first subject covered had reference to artillery-fire and the theory of
trajectories. It is essential that aviators be familiar with the
parabola described by the shells fired by cannon of various calibers.
If they are not, some day they may unconsciously fly in the very path of
shells sent by their own guns and be killed by projectiles not meant for
them. The "seventy-five" field-guns, when firing at long ranges, have
to elevate their muzzles so much that their shells describe a high
parabola before they explode over the enemy's trenches. The very heavy
shells, on the other hand, like those of the 420-centimetre French
pieces and the famous German "Big-Berthas," rise to a point almost over
their target and then drop suddenly. Aviators must become familiar with
this and with a hundred other peculiarities of artillery-fire. When
flying over the front it is too late to acquire this knowledge.
Information has to be gained beforehand or you stand the chance of being
annihilated with your machine. An aviator I know involuntarily got into
the path of a seventy-seven or seventy-five caliber shell. He is alive
to-day, but he lost his left foot in the "collision." He just managed
to come down within our lines before he had bled too much to recover.
Our next subject for study was "liaison," which means the science of
maintaining communication between the several branches of an army.
During an attack upon the enemy's position each arm of the service has
its own part to play. The artillery has to prepare the way for the
infantry, and at a given signal the infantry must be ready to rush
forward to the attack. As the infantry carry the positions before them
and move forward the artillery-fire must be correspondingly lengthened;
the supply-trains have to keep the necessary amount of ammunition and
shells and other material supplied to the infantry and artillery; while
the cavalry must be ready to charge the moment a favorable opening
presents itself. For all this co-ordination there are various "agents
de liaison." There are messengers on foot, and despatch-bearers on
horseback, and motor-cycles; there are visual signals, such as the
signal-flags, the semaphore, and the colored fires and star shells; and
there are the telephone and the telegraph. None of these are depended
upon by the army headquarters as much as the aviation corps, the "agent
de liaison par excellence." It is one of the most important roles that
aviators are called upon to play at the front, and we were being
prepared for this work by very special instruction.
Under the subject of "war aviation" we studied the designs of the
various enemy aircraft, and the pitfalls which are encountered at the
front. Then followed a course in bomb-dropping. This was a practical
course, and our method of learning was as peculiar as it was ingenious.
A complete bomb-dropping apparatus was mounted on stakes about
twenty-five feet above the ground. Under this there was a miniature
landscape painted to scale on canvas. It was a regular piece of
theatrical scenery mounted on rollers so that it could be revolved to
represent the passage of the earth under your machine. We would climb
into the seat on the stilts and consider ourselves flying at some
arbitrary height. Through our range-finder we would gaze down at the
"land," and as a town appeared we would make allowances through the
system of mirrors arranged by the range-finder for our speed and height
and for an imaginary wind. At the calculated moment the property bombs
would be loosed.
When I came to Chateauroux I thought that I knew something about
aviation because I had obtained my "brevet." I soon realized how very
little of the ground I had actually covered. In fact, after four weeks
of this advanced work I felt as if I would never acquire all the
knowledge required for work at the front. Just then about twenty of us
were selected to go into the reserve near the front, to fill vacancies
caused by casualties. At last! We were off for the front!
I left Chateauroux for the reserve at Plessis-le-Belleville with a
certain feeling of uneasiness, yet with the certainty that in case of
emergency I knew almost instinctively what to do. In addition, I had
become thoroughly familiar with the perils of the air which pilots are
called upon to meet most often. These dangers are the same as those
encountered on the high seas by sailors: fog, fire, and a lee shore.
Take fog, for example. The most difficult operation in flying is the
"atterrissage" (landing). Now, in a fog you must land almost by chance.
You cannot see the ground until it is too late for your eyesight to be
of any use. Your altimetre is supposed to register your height above
the ground, but no altimetre is delicate enough to keep up with the
rapid descent of an aeroplane. It is always from fifteen to twenty
yards behind your real height. Nor is this all. The altimetre "begins
at the ground"; it registers your height above the altitude from which
you started. Now, since all ground is more or less irregular, you may
be coming down on a spot lower--or, much worse, higher--than that from
which you started. Besides, when a fog comes up the atmospheric
pressure changes and, as the altimetre is a barometer, it becomes from
that moment unregulated. Then, of course, on landing you may strike bad
ground--houses or shrubbery or fences, all of which adds to the
uncertainty and risk.
