captain assigned three machines to our equipe--that is, one aero-biplane
for each pair. My chum, a sous-lieutenant, and I were assigned to the
same machine. We matched to see which one of us should use it first.
He won and I helped him prepare for the test. I fastened on his
recording barometer, which indicates the altitude reached by a machine,
and he climbed in. Waving us a cheery "Au revoir," he started off. His
machine climbed fast. To us he seemed to be going too steeply. We felt
like shouting to him to be careful, but we knew it was useless. Suddenly
his machine slipped off on the wing. For some unknown reason he failed
to shut off his motor. His biplane engaged in the fatal spiral. There
was a loud report, like a cannon-shot, and the machine collapsed. The
strain had been too great. The top plane fell one way, the lower
another, while my friend and the motor dropped like stones.
I would have given anything to put off my own test for a few days, but
within twenty-four hours I received orders that my turn had come; and
orders were orders. I made up my mind to be very careful and to take my
time about the climb.
That first flight at six thousand feet gave me a thrilling sensation. I
remembered my first flight alone, when I had barely reached two hundred
feet. It seemed now as if I was going to mount to an indescribable
height. Since that day I have had to go up that high often, and even
higher; but it has all become commonplace, for familiarity breeds
contempt in the air as well as on land.
I was so very cautious about mounting that twenty minutes elapsed before
the needle on my registering barometer marked six thousand feet. It was
very cold. The wind struck my face with icy blasts, but I was so
excited that I did not really mind it. After a while I shut off the
motor and started to volplane to earth. I came down a little too
rapidly and made a very bad landing. In fact, for a moment I thought
that I had broken my machine. I was wet all through from the sudden rise
in temperature and stone-deaf. It was ten minutes before I could hear
again. Then I received my call-down. It seems that when a pilot has
been up to a very great height, he loses his sense of altitude--his
"sens de profondeur," as the French call it. When approaching the
ground he cannot tell whether he is twenty-five or fifty feet in the
air. He must take every care, before making contact, to train his eye
for "depths" again by flying a few minutes fairly close to the ground.
It is only a question of a few moments, but it is a necessary
precaution.
My next climb to six thousand feet was better. In fact, I felt a
certain degree of confidence. It took me somewhat longer to mount to
the required height, because some clouds came up and I had to search for
a hole through which to pass. Everywhere below me, as far as my eyes
could reach, was a sea of clouds. The sun was shining on their
snowy-white crests. It looked for all the world as though I was looking
down upon an enormous bowl of froth.
The following morning was the day fixed for my ten-thousand-foot
ascension. The atmosphere was remarkably clear, and I felt an
extraordinary sense of freedom and power as I rose from the ground. The
earth below me was bright with color. As I climbed higher the shades
became less brilliant. At ten thousand feet all color had vanished.
The only hue visible was a varying degree of shading, gray and black.
Below me I could make out the city of Chartres. Forty miles away lay
Orleans. To one side, the Loire wound its course in a gray, ribbon-like
band. On all sides the straight, white roads were merely blurred
streaks in the murky mass.
A few days later I started on my endurance test, the triangle, in
company with five other machines. In this flight of two hundred and
fifty kilometres I had to make landings at two towns where there were
aviation-fields, and the third my own field. At each place I had to
report to the aviation officer in charge and have my papers signed. In
case of a breakdown on this flight I had forty-eight hours in which to
make the necessary repairs and complete the test.
[Illustration: A Farman artillery-machine.]
The day of my triangle was a poor one for flying. It was the first warm
morning of early spring and the sun was just soaking the moisture out of
the ground. The air was, in consequence, spotty and there were many
"remous," or whirlpools. These whirlpools often cause a sudden "perte
de vitesse" and are therefore very dangerous. The machine is sailing
along quietly and smoothly, when suddenly the controls become lifeless.
You glance at your speed-indicator and at your engine-speed. Both show
that the machine is travelling well above the minimum safety speed.
