Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Illustration: German trenches. No man's land. French trenches.
A view of French and German trenches.]
WITH THE FRENCH
FLYING CORPS
BY
CARROLL DANA WINSLOW
OF THE FRENCH FLYING CORPS
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1917
COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
Published January, 1917
TO
MY FATHER
*CONTENTS*
My Enlistment
First Principles
Learning to Fly
The School at Chartres
Passing the Final Tests
The Zeppelin Raid over Paris
At the Ecole de Perfectionnement
The Reserve Generale De l'Aviation
Ordered to the Front
In the Verdun Sector
My First Flight over the Lines
Co-operating with the Artillery
All in the Day's Work
July 14th, 1916
The Finishing Touches
*ILLUSTRATIONS*
A view of the French and German trenches . . . _Frontispiece_
A Voisin bombarding-machine
A Nieuport "avion de Chasse"
"Mechanics ran the machines out on the field in long lines"
The little cafe across the road
A Morane-Parasol
"I had received orders to make a flight during a snow-storm"
The author, together with his first mechanic, at the "mitrailleuse"
A Farman artillery-machine
An anti-aircraft .75
A bad landing
A heavy bombarding-machine
A German aeroplane brought down by a French aeroplane
A bi-motor Caudron
A captured Fokker
A view of the Mort-Homme taken from a height of 3,600 feet
"Everywhere little white puffs seemed to follow the machines about"
Reduced facsimile of the photographic report supplied to the
Headquarters Staff of the fighting at Cumieres
A Penguin
*MY ENLISTMENT*
In the last two years aviation has become an essential branch of the
army organization of every country. Daily hundreds of pilots are flying
in Europe, in Africa, in Asia Minor; flying, fighting, and dying in a
medium through which, ten years ago, it was considered impossible to
travel. But though the air has been mastered, the science of
aero-dynamics is still in its infancy, and theory and practice are
unproved so often that even the best aviators experience difficulty in
keeping abreast of the times.
My experience in the French Aviation Service early taught me what a
difficult and scientific task it is to pilot an aeroplane. By piloting
I mean flying understandingly, skilfully; not merely riding in a machine
after a few weeks' training in the hope that a safe landing may be made.
In America many aviators holding pilot's licenses are in reality only
conductors. Some pilots have received their brevets in the brief period
of six weeks. I can only say that I feel sorry for them. My own training
in France opened my eyes. It showed me how exhaustive is the method
adopted by the belligerents of Europe for making experienced aviators
out of raw recruits. Time and experience are the two factors essential
in the training of the military pilot. Even in France, where the
Aviation Service is constantly working under the forced draught of war
conditions, no less than from four to six months are devoted to the
training of finished pilots.
Although I have just come from France, the progress of aviation is so
rapid that much of my own knowledge may be out of date before I again
return to the front. But interest in flying is becoming so general among
Americans that the way the aviators of France are trained, and what they
are accomplishing, should attract more than passing attention. Surely,
what France has done, and is doing, should be an object-lesson to our
own government.
Through a special channel only recently open to Americans I enlisted in
the French Air Service. As is usual in governmental matters, there were
many formalities to be complied with, but in my case a friendly official
in the Foreign Office came to the rescue and arranged them for me.
After a few days I received the necessary permit to report for duty.
Without delay I hurried to the recruiting office, which is located in
the Invalides, that wonderfully inspiring monument of martial France.
As I entered the bureau I met a crowd of men who had been declared unfit
for the front, either on account of their health, or because they had
been too seriously wounded. But to a man they were anxious to serve "la
patrie," and were seeking to be re-examined for any service in which
physical requirements were not so stringent. For an "embusque" (a
shirker) is looked upon as pariah in France.
When I had signed a contract to "obey the military laws of France and be
governed and punished thereby," I received permission to join the French
Air Service. With about thirty other men I marched to the doctor's
office, where I was put through the eye, lung, and heart test. I was
then ordered to report to the sergeant who had charge of the men who had
passed the examination.
Among those accepted I noticed a young man of the working class. He had
been particularly nervous while the roll was called. But the moment he
heard his own name he seemed overjoyed. Outside, on the sidewalk, his
wife was waiting. He dashed out to tell her the news. Instead of
bursting into tears, as I had rather expected, she seized his hands and
they danced down the street as joyfully as two children. It was typical
of the spirit of the French women, willing to sacrifice everything, to
help bring victory to their country.
I received my service-order to proceed immediately to Dijon, the
headquarters of the Flying Corps. I took the first train and arrived
there at about three in the morning. I discovered that the offices did
not open until seven, and, as I had nothing to do and was hungry, I
sought the military buffet at the railway-station. It was filled with
men on leave and others who had been discharged from the hospitals, all
waiting to return to the front. Officers and men mingled in a spirit of
democracy and "camaraderie." This made a deep impression upon me, for,
while discipline in the French army is very strict, there is an entire
absence of that snobbishness which the average civilian so often
associates with a military organization.
