How We Shot Down Immelmann

In the fierce dawn of aerial warfare, Max Immelmann was a name that haunted the British skies. A brilliant tactician and relentless pilot, he developed daring new maneuvers and seemed almost invincible. With nearly fifty Allied planes to his name, he became a living legend—a menace the British could no longer ignore. This is the story of the men who dared to set a trap, luring him into a final, deadly confrontation. What follows is an account of courage, loss, and the relentless drive to bring down one of history’s most formidable flying aces.

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“How We Shot Down Immelmann” by Captain Jack C. Bursey, R.A.F.

Captain Bursey was awarded a special proficiency medal by the British Air Board for being one of 12 best all around pilots in the Royal Air Force during the war. He was also a Captain in the Air Intelligence Division branch of the British Secret Service. 

This remarkable story is being told for the first time. It gives the inside story of how the British squadron set a trap for the great German ace, and sent him to his death.

The exploits of Baron Manfried von Richtoffen, Germany’s premier war ace have been publicized all over the world. Everybody has heard or read about the redoubtable “Red Knight of Germany,” but comparatively few people are aware that there was another German ace who fought and died before the famous Baron “did his stuff” over Flander’s Fields. Captain Immelmann, the pilot to whom I refer, was an expert pilot—cool in the face of danger—reasoning things out before they happened, with the result that he was the first to discover and use the now famous “Immelmann turn,” a wonderfully efficient maneuver used to evade an enemy plane diving on one’s tail. 

Immelmann was a thorn in the side of British airmen, and he had nearly half a hundred planes to his credit before he met the fate of many of the bravest pilots who ever flew. The story of his last battle is being chronicled here for the first time, and in this little history you will read something of life at the front. 

Immelmann used to fly a single seater plane, painted blue, and in nearly every battle he was alone. Before going into the details of his last fight, I would like to point out the fact that at the time of these events (1917) the Royal Flying corps were practically licked to a standstill because of the superiority of the enemy planes. Where the ships that we used to chase all over the sky were capable of a top speed of 95 miles an hour, the enemy in Fokker D.VII’s could make us like it because they could crash through the air at something like 125-130 miles an hour. Ask any war time pilot just how much of an advantage 30 miles an hour is in extra speed! 

Now Immelmann wasn’t exactly satisfied with this advantage in speed—the matchless courage of some of the British pilots tended to balance things up, so he evolved the idea of adding the element of surprise to his attacks. Here’s how he did that. On days when there were clouds in the sky, and there were many days like that in France, Immelmann would climb up into the clouds and hide in them. Not hide in the sense of trying to avoid a fight, but so that he couldn’t be seen by any of our boys. Occasionally he would drop down out of his hiding place to see what he could see, and sooner or later he would pop out just in time to see an antiquated plane flying along perhaps a thousand feet below him. That’s when the action started—nearly always resulting in the complete extinction of the lower ship. 

A few short, sharp, well-directed bursts of machine gun fire would be directed at the all unsuspecting pilot, and almost immediately he would start that long dive earthward with the plane completely smothered in black smoke and lurid flames.

After a victory such as this Immelmann would climb back into the clouds again, there to await another opportunity to add to his ever mounting list of crashed planes. 

It was my pleasure to be a member of the famous 29th Squadron, Royal Flying corps at this time—the squadron that in August 1918 made a record never equalled on any front—destroying 55 enemy planes and 17 enemy observation balloons in one month of hard fighting without losing a pilot either killed or wounded. And in those days it was necessary for us to go anywhere from ten to thirty miles on the enemy side of the lines to get into any scraps! 

Yet fifty per cent of the casualties in my squadron were caused by Captain Immelmann. So you can see that we did not  harbor any very pleasant thoughts in our hearts about this opponent.