This is apt to puzzle the beginner, for without warning there follows a
sudden jolt. Your machine trembles like a frightened horse and
unexpectedly leaps forward again. On a day like this you have to fight
the machine all the time to maintain its equilibrium.
The first leg of the triangle was accomplished without incident. As I
was starting my motor for the second stage, however, I noticed that the
ignition was faulty. A spark-plug had become fouled with oil, and I had
to change it before venturing up again. My companions started without
me, calling out that I could catch up with them at Versailles, where
they intended to lunch. I hurriedly screwed on a new spark-plug and
threw my tool-bag back into the box under the extra seat, but in my
hurry to be off I neglected to fasten it down. I was later to regret my
carelessness.
I soon found that in trying to catch up with the others I had no easy
task before me. The day was well advanced, and the "remous" which I
encountered were countless. I climbed and climbed. To no avail. The
cloud ceiling was at eighteen hundred metres, and I could not escape the
"remous" so low. The country below me was all wooded and interspersed
with lakes both large and small. There was not a landing-place in view.
Suddenly I felt a hard blow on the back of my head and a weight pushing
against me. "Ca y est," I thought; "the machine can't stand the
buffeting and has given way." I ventured a look back. To my surprise,
everything seemed intact--everything except the observer's seat, which
was leaning against my head! It was the seat which I had forgotten to
hook down at Chateaudun! I was greatly relieved, and fastened it back
into place.
Just then I came within sight of Versailles. I looked for the
aviation-field at which I was supposed to land. Instead of one I saw
three, lying about two miles apart. This was indeed a puzzle. From the
height at which I was flying I could not make out which was the school.
I picked out one which I thought should probably be the haven of refuge
for my storm-tossed aeroplane and spiralled down. I climbed out of my
machine. No one seemed to be about. No mechanics ran out to assist me,
as is usually the case at the schools. "It must be the luncheon-hour,"
I thought, "and all the mecaniciens are at dejeuner." I glanced over to
where the machines were ranged in line. To my surprise, they were not
of the model I had seen at Pau and Chartres, but the latest and fastest
"avions de chasse." Somewhat uncertain as to my whereabouts, I walked
over to the office. I was not left long in ignorance of my error. I
had landed on a secret testing-field, access to which was obtained only
by special permit. The sergeant advised me to lose no time in leaving,
for if the captain saw me I would be speedily punished in accordance
with the military regulations. I needed no second urging, and within
five minutes I was on the right field, explaining to my comrades why I
had been so long rejoining them. It seems that they had experienced a
very pleasant flight all the way, for the hour's start they had had over
me had enabled them to escape most of the "remous," which are always at
their worst in the middle of the day.
Late in the afternoon we returned to Chartres. This was the most
enjoyable part of the day's flying. The aerial conditions were perfect
and we were able to allow ourselves the pleasure of appreciating all the
interesting places we passed over. First we saw the beautiful valley of
the Chevreuse; then Rambouillet, with its wonderful hunting and fishing
preserves. Next I caught a glimpse of the imposing palace and gardens of
Maintenon. The time passed all too quickly; yet when we reached home it
was almost dark. We all felt quite tired, but before putting our
machines away, however, we asked permission to make our spirals, so that
we might complete every requirement of the brevet before night set in.
We were anxious to do this, so that we might obtain our "permissions"
immediately. We did not wish to lose a moment. A four days' leave is
always accorded each pilot the moment he has satisfactorily fulfilled
all the requirements of the course. Our request was granted and the
final test was successfully passed.
I was now a full-fledged aviator, with the rank of corporal, with the
regular pay of eight cents a day and an additional indemnity of
forty-five cents as a member of the Flying Corps.
*THE ZEPPELIN RAID OVER PARIS*
I decided to spend my four days' "permission" in Paris, the rendezvous
of all aviators when not on active service. From the first I felt
conscious of unusual attention. People seemed to treat me with
deference and with more respect than I had ever before experienced. I
could not account for it. Then, of a sudden, I chuckled to myself. The
envied stars and wings on my collar were the cause. I was a "pilote
aviateur," a full-fledged member of the aerial light cavalry of France.