[Illustration: A Voisin bombarding-machine.
A Nieuport "avion de Chasse."]
About seven o'clock I made my way to the camp. A sentry challenged me,
but after I had proved my identity he sent me to the adjutant, who took
my papers and, after reading them, addressed me in perfect English. I
was surprised and asked him how he happened to speak English so well. It
seems that he had lived in New York for twelve years, but on the
outbreak of the war had returned at once to serve. I was then given in
charge of a corporal. After this I was put through another
"questionnaire." One officer asked for my pedigree; to another I gave
the name and address of my nearest relative, to be notified in the event
of my death. After this came the "vestiaire." Each "depot," or
headquarters, has one of these, where every soldier is completely
outfitted by the government. I received a uniform, two pairs of shoes,
two pairs of socks, an overcoat, two suits of underwear, two hats, a
knapsack, and a tin cup, bowl, and spoon. The recruit may buy his own
outfit if he wishes, but the government offers it to him gratis if he is
not too particular. I was now a full-fledged French soldier of the
second class, second because there was no third. My satisfaction was
only exceeded by my embarrassment. I felt very self-conscious in my
uniform, but, as a matter of fact, I was less conspicuous in this garb
than I was before I gave up my civilian clothing.
The adjutant now gave me three cents, my first three days' pay as a
soldier, and warned me "not to spend it all in one place." Aviators
receive extra pay, but I was still only a simple "poilu." He then
handed me a formal order to study aviation--to be an "eleve pilote," as
they say in France--and also a pass to proceed to Pau.
My time was now my own, so I decided to take a look around the hangars,
and before long two "eleves pilotes" greeted me and inquired whether I
was entering the Aviation Corps. When they heard that I was, and that I
was an American they told me that they also, and several of their
friends to whom they afterward introduced me, had lived for some time in
the United States. With all this welcome I became conscious of the
understood but inexplicable freemasonry that binds all aviators
together. I was greeted everywhere as a comrade and shown everything. I
was amazed at the vastness of it all and at the scale of the
organization. In one corner of the establishment they were teaching
mechanics how to repair motors, in another how to regulate aeroplanes.
Beyond were classes for chauffeurs, and countless other courses. There
must have been several thousand men, and all of them were merely
learning to serve the national heroes, the "aviateurs."
In the evening we all went to Dijon together. We dined and went to the
theatre. The theatre was full of soldiers, and every little while the
provost marshal's guard, composed of gendarmes, would enter and make an
arrest. Any one who does not produce papers explaining his absence from
the army is hustled off immediately. There are very few Frenchmen who
attempt to dodge their service, but this system of supervision has been
found necessary to keep down their number and to discover any German
spies who may be about.
After the play I went to the station. The road was clogged with
troop-trains carrying reinforcements to the Near-Eastern front. During
the four hours I spent in the station twelve trains of British artillery
passed by. The entente between the Tommies and the French was very
cordial. As the trains came to a stop the men would make a rush for the
station buffet, and the French would exchange all sorts of pleasantries
with them. Right here I had a lot of fun with the Tommies, for they
could not understand how a Frenchman could speak English so fluently.
Then came my train, and I found myself en route for Pau. As there were
already several American "eleves pilotes" at the aviation school, I had
no difficulty in learning the ropes. It was all very simple. But it
was well to know what to expect, especially when it came to the question
of discipline, which was very strict until one became a full-fledged
aviator. It was just like going back to school and I settled down for
the long grind.
*FIRST PRINCIPLES*
I have rarely been as much impressed as when I first saw the flying
school at Pau. It is situated eight miles beyond the town on the hard
meadow-lands granted in the sixteenth century to the villages of Osseau
by Henri IV. The grant is still in effect, and the fields now in use
are only rented by the government. They make a perfect aviation-ground.
Four separate camps and a repair-station lie about a mile from one
another and are named--Centre, Bleriot, etc. At Centre I saw the low,
gray hangars that house the aeroplanes, the tall wireless mast over
which the communiques from Paris are daily received, the office-building
for the captain and monitors of the school, and the little cafe across
the road where every one goes when off duty. Beyond were the Boche
prisoners working on the road, building fences, or cutting wood, under
direction of their non-commissioned officers and decrepit old
territorials--grim reminders that this flying business is not all play.
It was early morning--the mists were slowly lifting--when the "eleves
pilotes" gathered for their daily work. Mechanics ran the machines out
on the field in long lines, and the motors woke to motion with startling
roars. One by one the pilots stepped in, and one by one the little
biplanes moved swiftly across the field, rose, dipped slightly, rose
again, and then mounted higher and higher into the gray sky. In the
distance the snowy peaks of the Pyrenees formed an impressive
background. At almost any time during training hours one can see from
ten to twenty machines in the air. There are over three hundred men
training. The repair-shops are like a large manufacturing plant. Five
hundred mechanics are continually employed there. Among these are
little Indo-Chinese, or "Anamites," as the French call them, who have
come from distant Asia to help France in her struggle for liberty. As
French citizens they are mobilized and wear the military uniform, but
their tasks are usually of the monotonous, routine variety.