One night while we were at dinner the conversation turned to the events of the day. It had been a very disastrous day for us—three of our best boys had taken that long plunge into Eternity—their planes wreathed in smoke and flames—and two of them had been sent there by Immelmann. The three vacant places at the dinner table were mute testimony to the excellence of the enemy’s shooting, and immediately after we had drunk a toast to the memory of our dead buddies, we set about formulating plans whereby we could rid the skies forever of this powerful menace. Many and varied were the plans submitted. One pilot offered, in all seriousness to fly his plane deliberately into the plane flown by Immelmann—colliding with him at full speed to ensure his death. But of course that plan was discarded immediately. Finally a scheme was suggested that sounded good. 

We planned that one plane would go into the air and fly about below the clouds, the pilot to be flying in such a manner as to convey the impression to Immelmann that he was a new pilot to war flying. The plane he was to fly would be of an obsolete type—but strengthened in every manner possible, and with a brand new motor installed. Also it would have a special rocket gun attached to the center section struts that would fire a rocket straight up into the air for about three thousand feet. Five more pilots would take their planes up above the clouds and simply wait there for the rocket to appear, telling them that their target had been lured away from his haven, the clouds. Then they would dive down with their motors wide open and come down to the rescue of the lone pilot acting as a bait. That was the plan. 

Then followed the real argument. Who would go on the trip, and who would be the lucky (?) one to fly below the clouds? Everybody wanted to go—in fact it got so bad that there was almost a fight about it. However the matter was settled in truly British fashion—and when the results were declared there were no dissenters. There were fifteen active pilots in the squadron, and we simply divided up into five groups of three men, or rather boys, for that’s all most of us were—and we all started with an equal amount of money, and played cold hands of poker for exactly one hour.

The man in each group who had the most money at the end of the hour’s play would form one of the patrol to fly above the clouds. The five men were eventually declared, and then came the task of selecting one of the remaining ten for the offering—and we hoped that it wouldn’t be burnt offering. To determine who should have the honor of acting in this capacity we resorted to straws. Ten straws were prepared—one of them shorter than the rest, and the ten men who had lost in poker each drew a straw. 

Generally our dining room was about as noisy a place after dinner as could be found anywhere in France, but as each man stepped forward to draw, there was a deathly silence. I was the fourth man to draw—and I am sure that the other boys each breathed a sigh of something approaching relief when they saw that I had drawn the fateful straw. For myself, I looked at that straw for fully half a minute before I could say anything, and then I ordered drinks for the crowd. 

The next morning saw plenty of activity on the flying field. Between patrols we prepared the sacrificial plane—installing extra flying and drift wires, changing the motor and generally preparing the plane for a long dive such as it was not intended for. I also installed on the rim of the cockpit a rear vision mirror that would help me to see back of me without turning round, and in a couple of days we were all set for the adventure. 

We had to wait for an ideal day—clear enough for flying, but with enough clouds around to make it possible for Immelmann to hide. There was not long to wait, and on the morning of the fateful day, I walked out to the hangar and gave the old crate a final look over to see that everything was all right. 

As I climbed into the cockpit there was silence—deep silence broken only by the mechanics “Switch off, gas on” and then, “Contact.” After a few futile swings the wheezy old motor finally coughed into life, and I throttled it down so that it could get properly warmed up. I climbed out to smoke a cigarette—possibly my last one, and then went into a little last minute conference with the five escort pilots. That finished with, I returned to my ship, climbed in, fastened my safety belt and swung round into the wind ready for the take off. 

As I opened the throttle wide there came a cheer from the mechanics and pilots, and after a long run the old plane finally lifted itself into the air and I started my long climb up to the clouds. 

Soon I saw a reassuring sight—the five planes that would dive to help me, I hoped, climbed past me to their positions above the clouds. They looked mighty good to me then, and the pilots waved to me as they passed. Again my thoughts tried to jump a half hour or so ahead, and I wondered if they would be in time to draw me from the devilish machine guns of Immelmann. It was just at that time that a most disturbing fact came to me! In all of our plans and preparations we had forgotten to equip my plane with machine guns! Try and imagine how you would have felt, climbing toward a battle with the Ace of Aces of the enemy air services and no guns on the plane!