For most "permissionnaires" Paris usually offers only the distractions
of its theatres and restaurants, its boulevards, and its beautiful
monuments. These pleasures I also had looked forward to, but in the
first thirty-six hours of my visit occurred another, more startling
diversion--two Zeppelin raids. It was my first real experience of the
war.
The first alarm occurred as we were leaving a restaurant after dinner.
A motor fire-engine rushed by, sounding the alert for the approaching
enemy. Pandemonium reigned in the streets. I hastened to find a way to
reach the aviation-field at Le Bourget, where I felt that duty called
me. The concierge hailed a taxi. I jumped in and gave the address to
the chauffeur. "Le Bourget! Oh, mais non," exclaimed the man;
"monsieur must think me a fool." He flatly refused me as a fare. He
was the father of a family, and he certainly would not go to the very
spot where all the bombs were certain to be dropped; besides--he did not
have enough gasolene in his tank for so long a run. We talked and
argued. In desperation I thrust my hand in my pocket and handed him a
generous retainer. At the sight of the money he wavered. I followed up
my advantage and promised him a handsome tip if he started at once. He
threw in his clutch. I had won my first "engagement."
The streets were pitch-dark and jammed with people, all staring
heavenward. The feeble oil-lights of the taxicab barely lit up their
faces as we wound our way in and out. At breakneck speed we swung right
and left, sounding the horn and crying out warning "attentions." Near
the outskirts of the city we could see search-lights flashing against
the heavy mist. There was so much fog, however, that they could not
pierce the veil which hung over the city. At one thousand five hundred
feet the sky was opaque. The anti-aircraft batteries were barking and
sending off deep-red flashes into the impenetrable murkiness in answer
to wireless signals from the invisible air guards above. Now and then a
military automobile dashed by.
[Illustration: Newspaper dropped by German raiders within the French
lines.]
As we neared Le Bourget, there was a deep detonation. A bomb had been
dropped. The Zeppelin had arrived. My chauffeur in panic jammed on the
brakes. I was literally thrown out of the taxi and into the arms of a
waiting sentinel who flashed an electric torch into my face. The
sergeant of the guard rushed up and escorted me to the guard-house,
where an officer proceeded to question me. I immediately realized that
I was an object of suspicion. Who was I and what was I doing here?
Here I was, a foreigner in the French uniform, and unknown to them.
Instead of being welcomed at the post of danger I found to my amusement
that I was temporarily under arrest.
Several more explosions were heard. Then a deathlike silence. The
cannon ceased their angry roar, the search-lights put out their blinding
rays. Through the window I noticed a large fire in the middle of the
"piste," where several cans of gasolene had been ignited. It was the
signal for the searching aeroplanes to return. The Zeppelin had left.
As soon as the electric current had been switched on again the captain
returned. He seemed surprised at my "enthusiasm." "Just like you
Americans," he said smiling. "A man en permission, however, should
never look for trouble." He then explained that this night guarding
required special training. Even had he needed my services, I would have
been helpless, as I had never before flown after sundown.
One by one the defenders of Paris returned. At two thousand feet they
were invisible, though we could hear the humming of their motors. Then,
as they came nearer and nearer we saw little indefinite lights moving in
the mist above us, and finally the machines, their dimmed search-lights
yet staring like two great eyes.
About fifty aeroplanes are in the air around Paris all the time. Each
pilot remains up three hours, when he is relieved by another flier.
When the Zeppelins are known to have crossed the front, some eighty
miles away, the whole defense squadron of two hundred takes to the air.
The organization of the aerial defense of Paris is admirable, and it is
this, together with the efficient anti-aircraft posts in the environs,
which prevents the "Boches" from raiding Paris more often.
