier. Consequently, straps were attached to the Pup’s airframe for crewmen to grasp as the pilot “hovered” the aircraft just off the deck, nearly stationary in the ship’s relative wind.
The first flight trials were held on 2 August 1917. The combined ship and ambient wind yielded a 47-knot headwind, about the same as a Pup’s landing speed. Flying up the starboard beam forward of the island, Dunning adroitly cross-controlled, placing his machine over the flying-off deck.
About ten of Dunning’s fellow officers, incongruously clad in blues with winged collars and ties, rushed to grasp the handles and pulled the Sopwith down. It was a risky evolution, as the superstructure forced the pilot to side-slip into position over the deck. The whirling propeller posed a serious risk, and after the first trial, Dunning directed his friends to stay clear until his wheels were on deck.
Five days later, Dunning had problems. His first landing damaged the Pup, so he grabbed another and took off. The ship was making 25 knots into a 33-knot wind, producing a substantial 58 knots over the deck. It was far more than necessary to fly a Pup, which normally stalled at 32 knots.
During a self-induced wave-off, either Dunning’s engine cut out or he burst a tire, slewing the Pup to starboard. Dunning and the plane went overboard. Though the Pup remained partially afloat, the pilot drowned in the 20 minutes required to get a boat to him.
The Furious’s log laconically recorded, “Time 1451. Accident, aeroplane plunging into the sea while flying.”
Dunning’s father, Sir Edwin H. Dunning, received a laudatory letter from the Royal Navy:
The Admiralty wish you to know what great service he performed. . . . It was in fact a demonstration of landing an Aeroplane on the deck of a Man-of-War whilst the latter was under way. This had never been done before, and the data obtained was of the utmost value. It will make Aeroplanes indispensible to the Fleet, and possibly revolutionize Naval Warfare.3
Late that year the ship dispensed with the useless stern turret, receiving a landing deck linked to the forward launching platform by precariously narrow taxiways either side of the superstructure. Two aircraft elevators were added, but it was an awkward configuration at best. Though specialized carrier-aircraft designs would not arrive until the postwar period, the Furious marked a beginning.
RAF Emergent
Meanwhile, on 1 April 1918—April Fool’s Day, some naval pilots cynically noted—the RNAS merged with the Royal Flying Corps to become the Royal Air Force. The joy of airpower advocates who had sought an independent service was not widely shared in the senior service. Sub-Lieutenant Jack McCleery, a veteran of the Furious, wrote in his journal, “RNAS and RFC join together to form the RAF, worse luck. Whole RNAS fed to the teeth, and a good many resignations going in. Will do so myself if they try to interfere with my job.”
The organizational change came at an inopportune time. Aside from occurring at the height of the greatest war in history, the frustration of the “dark blue” airmen of the RNAS (in contrast to the RAF’s light blue uniform) had built to a crescendo. The RNAS comprised 55,000 officers and men, almost 3,000 airplanes, and about 100 airships.
After more modifications, the Furious recommissioned in early 1918 and deployed on anti-Zeppelin patrols. On 19 June, she was steaming with the First Light Cruiser Squadron of the Home Fleet on a sweep of the North Sea when the squadron was intercepted by several German seaplanes from the Island of Sylt. The carrier opened fire with its antiaircraft battery, without effect. Then she launched four Sopwith Camels, the first two with inoperative guns. The second element engaged two Friedrichshafen floatplanes and shot one into the water, capturing the crew. It appears to have been the first time a carrier force came under air attack, with portents of things to come a quarter-century later.
One month later, the Furious recorded another first in the log of naval history that echoes a century later.
Power Projection, 1918 Style
Before dawn on 19 July, the Furious reached her planned launch point about 12 miles off the enemy coast. In place of her previous Sopwith Pup fighters and Strutter observation aircraft, she embarked far more capable “aeroplanes.” The Sopwith 2F1 Camels became first-
generation naval strike fighters, each
capable of bearing four 25-pound bombs. Eighty miles distant, their target was the German Navy’s Zeppelin base at Tondern, today in Denmark.
