flying through the air, especially at a great height and with no other
machines in sight. There is a loneliness, unlike any other kind of
loneliness; there is a feeling of smallness and weakness; a sense of
the immensity of things and of the presence and nearness of God. It is
surprising that in doing that in which man has shown his greatest power
over the forces of Nature, he feels most his littleness and how easily
he could be destroyed by the very forces he has conquered.
Lieutenant Roberts, an American flying in France, described not long
ago an experience that came just after his first flight. He was up in
the air, higher than anybody had ever been before, when the machine
suddenly broke into little pieces, which, as he was tumbling down
through the air, he vainly tried to catch. Just as he hit the ground
and broke every bone in his body, he woke up on the floor beside his
bunk.
The Englishmen are the most daring of all the flyers, take the most
risks, and do the most dangerous "stunts." Not so much is heard of them
because their exploits and their scores are not announced by the
British army. Bishop, who has just been ordered from the flying field
to safer work, is said to have brought down nearly eighty German
planes, and on the day he learned of his recall, went up and brought
down two.
The Americans are daredevils, too. I took one of them one night as a
"guest," when I went over Metz on a bombing expedition. One of the
bombs stuck. He thought it might cause us trouble when we landed,
possibly explode and kill us, so he crawled out over the fusilage and
released it. He certainly earned his passage.
With several other Americans we formed what we called the American
Escadrille; but as the United States was neutral at that time, we were
obliged to change the name to the Lafayette Escadrille.
Since joining the squadron, I have used all sorts of machines, and
there are many of them, from the heavy bombing machine to the swift
little swallow-like scouts.
My first important work was reconnoissance, in which I carried an
observer. I managed the machine, and he did the reconnoitering. We went
out twice a day and flew over into German territory, sometimes as far
in as fifty miles, observing all that was going on, the movements of
troops and supplies, and the building of railroads and defensive works.
We also took photographs of the country over which we flew.
Reconnoissance is dangerous work, and is constantly growing more so, as
anti-aircraft guns are improved. These guns are mounted on a revolving
table, upon which is a mirror in which the airplane shows as soon as it
comes within range of the gun. With an instrument designed for the
purpose, the crew get the flyer's altitude; and with another, the rate
at which he is traveling. They aim the gun for the proper altitude,
make the correct allowance for the time it will take the shell to reach
him, and as they have an effective range of over 30,000 feet, there is
reason to worry. Yet by zig-zagging and other devices, the aviators are
rarely brought down by anti-aircraft guns. The small scout machines
with a wing spread of not more than thirty feet are not visible to the
naked eye when at an altitude of over 10,000 feet, and are therefore
safe from these guns at this height.
But reconnoissance, to be effective, must be done at a much lower
altitude, and sometimes the machine must remain under fire for a
considerable period of time. Poiret, the French aviator, fighting with
the Russians, with a captain of the General Staff for an observer, was
under rifle and shell fire for about twenty minutes. His machine was
up about 4000 feet. Ten bullets and two pieces of shell hit his
airplane, but he never lost control. The captain was shot through the
heel, the bullet coming out of his calf; but he continued taking notes.
They returned in safety to their lines.
I also did some work in directing artillery fire. For this my machine
was equipped with a wireless apparatus for sending. No method has yet
been devised whereby an airplane in flight can receive wireless
messages. In directing the fire of the big guns, the aviator seeks to
get directly over the object that is under fire, and to signal or send
wireless messages in regard to where the shells land. After the aviator
is in position, the third shot usually reaches the target.
I am not yet one of the great aces, and will not, therefore, tell you
about any of my air battles. I hope some day you may read of them and
that I may come to have the honor of being named with Lufbery,
Guynemer, Nungesser, Fonk, Bishop, Ball, Genét, Chapman, McConnell,
Prince, Putnam, and other heroes of the air.
Lieutenant R.A.J. Warneford, who won the Victoria Cross for destroying
a giant Zeppelin, is one of the greatest of these; at least, he
performed a feat never accomplished before and never since.