[Illustration: "Mechanics ran the machines out on the field in long
lines."]
The repair-shops are continually working under pressure, as accidents
occur daily.
It is estimated that the average cost to France of training each pilot
is five thousand dollars. Most of the accidents, however, are caused by
carelessness, stupidity, or overconfidence. The day I joined the school
two of the members lost their lives in a curious accident. They were
flying at a great height, but thoughtlessly allowed their machines to
approach too closely. Before they could change direction there was a
crash, and both came tumbling to earth. When two aeroplanes come too
near to each other the suction of their propellers pulls them together
and they become uncontrollable. That is what happened to these two
unfortunate "eleves." The officer in charge of the school explained at
length just how this accident happened. We were cautioned against
overlooking the fact that the speed of an aeroplane is always spoken of
in reference to the body of the air in which the machine is moving.
Thus an aeroplane travelling eighty miles an hour with a twenty-mile
breeze is travelling at a speed of a hundred miles an hour in reference
to the ground. The two machines at the time of the accident were flying
east and west, but, while both were travelling at the same speed with
reference to the ground, the plane moving in the direction of the wind
was making about ninety miles an hour, while the other was covering
barely fifty miles at the same time. The speed at which they were
approaching one another was, however, approximately one hundred and
forty miles an hour, or more than two miles a minute. What, under
ordinary circumstances, would have been a safe distance became a danger
zone, and before either pilot realized his mistake it was too late to
steer clear.
The scene of the accident lay over a part of the field where Wright's
Barn stands. This little red building was the workshop of the Wright
brothers when they astonished the world by their first aerial flights.
To-day that little red barn stands as a monument to American stupidity,
for when we allowed the Wrights to go abroad to perfect their ideas
instead of aiding them to carry on their work at home, we lost a golden
opportunity. Now the United States, which gave to the world the first
practical aeroplane, is the least advanced in this all-important
science.
Although I came to Pau with a little preliminary experience, and had the
"feel" for engines and steering, I was obliged to begin, with the
others, at the bottom of the primary class. It was nearly two months
before I was allowed to make my first flight. The French idea is that
before a pupil commences his apprenticeship as a pilot he must
understand thoroughly the machine he is going to handle and know just
what he is trying to do in the air. Together with twenty-five other
men, who began their studies at about the same time, I was ordered to
attend the theoretical courses. When not in the classroom we were
stationed on the aviation-field where we could watch the more advanced
"eleves" fly, thus familiarizing ourselves by observation with all the
details of our profession. Class-room work and field-practice go hand
in hand.
At first I did not realize how important these courses were, or how
strict was the discipline under which we lived. One day, when my
thoughts were a little more intent upon an expected week-end at Biarritz
than upon what was being explained on the blackboard, the lecturer
suddenly asked me a question. I could not answer and forthwith my
forty-eight-hour leave was retracted. My Sunday was spoiled, but I
considered myself lucky not to have received a "consigne," which
involves sleeping in the guard-house every night for a week.
The first subject we took up was mechanics. We were made to mount and
dismount motors, and were familiarized with every part of their
construction. Carburetors and magnetos came next, and then we learned
what made a motor "go." At the front a pilot always has two
"mecaniciens" to take care of his machine, but if on account of a
breakdown he should have to land in hostile territory he must be able to
make the necessary repairs himself, and make them quickly, or else run
the risk of being taken prisoner. When flying, the pilot can usually
tell by the sound of his motor whether it is running perfectly or not.
Many a life has been saved in this way--the pilot knowing in time what
was out of order before being forced to land in a forest, on a mountain
peak, or in some other equally impossible place.
When we had become "apt," we were promoted to a course in aeroplane
construction. This is an extremely technical course, and at first we
were asked to know only simple subjects, such as the incidence of the
wings, the angle of attack of the cellule, the carrying force of the
tail in reference to the size of the propeller. By the incidence of the
wings is meant their upward slope. This is an extremely important
matter, for the stability and climbing propensities of the machine
depend entirely upon their model. The angle of attack of the cellule is
the angle of the different wings in reference to each other. For
instance, the incidence of one side must be greater than that of the
other on account of the rotary movement of the propeller. There are
also certain fixed ratios between the upper and lower planes. Still
more important is the carrying power of the tailplane, for if it has too
much incidence it lifts the rear end and makes the machine dive, while
if it has too little the reverse happens. If any part of the aeroplane
is not correctly regulated it becomes dangerous and difficult for the
pilot to control. All this becomes more important as one reaches the
close of the apprenticeship. One then appreciates this intimate
knowledge acquired at the school. Often a pilot is compelled to land in
a field many miles from his base. If something is wrong with his motor
he must be able to find out immediately what the trouble is, for if a
part is broken the camp must be called up on the telephone, so that a
new piece may be sent to the spot by motor, with a mechanic to adjust
it.