The danger from fire has never been entirely eliminated, although it is
not to-day as great as it was before aeroplane engines reached their
present perfection. The greatest danger lies in the propeller. The
slightest obstacle will break it, and if the motor cannot be stopped
instantly the increased revolutions are certain to force the flame back
into the carburetor and you are "grille" before you can land. Aviators
are from the first instructed to leave nothing loose about the machine
or their clothing. Many pilots have been killed because their caps blew
off, caught in the propeller, and broke it. So fast and powerful is the
motion of the propeller that I have seen machines come out of a
hail-storm with the blades all splintered from striking the hailstones.
There have been experiments made with fire-proof machines, but none have
yet proved successful. Fireproofing is apt to make a machine too heavy
and cumbersome.
The last peril of the air we were warned against was that of the lee
shore. In landing you should always do so against the wind. This is
the first principle drummed into the beginners at the schools. If you
make an "atterrissage" with the wind behind you, you roll along the
ground so fast and so far that you are apt to meet an obstacle which
will either wreck your machine or else cause it to turn a somersault.
Yet, when making a landing against the wind, the force of the breeze
blowing toward you will sometimes prevent you from coming down where you
had planned. On many occasions I have seen aeroplanes remain practically
stationary in the air, while descending, and sometimes even move
backward in reference to the ground. This has to be considered by the
pilot and grasped on the instant, or else he will surely come to grief
by hooking some object in his descent.
*THE RESERVE GENERALE DE L'AVIATION*
The "Reserve Generale de l'Aviation," "R.G.A.," or, as it is more
commonly known, the "Groupe d'Entrainement," is situated northeast of
Paris, on the plains of Valois. It was there that General Maunoury, in
September, 1914, launched his turning movement against the German right
flank under General von Kluck, and helped save France in the great
battle of the Marne. The country in this section is ideal for aviation,
for the hills are low and rolling, and there are very few "obstacles."
In a large forest--an "obstacle"--the village of Ermenonville lies.
Here we were billeted, while the commanding officer of the reserve made
his headquarters in the chateau of the Prince Radzivill, the "patron" of
the neighborhood.
The organization of the reserve is stupendous. There are four separate
camps, one for each branch of aviation, and there are over one hundred
machines in each camp. We were practically our own masters, and could
make flights whenever and wherever we wished. The idea is that the
pilots here have an opportunity of perfecting themselves and that, if
they do not fly, why, then it is their own loss. Acrobatics and all
sorts of feats are encouraged. Accidents occur every day, but we were
here on "active service" and our time was far too taken up with our work
for any one to pay much attention to the unlucky ones. That, at the
front, is a duty reserved for the medical corps.
Now that we were all gathered in one great camp, I had the opportunity
of noticing more than before the different types of men that are to be
found in the French Flying Corps. Unlike the conscript "poilu" of the
army, every aviator is a volunteer. Aviation is far more dangerous than
fighting in the trenches, yet there are many who have preferred the
extra risk of being in the Aviation Corps to the tedium of remaining in
the narrow-walled trenches. I believe there is at present a waiting
list of over six thousand men who have applied for service in the Flying
Corps, but for whom there are still no vacancies. A pilot may resign
his commission at any time and return to his regiment at the front, but
the majority of the "vacancies" are caused by casualties. Curiously
enough, there are many men who have been rendered unfit by wounds for
service in the infantry, who have volunteered for the air service. A
people with such patriots surely can never be defeated.
The French army understands that flying calls for the most intense kind
of concentration, mental as well as physical. Every effort is therefore
made to absolve the aviators from all work except that of running the
machines and seeing that they are well cared for. My old football
trainer in college used to say that his principle was to wrap the men in
cotton-wool when they were off the field and drive them for all they
were worth when they were in the field. The French seem to have the
same theory about aviation. No one who has not tried it can appreciate
the tremendous strain of flying. After a few hours in the air I find
that I am more exhausted than I used to be after a hard football match.