At three o'clock one morning in June, 1915, he discovered a Zeppelin
returning from bombing towns along the east coast of England. The Huns
shot Captain Fryatt because, as they said, he was a non-combatant and
tried to defend himself. The rule that non-combatants should not attack
military forces was made with the understanding that military forces
would not war on non-combatants. But law, or justice, or agreements
never are allowed by the Huns to stand in their way. This Zeppelin was
returning from a raid in which twenty-four were killed and sixty
seriously injured, nearly all women and children, and all
non-combatants.
Lieutenant Warneford well knew of the dastardly deeds of the Zeppelins,
and he immediately gave chase, firing as he approached. The Zeppelin
returned his shots. He mounted as rapidly as possible so as to get the
great gas-bag below him, until he reached over 6000 feet and the
Zeppelin was about 150 feet directly below him. Both were moving very
rapidly, and to hit was exceedingly difficult, but he dropped six
bombs, one after the other. One of them hit the Zeppelin squarely,
exploded the gas-bag, and set it afire its entire length. The explosion
turned Lieutenant Warneford's airplane upside down, and although he
soon righted it, he was obliged to land. He was over territory occupied
by the Germans and he landed behind the German lines, but he succeeded
in rising again before being captured, and returned to his hangar in
safety, to tell his marvelous story. The Zeppelin and its crew were
completely destroyed. A few days later Lieutenant Warneford was killed.
One of the greatest air duels, between airplanes, was during the Battle
of Vimy Ridge. At that time Immelman was as great a German ace as were
Boelke and Richthofen later, and Ball was the greatest of the English.
One morning Ball learned that Immelman was stationed with the Germans
on the opposite line, and carried him a challenge which read:
CAPTAIN IMMELMAN: I challenge you to a man-to-man fight to take
place this afternoon at two o'clock. I will meet you over the
German lines. Have your anti-aircraft guns withhold their fire
while we decide which is the better man. The British guns will
be silent.
BALL.
Ball dropped this from his airplane behind the German lines, and soon
afterward Immelman dropped his answer behind the British lines:
CAPTAIN BALL:
Your challenge is accepted. The German guns will not interfere.
I will meet you promptly at two.
IMMELMAN.
A few minutes before two, the guns ceased firing, and all on both sides
fixed their eyes in the air to witness a contest between two knights
that would make the contests of the days of chivalry seem tame.
[Illustration: A BATTLE IN THE AIR
The French plane at the top is maneuvering for position
preparatory to swooping down on its German adversary.
_Copyright by Underwood & Underwood, N.Y._]
In an air battle, the machine that is higher up is thought to have the
advantage. Both Ball and Immelman went up very high, but Ball was below
and seemed uncertain what to do. The British were afraid that he had
lost his nerve and courage when he found himself below, for he made no
effort to get above his opponent, but was flying now this way and now
that, as if "rattled."
Immelman did not delay, but went into a nose dive directly towards the
machine below, which he would be able to rake with his machine gun as
he approached; but just at the proper moment, Ball suddenly looped the
loop and was directly above the German, and in position to fire. As the
shower of bullets struck Immelman and his machine, it burst into flames
and dropped like a blazing comet.
Ball returned to his hangar, got a wreath of flowers, and went into the
air again to drop them upon the spot where Immelman had fallen dead.
Four days later Ball was killed in a fight with four German planes, but
not until he had brought down three of them.
But the fighting planes do not get all the thrills in the air. A young
English aviator and his observer who were directing artillery fire in
September, 1918, showed as great devotion and courage as any ace and
lived through as exciting an adventure as ever befell a fighting
plane.
They were flying over No Man's Land to get the proper range for a
battery which was to destroy a bridge of great value to the Huns. Their
engine had been running badly and back-firing. They would have returned
home had their work been of less importance.