The Furious’s senior aviator, Lieutenant Colonel Richard Bell Davies, was confident of the carrier’s potential. His opinion carried weight beyond his rank. A prewar pilot of exceptional experience, he earned the Victoria Cross for a spectacular 1915 rescue in the Dardanelles, landing behind enemy lines to pick up one of his pilots. Both fliers crammed into the Nieuport’s single cockpit, taking off amid rifle fire from pursuing Bulgarian soldiers.
Earlier in the war, the British had attacked the Zeppelin base twice with floatplanes—ineffectually. Then the Furious’s first two sorties against Tondern had been aborted. A U-boat forced her back to port in May, and weather with 12-foot waves scuttled a June effort. Bell Davies and Captain Nicholson convinced the authorities to try a third time, receiving permission to deploy on Wednesday, 17 July.
That Friday off Tondern, units of the Home Fleet escorted the Furious to within several miles of shore. Bell Davis recognized the risk and accepted it as worthwhile, given the high-value targets. In his memoir he recalled, “With the wind as it was, it seemed doubtful that the Camels could get back to the ship after the attack. However, . . . they would certainly have enough petrol to reach the Danish frontier.”4
On deck, mechanics primed the cylinders of each Camel’s rotary engine, popular for its relatively light weight. Then the mechanic and pilot exchanged ritual banter.
The mechanic called, “Switch off?” and the pilot replied, “Switch off.”
“Gasoline on, air closed?”
“Gasoline on, air closed,” responded the aviator.
The mechanic grasped the top edge of the two-bladed wooden prop, extended a leg for balance, and heaved down. He stepped back smartly as the “airscrew” spun into motion, accompanied by the nine-cylinder Bentley’s high-pitched buzz.
The fighter-bombers briefly revved their engines, awaiting the go signal. As the ship’s bow rose in the swell, the flight-deck officer waved the first pilot into the dark sky. Each Camel took off behind a stampede of 150 horses.
At 0315, barely daylight in that northern latitude, seven navalized Camels lifted off, though one aborted with engine trouble.
In two flights, the Great War strike-fighters arrived over the target with timing and surprise on their side. Their early arrival caught the antiaircraft gunners largely unprepared, and the detachment of German Albatros D.V fighters had no time to react.
At 0435, Captain William D. Jackson’s trio dived to attack through the murky dawn, selecting the 730-foot-long “Tosca” airship hangar. The checker-nosed Camels’ ordnance burst on target, destroying Zeppelins L.54 and L.60, while the second flight burned a captive balloon in its nest.
Despite growing antiaircraft fire, the raiders got away cleanly, having inflicted substantial damage. Two aviators stretched their gasoline to reach the task force but ditched in the sea. One pilot, Lieutenant Walter A. Yeulett, force-landed off Denmark and drowned. The remaining three took a little longer to get back.
Escape and Evasion
From the Furious’s first flight, Lieutenant William Dickson made it back to the task force, but flight commander William D. Jackson and Lieutenant Norman E. Williams were forced to land near Esbjerg, Denmark, low on fuel. Jackson followed procedure and burned his Camel, but Williams was prevented by early arrival of the police.
Jackson was befriended by a local farmer who fed him breakfast. A few hours later, as Jackson recalled, “Two gentlemen arrived and I discovered to my sorrow that they were policemen.” He was reunited with Williams and both were escorted to the British consulate, where Lieutenant Samuel Dawson of the second flight also appeared. He had been apprehended attempting to board a train.5
Soon the trio fetched up in Copenhagen, held in a hotel. But Dawson, an intrepid New Zealander, had acquired civilian clothes and managed to escape. Therefore, Jackson and Williams were retained under parole until the diplomats sorted things out. But the Danish guards neglected to have the aviators sign the parole book, leaving a legal loophole.
Befriended by an influential Danish civilian, the Britons eluded surveillance to board a yacht, and they embarked for Sweden. En route, they were snooped by a German trawler and two seaplanes but continued without incident. After solving the language problem, a call to the British consul set things right, and the world’s first aircraft carrier strike mission finally concluded.