While the matter of personal habits is left to the aviator's judgment,
he is usually cautioned about drinking, smoking, and even overeating.
You need all the strength there is in you when in the air. The French,
as every one knows, drink wine as we drink tea and coffee. Yet I have
noticed that French aviators, when they are at work at the front, merely
color their water with the wine. Many of them smoke cigarettes only in
moderation.
The democracy existing in the French army since the outbreak of
hostilities has aroused the enthusiasm of every observer and has caused
much surprise to incredulous pacifists. The Aviation Corps I found even
more democratic among themselves than the other branches of the service.
I suppose one of the reasons for this total absence of distinction
between officers and men is because they all have passed through the
same schools, through the same courses of training, and have run the
same risks. Among the pilots, however, one may notice three classes.
The first and predominating class is that composed of "gentlemen." By
gentlemen I mean gentlemen in the English sense--men who in private life
have the leisure time to be sportsmen, and who in war have chosen
aviation because it is a more sporting proposition than fighting in the
trenches. The second class comprises those who before the war were
professional pilots or aviation mechanics. In the third class one finds
men who were mechanics or chauffeurs by trade and who were accepted
because their knowledge of machinery would ultimately help them to
become pilots.
The best pilots are obtained from men between the ages of twenty and
thirty. Under twenty a boy is too impetuous, and over thirty a man is
apt to be too cautious. Of course, there are exceptions, but these
limits express the preferences of the instructors at the schools.
At the "R.G.A." there is also a course for the training of young
artillery officers who have volunteered as observers for the aviation.
Our duty as pilots was to take one of these officers up with us every
time we made a flight, so as to give him "air sense." We would make
imaginary reconnoissances all over the country, regulate supposed
batteries, and go on photographic missions. The observer would send off
his reports by wireless and direct us by his maps, while we would do our
best to throw him off his guard and make him lose his bearings. In this
way observer and pilot work together and help each other with
observations and advice. During my stay at the "R.G.A." my partner was
a young artillery officer who had just been promoted from the ranks. He
was very clever and full of enthusiasm for his work, and we derived much
pleasure from our association.
"Reglage," or fire-control, was a course that involved practice,
constant practice, and still more practice, in developing a faculty for
reading distances. We would go up and try to estimate just where the
puffs of smoke, representing the explosion of shells, went off. The
corrections then had to be wirelessed to the battery, so that the next
shots might get "home." In real observation work the observer does all
this. The pilot merely flies the machine. It is thought best, however,
for the pilot to have the same training and technic as the observer, so
that he may help the latter.
While stationed at the Reserve I made some most interesting trips around
the country, up and down the valley of the Marne, over the forest of
Compiegne, and even over Paris. In fact, I was at liberty to go
anywhere, except in a northeasterly direction, for there there was
always a danger of getting across the lines. Two or three machines
disappeared in the course of a year, and it is thought that the pilots
must have committed an "indiscretion" and fallen into the hands of the
Germans for their pains.
Once I was sent to Bar-le-Duc to bring an old machine back to Plessis.
The distance, as the crow flies, was one hundred and fifty miles, over
Chalons, across Champagne, and down the valley of the Marne. I enjoyed
this flight immensely, though it nearly ended disastrously. The
aeroplane I brought back was regulated for the weight of two men, so
that when I flew in it alone I had to fight it all the way to keep it
from climbing too far. Every moment I had to keep pushing against the
control and it almost exhausted me. There was a low ceiling of clouds
and I simply could not let the machine have its own way. To add to my
aggravation, the motor stopped as I was passing over a forest. There
was nothing to do but volplane down, though I did not see how I could
ever avoid the trees. Unexpectedly a clear landing-place loomed up
ahead of me, but before reaching it I felt that I would be in the
tree-tops. Worst of all, I had a lee shore. Across my path I suddenly
noticed a canal lined with poplars. I could not possibly pass over
them, so I pressed desperately against my rudder controls. Being near
the ground, it was a frightfully short and sharp turn. I thought that
the tip of one of my wings would touch the branches of the trees while
the other would scrape the ground; then I would be crushed under the
motor. At that moment the machine straightened itself out and came to a
stop in a ploughed field. It was a very close call.