Suddenly the pilot smelled burning wood, and looking down, saw the
framework near his feet blackened and smoldering. It had caught fire
from the backfire of the engine and the exhaust, but was not yet in a
decided blaze. He turned off the gas and opened the throttle. Then he
made a steep, swift dive, and the powerful rush of the air put the fire
out.
Then he hesitated, trying to decide whether to "play safe" and go home
or whether to continue their work until the battery had secured the
exact range. He knew that in a very short time and with a little more
observation, their work would be completely successful. So he turned to
the observer and asked him what he thought. The observer leaned over
and examined the damage near the pilot's feet. It did not look very
bad; so he shouted, "Let's carry on."
Up they went again and in a short time had shells from the battery
falling all about the bridge, which was soon destroyed. Their work was
done, and well done. In the excitement they had forgotten the bad
engine until they heard it give one last sputter and stop.
Then they perceived the woodwork was on fire again and really blazing
this time. To dive now would only fan the flames about the pilot's
feet, but they must get to the ground, and get there quickly, too.
The pilot put the machine into a side slip toward the British line.
This fanned the flames away from his feet. The observer squirted the
fire extinguisher on the burning wood near the pilot's feet, and thus
enabled him to keep control of the rudder bar.
They were now within fifteen hundred feet of the ground, but the heat
was almost unbearable. The right wing was beginning to burn. Down,
down, they went, and luckily towards a fairly good landing place. One
landing wheel struck the ground with such force that it was broken off,
and the airplane bumped along on the other for a short distance until
it finally crashed on its nose and left wing.
Both pilot and observer were unhurt. They sprang to the ground and
hurried away from the burning wreck just in time, for a few seconds
later the gasoline tank exploded. They looked at each other without a
word, but neither of them regretted that he had stayed up until the job
had been finished.
Such is the life and the danger of the flyers; but thousands of the
finest young men of all the nations at war eagerly seek the service,
for the aviators are the eyes of the armies and will determine always
more than any other branch which side shall be finally victorious.
ALAN SEEGER[9]
As England and the world lost Rupert Brooke, so America and the world
lost Alan Seeger. English poetry and lovers of beauty expressed in
verse are losers to a greater extent than we can ever know.
It is not strange that these two young poets should have enlisted at
the very beginning of the war, for they recognized what high-minded men
mean by _noblesse oblige_. Much having been given you, much is expected
from you. Those of the highest education should show the way to those
less favored. So Rupert Brooke enlisted in the English navy, and Alan
Seeger enlisted in the French army as one of the Foreign Legion.
He felt he owed a debt to France that could only be paid by helping her
in her struggle for life and liberty. He gave his life, at the age of
twenty-eight, to pay the debt.
Alan Seeger lived a life like that of many other American boys. At
Staten Island where he passed his first years, he could see every day
the Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn Bridge, the skyscrapers of New York,
the ferry boats to the Jersey shore, the great ocean liners inward
bound and outward bound,--all the great and significant things that say
"America" to one landing for the first time at the greatest seaport of
the world. Later he lived in New York and attended the Horace Mann
School. His vacations were spent among the hills and mountains of New
Hampshire and in southern California. He fitted for college at a famous
preparatory school at Tarrytown on the Hudson, attended Harvard
College, and after graduation lived for two years in New York City. All
this is American, and thousands of other American boys have passed
through the same or a similar experience.
Alan Seeger was romantic. So are most boys. But with most boys, romance
goes no further than books and dreams. "Robinson Crusoe," "Huckleberry
Finn," "Treasure Island," and other tales of adventure and of foreign
lands are all the romance that many know. But, like Rupert Brooke, Alan
Seeger had the opportunity to live romance, as he always declared he
would do. He found it in his life as a boy in Mexico, as a young man in
Paris, and in the Foreign Legion of the French army. The Foreign Legion
was made up of foreigners in France who volunteered to fight with the
French army. Its story is a stirring one of brave deeds and tremendous
losses. To have belonged to it is a great glory.