When a pilot starts on a cross-country trip he is always given blank
requisitions, signed by his commanding officer. When he is forced to
land he therefore is able to call upon authorities, whether military or
civilian, for any service or assistance he may need, and this "scrap of
paper" is sufficient in every case to obtain food, lodging, and even
transportation to the nearest aviation headquarters for both the pilot
and his machine.
[Illustration: The little cafe across the road]
Map-reading and navigation were the next subjects we studied. First we
were taught how to read a map, how to judge the height of hills and the
size of towns, so that when flying we would know at a glance just where
we were. This, we later appreciated, is a very important matter. When
passing through clouds or mist an aviator may become momentarily lost,
and the instant he again sees the ground he must locate on his map the
country he views or else land and ask where he is. Aerial navigation may
not be as complicated as that employed by mariners upon the high seas,
but it is not easily mastered by any means. One must learn to calculate
the direction a straight line takes between two points, and translate
this direction into degrees on the compass. Secondly, and more
important, is the estimation of the drift caused by the wind. If the
wind is from the west and the pilot is attempting to go north, the
machine will go "en crabe" (sideways like a crab). The machine will be
pointing north by the compass, but in reality it will be moving
northeast. After the pilot has laid out his course on the map, and is
tearing through the air, he must immediately take into consideration his
drift. By watching landmarks selected beforehand the drift is calculated
very quickly. The course by the compass is altered, and, though the
machine is speeding due north, the compass informs the pilot that he is
pointing northwest, a fact very confusing for a beginner.
*LEARNING TO FLY*
During the lecture course we always spent several hours a day on the
aviation-field. We were not allowed to fly, but our presence was
insisted upon. We would observe the things to avoid, so that when our
turn came to go up we should be familiar with all the dangers. Every
start, flight, and landing was made a subject of special study. Every
time a pupil made a mistake his fault was explained to us, and we were
usually impressed with the fact that he had barely escaped a bad smash
and perhaps death. The pupils who made the mistakes, were immediately
made examples. If the fault was corrected they escaped with a long and
loud lecture for the benefit of the onlookers, but if, on the other
hand, an accident followed the mistake the offenders were immediately
punished with a ten days' "consigne." If a pupil continued to make
mistakes he was "vide," and sent back to his former regiment.
Loss of speed--"perte de vitesse," the French call it--is the most
common and probably the greatest danger an aviator meets with--it is his
"bete noire." There is a minimum speed capable of holding an aeroplane
in the air which varies inversely with the spread of the wings. While
in line of flight, the force of the motor will maintain the speed, but
when the motor is shut off and the pilot commences to volplane the force
of gravity produces the same result. There are two ways of knowing when
you are approaching the danger-point--by closely watching the
speed-indicator and by feeling your controls. The moment the controls
become lifeless and have no resistance you must act instinctively and
regain your momentum, or it is all up with you. While climbing you may
lose speed by forcing the motor and climbing too rapidly. When a "perte
de vitesse" is produced the aeroplane "goes off on the wing," sliding
down sideways in such a manner and with such force that the rudders
cannot right you or that the propeller cannot pick up your forward
speed. This can happen also if, when making a vertical turn, the speed
is not sufficiently increased to carry you around the corner. Occurring
near the ground a loss of speed is certain to result in a smash-up. If
high in the air a "vrille," or tail spin, is generally the result. By
this is meant coming down in a whirlpool, spinning like a match in the
waste of a basin. The machine takes as a pivot the corner of one wing
and revolves about it. The first turn is very slow, but the speed
increases with each revolution. The only hope of escape is to dive into
the centre of the whirlpool. Even then, if the motor is turned on, the
planes will fold up like a book. Among the accidents to beginners this,
next to faulty landing, is the most common.
[Illustration: A Morane-Parasol.]
I witnessed one very sad example. A young lieutenant had just been
brevetted and was ready to leave the school. Just as he was saying
good-by to his comrades, a "Morane Parasol" was brought out on the
field. These machines are very tricky and dangerous. He had never
piloted one, but wanted to show off. The monitors begged him not to
take it up, but he insisted on doing so. When he had reached an
altitude of about five hundred metres he shut off his motor to come
down, not realizing that monoplanes do not volplane well. He did not
dive enough and had a "perte de vitesse." The machine slipped off the
wing. We all held our breaths and prayed that he would recover control
before he engaged in the fatal corkscrew spiral. Our hopes were of no
avail. The machine started to turn, and approached the earth spinning
like a chip caught in a whirlpool. I turned my back, but I could hear
the machine whistling through the air till it came to the ground with a
sickening crash.