I shall never forget one of my flights over Paris. The day was
beautiful. The atmosphere was so clear that one could see for miles and
miles. As I approached the city it looked like a toy model. Every
street, almost every house, stood out in perfect detail. The white
church on the hill of Montmartre glistened like ivory. Beyond it I could
see the Arc de Triomphe and the Tour Eiffel.
I stayed up so long that my supply of gasolene was almost exhausted, and
I was obliged to land to refill the tank. I chose the aviation-field at
Le Bourget, the scene of my first war experience on the night of the
Zeppelin raid. As it happened, I again selected an unusual occasion for
my visit. This time, however, the extraordinary activity was not due to
an unwelcome visit by the Germans. It was rather to celebrate the
perfection of an unpleasant surprise for the hated Boches.
Great crowds lined the field on every side. In the centre stood a small
group of prominent officials. Among them I recognized President
Poincare. They were examining a new weapon with which French aeroplanes
would henceforth go "sausage-hunting" over the German lines.
Even the casual visitor to the front is struck by the great number of
observation balloons which both sides use in their efforts to keep
informed of the preparations being made by the enemy. Every few miles a
captive balloon or "sausage" wafts lazily over the German lines, fairly
far behind the lines, but at an altitude sufficient for observation
purposes. Against these "monsters" aeroplanes heretofore had been
powerless. Their machine guns fired bullets which, even if incendiary,
were too small to set on fire the gas-containing envelope. The aircraft
cannon carried by some of the French machines also proved useless. The
holes their projectiles made in the balloons were too small to allow a
sufficient quantity of air to enter and cause an inflammable mixture.
The rockets, which were being examined as I landed at Le Bourget, solved
the problem. Four are mounted on each side of an aeroplane. At the
head of each rocket is a large dart, resembling a salmon-gaff. The tails
of the rockets are wound into spiral springs, which are held in sockets.
All eight rockets are fired at once. They are ignited as they leave
their sockets, and travel with lightning speed.
Swinging lazily above the field was a captive balloon. At one end of Le
Bourget was a line of waiting aeroplanes. "This is the second. They
have already brought down one balloon," remarked the man at my elbow.
The hum of a motor caused me to look up. A wide-winged double-motor
Caudron had left the ground and was mounting gracefully above us. Up
and up it went, describing a great circle, until it faced the balloon.
Every one caught his breath. The Caudron was rushing straight at the
balloon, diving for the attack.
"Now!" cried the crowd. There was a a loud crack, a flash, and eight
long rockets darted forth, leaving behind a fiery trail. The aviator's
aim, however, was wide, and, to the disappointment of every one, the
darts fell harmlessly to the ground.
Another motor roared far down the field, and a tiny "appareil de chasse"
shot upward like a swallow. "A Nieuport," shouted the crowd with one
voice. Eager to atone for his "copain's" failure, and impatient at his
delay in getting out of the way, the tiny biplane tossed and tumbled
about in the air like a clown in the circus-ring.
"Look! He's looping! He falls! He slips! No, he rights again!" cried
a hundred voices as the skilful pilot kept our nerves on edge.
[Illustration: A heavy bombarding-machine.]
Suddenly he darted into position and for a second hovered uncertainly.
Then, with a dive like that of a dragon-fly, he rushed down to the
attack. Again a sheet of flame and a shower of sparks. This time the
balloon sagged. The flames crept slowly around its silken envelope.
"Touche!" cried the multitude. Then the balloon burst and fell to the
ground, a mass of flames. High above, the little Nieuport saucily
continued its pranks, as though contemptuous of such easy prey.
To the north a group of tiny specks in the sky seemed to grow in size
and number. Nearer and nearer they came. I knew they must be a
bombarding escadrille, returning from a raid across the enemy's lines.
One, two, three, I counted them, up to twelve. Slowly they floated
along as if tired by their long flight, and then gently they began to
drop down.
They rolled smoothly across the field and stopped before their hangars.
Cannon protruded menacingly from their armored, boat-shaped bodies as
the pilots climbed down and stretched themselves.