For a moment I was tempted to turn back, but I thought of the other boys above me who would do all the shooting necessary. At least, I hoped that they would! About three miles on the enemy side of the front line trenches I saw a fine thick bank of clouds that looked as though they would be an ideal spot for our enemy to conceal himself in, and with motor throttled down I proceeded to fly around in wide circles right underneath them. I acted as though I had been sent on an observation trip for my first visit to the lines, and after half an hour of such flying I was gratified to see a blue plane dive gently out of the clouds.

A blue streak—Immelmann! I saw him before he saw me—which gave me a break, but it wasn’t very long until he spotted what looked like an easy prey. I watched him from out of the corner of my eye—flying along with one hand on the control stick and the other on the trigger of the rocket gun. As Immelmann started to increase his dive toward me I stuck the nose of my ship down slightly, and he came after me. There seemed to have come to me a feeling of complete safety—and I also seemed to sense that Immelmann wouldn’t shoot at me until he got in close enough to be sure of getting me with his first burst. Gradually I put the nose further down until my old crate vibrated enough to have made it fall to pieces had not been strengthened. And Immelmann came after me! 

He was falling into the trap! Perhaps his thoughts were that he could have a little fun by scaring a new pilot, but he did not keep this in mind very long, for suddenly his ship was put into an almost vertical dive. Just at that time, mine also went into a vertical dive, but not before I pulled the trigger which sent my red rocket of distress upwards into the clouds. When friend Immelmann saw that rocket he must have realized that he was in a tough corner, for he  momentarily pulled out of his dive, and looked back. Seeing nothing, he returned to the attack, and right then is when my heart started to beat really fast. I thought to myself, “My God, the rocket hasn’t reached them!” I don’t know how long it took the boys to come down through the clouds, but there was never a more welcome sight in all of my life when I saw those five Nieuports diving down with motors wide open! 

Immelmann saw them at the same time that I did, I think, for he forgot all about me right then, and tried to turn back in one of his famous turns to the shelter of his sky harbor. Too late! The five Nieuports rapidly assumed battle formation—the well known “V”—and they proceeded to encircle our adversary. I looked upward, and against the mistiness of the clouds forming the background, I saw them hem Immelmann into a trap that no amount of good flying would have gotten him out of. Closer and closer they got—Immelmann turning and twisting in his almost mad efforts to escape. It seemed to me down below that they were toying with him as a cat does with a mouse, and then suddenly there came the death blow. 

One of the pilots pressed the triggers of his guns, and a stream of tracers shot forward straight toward the enemy ship. Instantly the remaining pilots opened fire, and I knew that nothing could save Immelmann now. 

The blue streak of Immelmann’s plane suddenly shot high above his five opponents, and I thought for a moment that he was going to elude them. But instantly I realized that no living hand had pulled that ship into it’s zoom—and in the next second the plane burst into flames, and the menace to our squadron started that long plunge that ends only in a mass of smoldering wreckage far below. 

Immelmann had paid! His account had been squared—the deaths of our comrades had been avenged, and as he continued downward, leaving a trail of black smoke behind him, I saw five boys who had saved me from a similar fate stunting their planes to give vent to their pent up feelings. 

I eased back on the throttle of my ship, and turned in the direction of the flying field, where I landed safely. Shortly afterward the other boys came in, and there followed the world war’s greatest celebration until Armistice Day. During dinner a toast was drunk to our dead foe’s memory—and the next day a wreath was dropped over on the enemy side of the lines—our tribute to a fallen fighter. And then, well, back to the every day events of flying and helping to win the war! 

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In the end, it took more than bravery to defeat Max Immelmann. It took strategy, sacrifice, and an unbreakable bond among comrades willing to do whatever it took to end his reign. With Immelmann’s final fall, the skies over France became just a little safer, and a chapter of wartime aviation history closed. But his legacy, and the bravery of those who faced him, live on. If you want to hear more of these incredible tales from the golden age of aviation, subscribe and join us as we uncover more stories from the past that still soar today.

Thanks again, and I’ll see you in the next one!