Faulty landings are also very common causes of accidents. It takes a
beginner a long time to train his eye to make a perfect landing, and
even experienced men now and then smash up on the "atterrissage." A few
inches sometimes make a great difference. If the pilot does not check
his speed in time he will crash into the ground and "capote," that is,
turn over. If he pulls up too soon he will slip off on the wing or land
so hard that the machine collapses. Not only the manner of landing but
gaining the exact place of landing is difficult. If the pilot misjudges
his distance, and lands either beyond or short of a given spot, he may
collide with some object that will wreck the aeroplane.
Just before leaving the ground is another critical moment. If the tail
is lifted too high in an effort to gain speed the wheels are liable to
hit some small obstacle and the machine turns a somersault. Often one
is forced to lift the tail very high to gain flying speed in a short
distance, and it always results in an uncomfortable few seconds until
the pilot knows he is clear. Still another mishap against which aviators
are powerless may occur while rolling along the ground. The machine may
be caught by a cross wind, which will turn it completely around, a
"chevaux-de-bois," a merry-go-round, the French call it. If the machine
is going fast when this happens it means touching the ground with a wing
and a first-class smash.
For two months I studied and watched, and the result was a profound
respect for the air. During this time it seems that I also had been the
object of study and observation on the part of my teachers, for one day
I was told that I was to receive my "bapteme de l'air," my first flight
as a passenger. Words cannot describe my joy or my sensations.
I walked over to the double-seater. The pilot had already taken his
seat, and the propeller was turning. I had hardly climbed in and
fastened my belt than we were off. I could hear the wheels bounding
along the ground. Suddenly the noise stopped--we were in the air. I
was sure I would have vertigo, as I often had had in high places. I did
not look out of the machine until we were about five hundred feet up.
Then, to my surprise, I experienced not the slightest sensation of
height. The ground seemed to be merely moving slowly under and away from
me. We kept climbing. I could see the country for miles. Never had I
viewed the horizon from so far. The snow-clad Pyrenees were literally
at my feet. Trees looked like weeds and roads like white ribbons. It
was a marvellous sight. At about two thousand feet we struck some wind
and "remous" (whirlpools). Each time we struck one we would drop about
fifty feet, and the sensation was like being in a descending express
elevator. At the end of the drop we would stop, the biplane would
shiver and roll like a ship in a heavy sea, and then it would shoot up
until we struck the solid air again. This was real flying.
After a while my instructor cut off the motor, and we started to come
down. We were going fast enough on the level, but now the wind just
roared past my ears. The ground appeared to be rushing up to meet us.
We were pointing down so straight that my whole weight was on my feet,
and I was literally standing up. I thought that the pilot had forgotten
to redress, and that we would go head first into the ground, but he
finally pulled up, and before I knew it we were rolling along the ground
at a speed of about forty miles an hour.
With this preliminary experience I was ready to commence my final
studies for a pilot's brevet.
Some people seem to think that the two months devoted merely to first
principles are time lost, but I now realize that this is not so. I
seemed to have much more confidence on account of this intelligent
understanding of every detail. I felt that I knew just what I was to
avoid, and just how to do the correct thing in case an emergency arose.
Perhaps I might say here that military aviators have four distinct
duties to perform at the front: they must fight, reconnoitre the enemy's
positions, control the fire of their own batteries, or make distant
bombarding raids over the enemy's bases of supplies.
The fighting pilots do nothing but combat work. Their machines are the
very small and fast Nieuports, designed especially for quick
manoeuvring. They are called the "appareils de chasse," on account of
their great speed--over one hundred miles an hour. Their armament
consists of a mitrailleuse, which is carried in a fixed position. In
order to aim it, the pilot must point his machine. The principal task
assigned to the Nieuports is to do sentry duty over our own lines, in
order to prevent the enemy aeroplanes from crossing over for observation
purposes.
Heavier and somewhat slower, and too cumbersome for fighting, are the
machines used for reconnoissance duty. They are large bimotor Caudrons,
very stable and capable of carrying two men, an observer and a pilot.
In addition they carry a wireless apparatus, powerful photographing
instruments, and other equipment essential to their work of observing,
recording, and reporting the enemy's movements and the disposition of
his batteries. If attacked, they can fight, being armed with a machine
gun mounted in front of the observer's seat; but attacking the enemy is
not the role they are intended to play.
Next come the Farman artillery machines. They are like the
reconnoissance machines, too cumbersome for fighting, but are best
equipped for the purpose of "reglage"--controlling the fire of
batteries. While the small Nieuports have a carrying capacity of only
two hundred and twenty pounds, these unwieldy creatures are able to take
on over five hundred pounds, which includes the weight of the two men,
their clothes, cameras, the wireless, and the gun and its ammunition.
In this branch of aviation the weight of the pilot does not matter so
very much, whereas in the case of the little Nieuports, if the aviator
exceeds the prescribed weight, he has to choose between not piloting the
machine or starting on his flight with a supply of gasolene reduced by
the amount of his excess weight.