I was allowed to examine everything at my leisure, and took advantage of
this opportunity to gain as much information as I could about the
lighting systems and the new models of small cannon which had recently
been installed on the aeroplanes. Presently I was greeted by one of the
pilots who had just landed. He proved to be an old acquaintance.
It seems that the Zeppelin had profited by the mist to slip by our
watchers at the front, and had reached the very outskirts of the city
before it was sighted by the air guards of Paris. The Boches dropped
several bombs near the Gare du Nord and in the vicinity of Le Bourget.
Then they had vanished into the mist. "How could they ever find the
railway-station in the dark?" I asked. "That's easy," he answered.
"The Zeppelins are equipped with a small observation-car that hangs down
on a long cable. It is built something like an aeroplane and travels
about five thousand feet below the dirigible. This evening the raider
flew at an altitude of seven thousand feet, while the car moved along
only two thousand feet from the ground. Its passenger could, therefore,
locate everything easily and telephone the directions to the commander
above." "But," I insisted, "how did they ever locate the freight-yards
in the dark?" "Easily," replied my companion; "their spies had arranged
all that. They simply hung a series of blue lights in the chimneys of
houses and laid out a path directly to the spot." These spies in all
probability had been already caught, but I was angry, very angry, to
realize that their "espionage" was still so efficient.
On the way home Paris seemed surprisingly normal again. The
street-lamps were glowing peaceably and the cafes were crowded with
talkative men and women. I could not help thinking how wonderful those
people were, how fearless and forgetful of danger.
The actual damage done by the bombs during that raid was insignificant.
The photographs published in the daily press bore witness to this. A
few civilians were killed, but no military damage was done. It was only
an attempt at terrorism. I visited one of the "craters" the next
morning. The bomb had landed directly over the subway and had blown a
huge hole in the pavement. The tracks below lay open to view. Gangs of
laborers were already at work, not repairing the damage but enlarging
the hole. I asked them what this was for. "Why, monsieur, it is this
way. The health authorities always insisted that a ventilator was
needed in this part of the 'Metropolitain.' The Boches obligingly saved
us the trouble and expense. We are now merely going to put a fence
around it."
[Illustration: An anti-aircraft .75.]
That night there was another alarm. We were spending the evening with
friends in the Latin Quarter when the pompiers startled us with their
wailing sirens. From every direction came the "Alerte! the Zeppelins
are coming. Lights out!" One by one the street-lamps faded, apartments
were darkened, and the street-cars stopped where they were, plunged into
darkness. It was thrilling. In the velvety gloom the outlines of people
and motors could be seen moving about. The corner of the rue d'Assas
alone remained illuminated. A "bec de gaz" was still burning brightly,
to the rage of an old infantry colonel who was too short to reach it
himself. To our amusement, a little girl clad in a red kimono and
bedroom slippers ran out into the street and volunteered her aid. The
old soldier blurted out a word or two, then lifted her up in his arms
while she extinguished the light. "Thanks, mademoiselle. Now, quick!"
he gasped; "run back to bed."
We saw some of the people climb down into their cellars. The majority,
however, gathered in the streets, looking up at the search-light swept
sky. Tiny, starlike lights moved about above us and we knew that
aeroplanes of the "Garde de Paris" were searching for the venturesome
raider. "I don't believe the sales Boches and their sausage balloon are
coming this evening to beg food," remarked one man. "Oh, no," answered
another, "it is clear and they well know that a Zeppelin over Paris
to-night is a Zeppelin less for Germany." Just then we heard the
firemen coming back. Their bugles were playing a jubilant call. The
Zeppelins had been frightened away. Everywhere lights were again lit.
The people laughed good-naturedly at their neighbors' strange attire.
"Quelle guerre!" yawned the old officer at my elbow; "down in the
ground, under the sea, and over our homes! Quelle guerre!"