Proof of Concept
Thus ended the first power-projection mission launched from the flight deck of a ship embarking attack aircraft. And though the Furious’s strike remained the only such operation of the war, it proved the concept of the attack aircraft carrier.
Bell Davies later said of the Tondern raid, “It finally removed the belief held by many senior officers that attacks by shipborne aircraft on shore and harbour targets were no good.”6
The Germans also were impressed. One of the senior Zeppelin commanders was Kapitanleutnant (Lieutenant) Horst Treusch von Buttlar-Brandenfels, a Pour le Mérite recipient who saw his own airship and a sister erupt in flames. With surprising objectivity, in his Zeppelin history he described the scene as “Gruesomely beautiful . . . this giant flame of sacrifice in which our L.54 and L.60 perished.”7
The airship men and support crews got off lightly, with four wounded. Subsequently, Tondern was deactivated as a Zeppelin base and became an emergency field for conventional aircraft.
Furious Postwar
The Furious served as a test platform through the 1920s, evaluating new naval aircraft for carrier suitability. In 1926, she claimed the first night carrier landing. She completed an eighteen-month overhaul in 1930–1932, upgrading her machinery and raising the quarterdeck. Subsequently, she served in the Home Fleet and the Mediterranean with much of her pre–World War II service devoted to qualifying aviators in carrier landings.
Through a series of modifications, the Furious became a flush-deck carrier, but in 1939 she emerged in a more conventional configuration with a starboard island added.
The Furious’s wartime service was varied. In 1940 she supported evacuation of British forces from Norway, but mainly she ferried aircraft to Africa, Gibraltar, and Malta. However, she launched strikes against French Morocco during Operation Torch in November 1942, as well as missions in northern waters including attacks on the German battleship Tirpitz.
After World War I, HMS Furious took on her second—but not final—form, this time configured as a flush-deck carrier devoted to qualifying aviators for carrier operations. In 1939, she added a starboard island. The ship conducted a variety of operations throughout World War II. (Naval History and Heritage Command)
The Furious’s age and limited capabilities forced her into reserve status in September 1944, and she was retired in April 1945. After submitting to ordnance tests, the world’s first flattop was sold for scrap in 1948. But she held a unique record, having operated three or more generations of naval aircraft from her deck: wood and fabric Great War biplanes; evolutionary types of the 1930s; and finally, more sophisticated World War II designs including elegant Supermarine Seafires and ungainly Fairey Barracudas.
Though rudimentary, the Furious’s 1918 carrier-launched airstrikes marked a revolutionary advancement. The potential for the new ships was obvious, and all major navies took note. Within two decades, flattops would replace battleships in importance, with the “battlewagons” subordinated to providing antiaircraft fire to protect carriers. The U.S. Navy’s embrace of that role reversal—a concept almost unforeseen at the end of the Great War—would result in a stunning dominance in the Pacific during World War II.
1. Thomas G. Bradbeer, “Frederick Rutland: Tinker, Sailor, Aviator, Spy,” History.net.
2. Wilmot Stuart Nicholson, “The Dreadnought Project.”
3. David Hobbs, The Royal Navy’s Air Service in the Great War (United Kingdom: Pen & Sword, 2017), 306.
4. Richard Bell Davies, Sailor of the Air, (United Kingdom: Seaforth Publishing, 1967).
5. “The Escape Story of Capt. W. D. Jackson,” TondernRaid.com.
6. Lee Kennett, The First Air War 1914–1918 (New York: Free Press/Macmillan, 1990).
7. Horst Treusch von Buttlar Brandfells, “Smart Enemy Airmen” in Zeppelins Over England.
Mr. Tillman is a seven-time Naval Institute Press author and frequent contributor to Proceedings and Naval History. His most recent book is On Wave and Wing: The 100-Year Quest to Perfect the Aircraft Carrier (Regnery History, 2017).