Finally, there are the heavy-armored bombardment machines, with a
carrying capacity of over one thousand pounds. They are the slowest
machines of all, and their work is both tiring and tiresome, as their
flights are made mostly by night. They are armed with mitrailleuses or
small, non-recoil cannon, but on account of their low speed their
daylight flights are attended by "escadrilles de chasse." They are also
detailed for guarding cities.
In the early months of the war each aviator was usually assigned to any
one of these types of machines at hazard. At the school which he
attended the instruction he received was specialized for the work which
that particular machine could perform. Since then, however, it has been
found more advisable to train all beginners on one of the heavier
machines. The reason is this: Fighting, although the safest work,
requires the most experienced pilot. It is the most important work of
all--or rather it calls for greater attributes of skill, courage, and
knowledge. The famous aviators of whom we read in the daily
communiques, like Navarre, Nungesser, Vialet, and Guynemer, all gained
their reputation with the small, fighting Nieuports. A pilot is
consequently promoted from a reconnoissance machine to an "appareil de
chasse" after he has had two or three months' experience at the front
and his captain has indorsed his application.
There are exceptions to this rule. The most notable is the American
Escadrille, which consists entirely of fighting machines. The
volunteers from the United States who applied for this duty were
considered such naturally good aviators that they were accorded the
exceptional honor of being assigned immediately to the fighting
Nieuports.
When I first reported at the aviation headquarters they offered to let
me go directly to the combat school because I was an American. I
refused. "When in Rome, do as the Romans do," I thought, and so
expressed my preference for a French escadrille. I knew that by doing
so I would put in a longer apprenticeship, but that in the end it would
make a much better fighting pilot of me. Having chosen this course, I
was ordered to report to the school at Chartres.
*THE SCHOOL AT CHARTRES*
Most Americans know Chartres only for its beautiful Gothic cathedral,
which, since its construction in the eleventh century, has been regarded
as one of the finest edifices of France. Those of us who, since the war
began, have had occasion to visit Chartres, have found there other
interests besides the little, straggling streets, the historic old
houses, and the beautiful monuments and memorials to men, like Pasteur
and Marceau, who brought fame to their native city in peace as well as
in war. Not far from the centre of the town lie the vast
aviation-fields--close by the little village of Bretigny, where the
treaty of peace which concluded the One Hundred Years' War was signed
over five centuries ago. Little did the soldiers who met on that
historic battle-field dream that to-day their descendants would be
training for an even greater conflict, in which the combatants not only
clinch below ground but also fight aerial battles high above the clouds.
As Chartres was a great cavalry headquarters of the French army before
the war, to-day many of the horses shipped over from the western plains
of North America are sent there the moment they are unloaded from the
steamers at Bordeaux. Many a morning from my window I have seen the
square below filled with a moving mass of animals on their way to the
near-by remount depots. Twice I saw whole regiments of cavalry leaving
for the front. So steadily and so quietly did those mounts move in
ranks that it seemed as if they had acquired some of their riders'
dogged determination and sense of responsibility.
The aviation school at Chartres is as large as the one I had recently
left, and its organization is the same. In fact, it is only one of a
dozen equally large and important schools located in various parts of
France--all of which is bound to make a great impression upon Americans
when they appreciate the insufficiency of aviation schools in our own
country. At Chartres there are three fields. Two of these are reserved
for the use of the double-control machines, while the third, the "Grande
Piste," serves as a practice-field for the eleves who are about to come
up for their pilots' examinations. As soon as I had reported my arrival
to the officer in charge, and had complied with the usual formalities, I
was assigned to an "equipe," which in English means a "team." There
were twelve of these "equipes" under instruction at all times,
comprising a dozen pupils apiece, and each having its own double-control
machine and an instructor. Half of the number are always making use of
one of the two smaller fields, while the remaining six use the other.
The instruction in this way progresses rapidly. The "moniteur" first
takes each pupil for a few rides to see how the latter takes to the air.
The eleve must follow every move of his pilot, until he appears
perfectly at home in the machine, and then he is allowed to hold the
controls alone. Each flight lasts only about five minutes, the French
theory being that an aviator must take his instruction in small doses.
In the interim, as in the preliminary courses, he remains on the field,
observing and studying the mistakes of his comrades. If the progress of
the instruction is too rapid, the pupil has not the time to grasp each
step that has been passed and cannot, therefore, become an expert pilot.
The double control works in this way: The controls and the pedals of the
pupil are a duplicate set of those of the "moniteur," or instructor, and
have the same connections with the engine and steering apparatus.