*AT THE ECOLE DE PERFECTIONNEMENT*
From Chartres I was sent to Chateauroux to continue my studies and
perfect myself in flying. Chateauroux is a small provincial town
situated half-way between the chateau country and the beautiful valley
of the river Creuse. It was originally founded by the Romans, and
before the war had a large "caserne." All this is forgotten to-day in
the glory of the stream of air pilots that pass through the "Ecole
deviation militaire." Soldiers are to be found everywhere, but not
aviators, and the residents of Chateauroux are very conscious of the
honor conferred upon their town.
When a pilot has received his "brevet" he has really only begun his
professional education. This I soon found out at Chateauroux. The day
after my arrival I was set to work making daily flights and attending
the various courses and lectures on artillery-fire, bomb-dropping, war
aviation, "liaison," and the design of enemy aircraft. The daily flights
were very short, lasting only fifteen minutes each. We made three or
four of them each day, and their purpose was chiefly to give us greater
confidence in making our landings. We were allowed to take up
passengers, and we often paired off and took each other up. In this
connection it was amusing to see how every one avoided being taken up by
certain pilots. Some men cannot fly: their temperaments prevent it, and
try as they will they cannot improve. This is generally due to sheer
stupidity or to lack of nerve. One thing is certain, and that is that
these men will kill themselves sooner or later if they persist in their
efforts to fly.
An incident occurred shortly after my arrival at the school. About
thirty pilots were receiving practical instruction on the aviation-field
and were standing around two aeroplanes. About a hundred feet away
another machine was making ready to start. When the mechanic spun the
propeller at the word from the aviator the motor started, not slowly as
it should, but with a roar. The machine began to roll toward the group
of men. Instead of cutting off the ignition--we found out later that
the wire connecting the throttle and the carburetor was broken and that
the throttle was therefore turned on full--the pilot lost his head. He
tried to steer around the group of men in front of him. The ground was
muddy and very slippery, which made escape almost impossible. In their
hurry to get away several men lost their footing and fell down in the
very path of the onrushing biplane. We thought that at least a dozen
would be crushed or else decapitated by the rapidly revolving propeller.
Fortunately no one was seriously injured. Even the stupid pilot escaped
unscathed. The three machines, however, were completely wrecked.
Needless to say, the offender was immediately dismissed from the
aviation school and sent back to his regiment. His escapade had cost
the government about ten thousand dollars. Even had there been no
damage to the machines it is doubtful whether any further chances would
have been taken with a man of such a temperament.
There is not much to tell of the daily flights which we made. The
weekly trips, however, proved extremely interesting. We usually covered
at least a hundred miles and flew at a height of over six thousand feet.
[Illustration: A bad landing.]
My first trip was to the aviation school near Bourges, situated on the
estates of the Count d'Avord, who has lent the ground to the government
for the duration of the war. It is a much larger school than any I had
attended, and its instruction covers every type of machine. The most
important course given is that in night flying. All the aviators who
have been selected for the bombarding-machines and for the work of
guarding cities are sent here. Their life is the exact opposite of that
led by the average pilot, for they sleep all day and work all night.
All this was so new to me that I found much of interest. What surprised
me most was to learn that night flying is really easier than day work.
The reason given is that after sunset there are no "remoux," and that,
when it comes to making landings, the aviation-fields are so well
lighted that the pilots have no more difficulty making contact than in
the daytime. It is another matter, of course, if an aviator meets with
a mishap and is forced to alight elsewhere. Under those circumstances
the story is usually a sad one.
One of the longest flights I made was to Tours. Since then I have often
thought how strange it was to be flying over this historic region of
France. We took it as a matter of course, but what would the ancient
heroes of France have thought had they seen us? One week we were over
Bourges, called the source of the French nation, for it was from here
that the Duke de Berry sallied forth and conquered the English hosts,
bringing to a close the struggle which had lasted for a century. The
next week we were over Lorraine and the chateaux of the Bourbon kings,
who did many great deeds, but had surely never thought of flying.