Francis Mond was shot down and killed in 1918 but no one knew where his body was

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With some four million men killed on the Western Front alone, Francis was assumed to be among the legions lost without a grave. After the armistice, Angela's grief drove her to the battlefields of France in a desperate attempt to find her son's remains and achieve closure. She was not alone. An estimated 400,000 men and women were left with no known resting place. This is their story and the story of how parents, like Angela Mond, battled to find some semblance of peace. Writing from "The Trenches", 16 Squadron, France, on September 10, 1915, Francis Mond sent a letter to his mother chilling in its matter-of-fact detail.

The young Royal Flying Corps pilot, then just 20, describes watching the shooting down of a German aircraft over the Western Front. "It was one of the most fascinating and nauseating spectacles I've ever seen... I saw the poor wretches literally tumble to destruction - at least one - as the pilot was obviously killed already," he admits. "About 5,000ft something came away - possibly a wing tip, or one of the passengers - it was simply appalling - it took such ages to fall - like a wounded bird at first - then, well, it was simply too fascinating - and yet utterly repulsive." The description of an aeroplane crippled in mid-air, the pilot and observer falling to their deaths as the aircraft spiralled to the ground, was traumatic and heartrending. It was a world away from Francis's life prewar. He had grown up in an affluent and influential family at the epicentre of London's social whirl. His father was Emile Schweich-Mond, a chemical engineer, and his mother Angela was the sister of fêted Victorian artist Sigismund Goetze. Their London home, where Francis was born in July 1985, was at 22 Hyde Park Square, just a few minutes' walk from Marble Arch. Having served in Rugby School's Officer Training Corps, Francis joined the Territorial Army at university and, on the outbreak of war, was commissioned into the Royal Artillery, volunteering for overseas service. But he had driven cars and motorcycles at 17, and the horse-drawn artillery must have seemed antiquated and unromantic. So Francis sought to change to the newly-formed Royal Flying Corps, to join what many saw as the new knights of the air.

Francis Mond aged about 11 (far right), sitting on a horse with Angela holding the reins

His transfer request was agreed in October 1914. Having passed a medical and begun instruction in March 1915, by April 1, with three hours and 26 minutes dual-control flying under his belt, Francis was judged competent enough to fly solo. His logbook reveals no great drama as he undertook two seven-minute flights, lifting off twice in a straight line and making "one bad landing". Four days later, he flew around the aerodrome for 20 minutes at 1,000ft: "bumpy" was his only logbook comment. Throughout April, Francis's flight times gradually increased and altitude rose to 5,800ft by mid-May. In early June, he successfully completed all his exams, becoming a qualified pilot and flying officer. He was now entitled to wear the RFC badge and uniform, with the famous Wings sewn on to his tunic. He was officially detached from the Artillery and attached to the RFC. On June 23 he crossed to Calais and was eventually posted to C Flight, 16 Squadron, based at Chocques. Aircraft then were prone to failure, with more pilots killed in accidents than combat. There were no parachutes, not, as is popularly believed, to stop pilots jumping at the first sign of danger, but because they were unwieldy and too heavy for the lightweight wood, wire and fabric aircraft. Those who took to the skies were pilots but also pioneers, men of extraordinary courage who were willing to place their lives in the flimsy airframes that could literally be blown backwards by strong winds. On July 26, Francis wrote to his little sister May: "I have been aloft nearly every day so far and the life out here is very exciting, as you can guess."

German troops moving to the front line

But the pressure on the pilots was unrelenting. Very poor weather, with low, heavy cloud, would ground operations, but otherwise, Francis flew practically every day for a week or more and sometimes multiple sorties in one day. On August 23, he records flying at 6.05am, 11.40am, 3.25pm and again at 5.30pm. By September 1915, he had clocked up 90 hours' flying experience on bombing raids over German lines. With no parachutes, an uncontrolled descent, whether caused by engine failure or enemy bullets, was usually the end for both pilot and observer. If the aircraft caught fire, death would be grizzly save for a sudden leap from the aircraft or a self-inflicted revolver shot. An enemy machine-gun bullet was preferable. On September 6, flying his third sortie of the day, mechanical failure caused Francis's BE2c aircraft to side-slip and nosedive 100ft to the ground. The plane was wrecked. Mond and his observer, Lieutenant William Day, were bloodied, bruised and extremely lucky to survive. "Exit BE2c," Mond noted in his logbook - a jokey remark, though both men were severely shaken. Medical notes recorded Francis was experiencing "insomnia, headaches, restlessness, depression, lack of confidence". Ten days later, he was sent to hospital, first in Merville and then in Boulogne, where he stayed for a few days before boarding a hospital ship bound for Southampton, from where he was taken to the Special Neurological Hospital for Officers in Kensington, west London. It treated those suffering from what is now termed post-traumatic stress disorder, then known as shell shock. Francis would not fly again for two years. In March 1918, with conflicted emotions, Angela Mond had travelled to the coast to see her son before he returned to active service. She would have grown used to his being back home, and grateful that he was spared the worst horrors of the fighting in the years since he returned to England.

Emile with his son

The Battles of the Somme, Arras and Passchendaele, had all come and gone, leaving their trail of misery for families at home. Francis, for the most part, had been working in London, with a job at the Air Ministry. No one could accuse him of not having done his bit for King and Country, but the passivity grated on him. On March 21, the Germans had launched their great Spring Offensive. The Western Front dissolved that morning into chaos and crisis. The revolution had led to Russia's withdrawal from the war, allowing the Germans to move vast numbers of battle-hardened troops to the west. It was as the full scale of the crisis became apparent that Francis Mond, now back on active, was ordered back to France. In the week since the German offensive had begun, the RFC, in France alone, had lost 76 pilots and many more were wounded or taken prisoner. Writing to his mother on April 25, 2018, Francis explained: "I have now dropped over a ton of bombs on Hunland, and done about 22 hours in the air in this Squadron - comprising 11 bomb raids (in three weeks, of which about 10 days have been flyable)."

Francis beside his ditched biplane in training

Describing a recent raid, he continued: "We all laid our eggs and got back to the aerodrome, when we had rather a distressing accident. One machine suddenly burst into flames at about 50ft from the ground and dived head foremost into it. The observer [2nd Lt Charles Souchotte] was apparently knocked unconscious by his gun, and unable to get out - and burnt to death. "The pilot [Lt William Townsend], pluckily extricated by our RAMC orderly and a mechanic, was apparently dead when pulled out, but regained breathing on artificial respiration being applied, only to die on admission to hospital." Three days later, Francis wrote again: "We had our fancy dress dinner that night. I went as Captain Hook, from Peter Pan - all moustache and bloody knife. "A red jersey (football), bandana handkerchief, fisherman's cap (red-and-blue rings), flying boots turned over at the top, eye-patch and revolver, not to mention a fearsome carving knife obtained from the kitchen, formed my costume - and last a hook, manufactured in the workshop in a quarter of an hour... It was quite a success!" The fancy dress party had come just 24 hours after the sobering deaths of two of 57 Squadron's pilots. It was not that they were callous. They were having a party because most assumed they would be dead themselves before long.

Missing: The Need for Closure after the Great War by Richard van Emden