"At the front this morning, to-night they can dine in Paris," jealously
sighed an infantry officer. "But," replied an aviator from our group,
"there are two of them who will probably never dine in Paris again.
Fourteen started out this morning. Now they number only twelve."
*ORDERED TO THE FRONT*
After three weeks at Plessis-le-Belleville I became "disponible," that
is to say, I was listed among the first twenty aviators who were
considered ready for duty at the front. From that moment orders
directing my future movements might be received any minute, and I was
under restriction not to stray too far away. I must say that I
experienced a curious sensation, waiting around in this way, not knowing
where I would be in a week. You never know to what sector of the front
you are going until your orders are handed to you. Three days after my
name had been posted on the bulletin-board an order came detaching five
pilots for duty with the "Armee de l'Orient" at Salonica. My name was
sixth on the list, so I missed by one being among them. That evening,
however, my turn came. This time the direction was Toul.
When men leave the Reserve for the front there are no sad leave-takings.
Every pilot seems to be glad that his turn has come to do his share in
the defense of his country, and instead of being downcast he is
light-hearted. Yet the part which he is to play in the air involves
chances which are four to one against his coming through alive.
It is customary for a pilot to spend two days in Paris before starting
for his ordered destination. Officially my leave was due to begin only
on the following morning. I decided, however, to take time by the
forelock and to be off that night. In this way I would gain twelve
hours additional leave. All the "paperasserie"--red tape--was first
disposed of, and then I proceeded to pack my effects. These I had drawn
from the aviation quartermaster's depot. There was my fur-lined union
suit, a fur overcoat, fur boots, gloves, and cap. I also received an
automatic pistol with a holster, a special aeroplane compass, an
"altimetre," a special aviation clock mounted on wire springs, and a
speed-indicator. These were furnished to me by the government, and
became my property. I had the privilege of providing myself with
anything else I wished, but the government outfit always had to be at
hand for inspection.
Fortunately I had just time to make the evening train for Paris.
According to my pass, I was on "service recommande" and on my way to the
front, where in a few days I would be flying over the German lines. The
moment I had looked forward to for so many months had at last come. I
could hardly believe it myself.
My two days in Paris passed like magic. There was so much to attend to,
so much to do, that before I knew it the moment to leave had come. I
took a taxi to the Gare de l'Est, my wife and my little girl
accompanying me. My luggage consisted of my black army canteen, across
the front of which was painted in white letters "Carroll Winslow--Pilote
Aviateur," and my long canvas duffel-bag, which contained my fur-lined
clothes and all my flying paraphernalia. There are usually so many
formalities to be complied with that I allowed more than enough time for
the visa of my papers. It was well that I did. The station was crowded
with grimy, blue-coated "poilus," walking up and down the waiting-rooms
and lounging on the stone steps; outside others were saying good-by to
their families, while across the street large numbers crowded about the
free "buffets," where patriotic women of Paris daily minister to the
wants of the departing "permissionnaires." All the men wore their steel
helmets, and had their knapsacks strapped to their shoulders. They were
not as smart-looking as the khaki-clad British "Tommies," but despite
their muddy boots and faded uniforms there was something in their faces,
a look in their eyes, that seemed to say: "No sacrifice is too
great--for France." I felt proud to think that I was one of them, and
their quiet salutes showed me that I had their respect. The regard of
those grave, war-worn men meant much to me. My wife and I silently
watched what was going on about us, while our little girl chattered at
our side. Many women accompanied their "braves" to the station. Most
of them carried baskets of food and delicacies, but some, too poor even
to buy a present for their "poilus," came empty-handed. The moments of
leave-taking seemed almost tragic. Many a man went up those steps
whistling and with head erect, while others laughed as they tossed their
little ones high in the air for a last good-by. These were fine
examples, and when the porter touched me on the arm and said: "The train
for Toul, m'sieu'," I too was able to bear it calmly.
The cars were already crowded with "poilus." Not a seat was to be had
in the compartments. Standing-room in the corridors was at a premium.
We were all bound in the same general direction, toward Verdun, Nancy,
and Toul.