Either set will steer the machine. The pupil takes hold of the controls
and places his feet on the pedals. Every motion of the instructor is
reproduced in the pupil's control and pedals--their hands and feet move
together. In this way the pupil develops a reflex action and instinct
for doing the right thing. Each day, weather permitting, at least half a
dozen flights are made by a pupil. Gradually the "moniteur" allows him
to control the machine. Suddenly he finds himself running the biplane
alone, with his instructor riding as a passenger behind him and merely
giving him a word of advice or caution from time to time.
Landing is the most difficult part of aviation to master. A great many
of the accidents occur because the aviator has made a poor contact with
the ground. In fact, in the early days of aviation most of the
accidents occurred near the ground, and this led people to speculate on
the peculiar action of the lower air currents. These, in reality, had
little to do with it. The cause lay in the inability of the pilots to
know how to make proper contacts and to appreciate the fact which we now
know to be a fundamental principle, that the engine should be shut off
before a machine catches the air and volplanes down against the wind.
There are exceptions to this rule, but not for a beginner. Sometimes it
is necessary for the pilot to descend against a strong wind. In order
to maintain the required speed the motor must be left partially turned
on. Generally it is most important to turn off the motor, because if
the landing is made with the wind, even in the gentlest breeze, the
aeroplane, on account of the speed of the tail wind, is likely to turn a
somersault and be completely smashed up. Even then another manoeuvre
has to be mastered. Just before alighting the pilot must make a quick
upward turn, so that at the moment of contact the machine may be
travelling parallel with the ground. Formerly the importance of this
little upward turn of the rudder was not fully appreciated by aviators,
and many a machine was wrecked by a sudden hard compact with the earth.
When the "moniteur" sees that his pupil has acquired the knack of making
a landing he passes on to the all-important manoeuvre of volplaning, and
the dreaded "perte de vitesse" is tackled. Lastly, but not least, comes
the "virage"--turn, or bank, as we say in English. These rudimentary
principles are all that are required of the eleve before he may go up
alone, or be "lache."
During this phase of my instruction it was repeatedly impressed upon me
that, if anything ever happened to me when I was in the air and I did
not immediately realize what to do, I was to let go of the controls,
turn off the motor, and let the machine take charge of itself. The
modern aeroplane is naturally so stable that, if not interfered with, it
will always attempt to right itself before the dreaded "vrille" occurs,
and fall "en feuille morte." Like a leaf dropping in an autumn breeze
is what this means, and no other words explain the meaning better.
A curious instance of this happened one day as I was watching the
flights and waiting for my turn. I was particularly interested in a
machine that had just risen from the "Grande Piste." It was acting very
peculiarly. Suddenly its motor was heard to stop. Instead of diving it
commenced to wabble, indicating a "perte de vitesse." It slipped off on
the wing and then dove. I watched it intently, expecting it to turn into
the dreaded spiral. Instead it began to climb. Then it went off on the
wing, righted itself, again slipped off on the wing, volplaned, and went
off once more. This extraordinary performance was repeated several
times, while each time the machine approached nearer and nearer to the
ground. I thought that the pilot would surely be killed. Luck was with
him, however, for his slip ceased just as he made contact with the
ground, and he settled in a neighboring field. It was a very bumpy
landing, but the aeroplane was undamaged.
The officers rushed to the spot to find out what was the matter. They
found the pilot unconscious but otherwise unhurt. Later, in the
hospital, he explained that the altitude had affected his heart and that
he had fainted. As he felt himself going he remembered his instructions
and relinquished the controls, at the same moment stopping his motor.
His presence of mind and his luck had saved his life--his luck, I say,
for had the machine not righted itself at the moment of touching the
ground it would have been inevitably wrecked.
This was a practical demonstration of the expediency of the French
method of instruction, and before long it was to serve me also in good
stead.
One day, after I had flown for several hours in the double-control
machine, my "moniteur" told me that he thought me qualified to be
"lache," and that I was to go up alone the following morning. I felt
very proud and confided my feelings to one of my friends who had been
qualified a few hours earlier. While we were talking he was called upon
to make his first independent flight. We watched him leave the ground,
rise, and then make his turns. He was doing remarkably well for a
beginner, but when he came down for his landing he did not redress his
machine in time and it crushed him to the ground, with fatal result.
This completely unnerved me. I lost all desire to fly the following
day, and prayed earnestly for rain. The next morning, however, was
beautifully clear. The captain was there to watch my flight. I was
loath to go up, but I had no alternative. The mechanics rolled out a
single-control biplane for my use and I climbed in. The motor was
started. With its crackling noise my nerve almost deserted me again. I
should have felt less frightened, probably, had no one been looking on,
but my "moniteur," my captain, and all my comrades stood there,
interested to see how I would handle myself. I had to see the thing
through, so I opened the throttle. The machine began to roll along the
ground, then to bounce, and then, in response to a pull on the control,
to fly. I was flying alone. The thought filled me with alarm. I rose
to less than two hundred feet, but it seemed prodigious. Then I made a
turn. When I found that I was flying smoothly and easily I felt a
little more confident. As I turned back toward the field I could see my
masters and comrades below looking up at me. Another machine was about
to leave the field. It seemed no larger than a huge insect as it glided
across the ground. I made up my mind that I was going to make good. If
others could do it, I could. I volplaned down, and made my landing
safely but somewhat bumpily. The captain told me that I would do, but
he would like me to make another turn. I went up again. This time I
made a faultless landing. I had passed my test satisfactorily. I felt
happy and confident. I was now qualified to "conduct" an aeroplane
alone, and in a few weeks I would be allowed to try for a brevet as
military pilot.