Alan Seeger enjoyed life and found the world exceedingly beautiful. He
says,
From a boy
I gloated on existence. Earth to me
Seemed all sufficient, and my sojourn there
One trembling opportunity for joy.
Like Rupert Brooke, he thought often of Death, which he feared not at
all. In his beautiful poem entitled, "I Have a Rendezvous with Death,"
he looked forward to his own death in the spring of 1916. He lost his
life on July 4 of that year while storming the village of
Belloy-en-Santerre. The first two stanzas are as follows:
I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple blossoms fill the air--
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair
It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath--
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow flowers appear.
Alan Seeger has written two poems that all Americans should know. One
is entitled "Ode in Memory of the American Volunteers Fallen for
France." It was to have been read before the statue of Lafayette and
Washington in Paris, on Memorial Day, 1916; but permission to go to
Paris to read it did not reach Seeger in time, to the disappointment of
him and many others. It is perhaps the best long poem Seeger has
written, although "Champagne, 1914-15" is by many ranked ahead of it.
* * * * *
"A man is judged and ranked by that which he considers to be of the
greatest value. Some men believe it is knowledge, and spend their lives
in study and research; some think it is beauty, and vainly seek to
capture it and hold it in song, poem, statue, or painting; some say it
is goodness, and devote their lives to service, self-denial, and
sacrifice; some declare it is life itself, and therefore never kill any
creature and always carefully protect their own lives from disease and
danger; and some are sure it is being true to the best knowledge, the
greatest beauty, the highest good that one can know and feel and
realize; for this alone is life, and times come when the only way to
save one's life is to lose it."
FOOTNOTES:
[9] BASED ON POEMS OF ALAN SEEGER, COPYRIGHT HELD BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S
SONS.
CAN WAR EVER BE RIGHT?
After England had entered the war against the Central Powers, Gilbert
Murray, an English writer, asked this question and answered it by
saying "Yes," and giving his reasons.
He had always favored peace. He hated war, not merely for its own
cruelty and folly, but because it was an enemy of good government, of
friendship and gentleness, and of art, learning, and literature.
Yet he believed firmly that England was right in declaring war against
Germany on August 4, 1914, and that she would have failed in her duty
if she had remained neutral. France, Russia, Belgium, and Serbia had no
choice. They were obliged to fight, for the war was forced upon them.
Germany did not wish to fight England; but after carefully looking over
the whole matter, England, of her own free will, declared war. She took
upon her shoulders a great responsibility. But she was right.
With a few changes in the wording and some omissions, the argument of
Gilbert Murray is as follows:
"How can such a thing be? It is easy enough to see that our cause is
right, and that the German cause is wrong. It is hardly possible to
study the official papers issued by the British, the German, and the
Russian governments, without seeing that Germany--or some party in
Germany--had plotted this war beforehand; that she chose a moment when
she thought her neighbors were at a disadvantage; that she prevented
Austria from making a settlement even at the last moment; that in order
to get more quickly at France she violated her treaty with Belgium.
Evidence shows that she has carried out the violation with a cruelty
that has no equal in the wars of modern and civilized nations. Yet
there may be some people who still feel doubtful. Germany's wrong-doing
they think is no reason for us to do likewise. We did our best to keep
the general peace; there we were right. We failed; the German
government made war in spite of us. There we were unfortunate. It was a
war already on an enormous scale and we decided to make it larger
still. There we were wrong. Could we not have stood aside, as the
United States did, ready to help refugees and sufferers, anxious to
heal wounds and not make them, watchful for the first chance of putting
an end to this time of horror?