There were several other pilots whose turns to pass to the "Grande
Piste" came before mine. I had, therefore, to wait for several days,
which I used to advantage in taking up the old "double-control" machine
alone. In this way I was able to make several ascensions and landings
every morning and every night. This was to be of the greatest service
to me later, for during these practice flights I acquired perfect
confidence in myself. At other times, both before and after working
hours, my "moniteur" would take me up with him as a passenger for a
newly discovered sport. We would rush along the ground, barely two feet
above it, and put up partridges, which abounded in the greatest numbers.
Our speed would enable us to overtake and hit them with the wires of the
machine and kill them. Running along the ground in this way is always
attended with danger, but it was real sport. One morning in twenty
minutes we killed six partridges in this novel manner.
Finally my turn came. I graduated from the beginners' class at "La Mare
de Grenouille" to the company of the more finished pilots of the "Grande
Piste." The beginners' field is called the "frog's meadow," because the
landings are so hoppy. On the "Grande Piste" we had newer and faster
machines, and we could fly alone and go practically anywhere we wished.
Six pilots were assigned to one aeroplane. We had to divide up the time
equally between each pilot, so as to give every one an opportunity of
making at least two flights both morning and afternoon. A maximum
height was imposed upon each "equipe," and this was gradually increased
from five hundred feet to a thousand, and then to one thousand five
hundred, as we became more and more adept.
Most of our time was given to making landings and to accustoming
ourselves to volplaning. The motor had to be reduced at a predetermined
distance from the field, and the rest of the descent made by volplaning
to a given spot. Spirals were also made during each flight. We would
select our landing-places and prepare ourselves for the "atterrissage"
by reducing our motor, making due allowance for the drive of the wind.
At about two hundred feet from the ground we would suddenly turn on the
motor again, tilt up the tail, and resume our flights. This was
excellent practice and gave us more and more confidence in our own
ability to come down wherever we wished. The average layman cannot
understand why aviators spend so much time turning in spirals as they
approach the ground. It is because they are manoeuvring for position to
hold their headway and land against the wind, as does a sailing ship
when beating up a harbor against wind and tide.
Every day I took my machine up higher and higher until I had gradually
increased my altitude to two thousand feet. Here, one day, I had a
narrow escape. I had received orders to make a flight during a
snow-storm. I rose to the prescribed height and then prepared to make
my descent. A whirling squall caught me in the act of making a spiral.
I felt the tail of my machine go down and the nose point up. I had a
classical "perte de vitesse." I looked out and saw that I was less than
eight hundred feet above the ground, and approaching it at an alarming
rate of speed. I had already shut off the motor for the spiral, and
turning it on, I knew, would not help me in the least. Suddenly I
remembered the pilot who fainted. I let go of everything, and with a
sickening feeling I looked down at the up-rushing ground. At that
instant I felt the machine give a lurch and right itself. I grabbed the
controls, turned on the motor and resumed my line of flight only two
hundred feet in the air. All this happened in a few seconds, but my
helplessness seemed to have lasted for hours. I had had a very close
call--not as close as the man who fainted, but sufficiently so for me.
[Illustration: "I had received orders to make a flight during a
snow-storm."
The author, together with his first mechanic, at the "mitrailleuse."
The second mechanic is standing on the wing.]
Since that day I have seen several other pilots experience a loss of
speed under similar circumstances. Thanks to the thorough instruction
which we had received previous to our being allowed to fly alone, their
lives, as well as my own, were saved. Later we learned how the very
dangers which we had experienced as new aviators often become the safety
of expert pilots.
*PASSING THE FINAL TESTS*
My equipe was now making flights at three thousand feet and was
remaining up for an hour at a time. We had all flown alone for thirty
hours and were ready for our "epreuves."
The weather was cloudy, however, and as our first examination was to be
a height test, we had to wait until it cleared. It would have been
extremely difficult--in fact, almost impossible--for us to go up under
existing conditions. The first two tests which we were required to pass
involved ascensions of six thousand feet; then an hour at ten thousand.
If we passed these satisfactorily we would next be required to take a
triangular voyage of one hundred and fifty miles, making a landing at
each corner of the triangle. Lastly, there was the ordeal of going up to
an altitude of one thousand five hundred feet, where the motor had to be
cut off and the descent made by spirals to a previously determined spot.