"'Try for a moment,' they say, 'to realize the suffering in one small
corner of a battlefield. You have seen a man here and there badly hurt
in an accident; you have seen perhaps a horse with its back broken, and
you can remember how dreadful it seemed to you. In that one corner how
many men, how many horses, will be lying, hurt far worse, and just
waiting to die? Terrible wounds, extreme torment; and all, further than
any eye can see, multiplied and multiplied! And, for all your just
anger against Germany, what have these wounded done? The horses are not
to blame for anybody's foreign policy. They have only come where their
masters took them. And the masters themselves ... though certain German
rulers and leaders are wicked, these soldiers, peasants, working-men,
shop-keepers, and schoolmasters, have really done nothing in
particular; at least, perhaps they have now, but they had not up to the
time when you, seeing they were in war and misery already, decided to
make war on them also and increase their sufferings. You say that
justice must be done on such wrong-doers. But as far as the rights and
wrongs of the war go, you are simply condemning to death and torture
innocent men, by thousands and thousands; is that the best way to
satisfy your sense of justice? These innocent people, you say, are
fighting to protect the guilty parties whom you are determined to
reach. Well, perhaps, at the end of the war, after millions of innocent
people have suffered, you may at last, if all goes well with your arms,
get at the "guilty parties." You will hold an inquiry, you will decide
that certain Prussians with long titles are the guilty parties, and
even then you will not know what to do with them. You will probably
try, and almost certainly fail, to make them somehow feel ashamed. It
is likely enough that they will instead become great national heroes.
"'And after all, this is supposed to be a war in which one party is
wrong and the other right, and the right wins. Suppose both are wrong;
or suppose the wrong party wins? It is as likely as not; for, if the
right party is helped by his good conscience, the wrong has probably
taken pains to have the odds on his side before he began quarreling. In
that case, all the wild waste of blood and treasure, all the suffering
of innocent people and dumb animals, all the tears of women and
children have not set up the right, but established the wrong. To do a
little evil that great or certain good may come is all very well; but
to do great evil for only a chance of getting something which half the
people may think good and the other half think bad ... that is neither
good morals nor good sense. Anybody not in a passion must see that it
is insanity,' So they say who think war always wrong.
"Their argument is wrong. It is judging war as a profit-and-loss
account. It leaves out of sight the fact that in some causes it is
better to fight and be broken than to yield peacefully; that sometimes
the mere act of resisting to the death is in itself a victory.
"Let us try to understand this. The Greeks who fought and died at
Thermopylæ had no doubt that they were doing right to fight and die,
and we all agree with them. They probably knew they would be defeated.
They probably expected that, after their defeat, the Persians would
easily conquer the rest of Greece, and would treat it much more harshly
because it had resisted. But such thoughts did not affect them. They
would not consent to their country's dishonor.
"Take again a very clear modern case: the fine story of the French
tourist who was captured, together with a priest and some other white
people, by Moorish robbers. The Moors gave their prisoners the choice
either to trample on the Cross or to be killed. The Frenchman was not a
Christian. He disliked Christianity. But he was not going to trample on
the Cross at the orders of a robber. He stuck to his companions and
died with them.
"Honor and dishonor are real things. I will not try to define them; but
will only notice that, like religion, they admit no bargaining. Indeed,
we can almost think of honor as being simply that which a free man
values more than life, and dishonor as that which he avoids more than
suffering or death. And the important point for us is that there are
such things as honor and dishonor.
"There are some people, followers of Tolstoy, who accept this as far as
dying is concerned, but will have nothing to do with killing. Passive
resistance, they say, is right; martyrdom is right; but to resist
violence by violence is sin.
"I was once walking with a friend of Tolstoy's in a country lane, and a
little girl was running in front of us. I put to him the well-known
question: 'Suppose you saw a man, wicked or drunk or mad, run out and
attack that child. You are a big man, and carry a big stick: would you
not stop him and, if necessary, knock him down?' 'No,' he said, 'why
should I commit a sin. I would try to persuade him, I would stand in
his way, I would let him kill me, but I would not strike him,' Some few
people will always be found, less than one in a thousand, to take this
view. They will say: 'Let the little girl be killed or carried off; let
the wicked man commit another wickedness; I, at any rate, will not add
to the mass of useless violence that I see all around me.'