for Verdun. What an air of mystery there was about the station at
"Bar." We could hear the distant roar of the cannon defending the banks
of the Meuse. Everywhere men moved about with a sort of suppressed
excitement. "Camions" rumbled by in hundreds. In the freight-yard
troops filled every available space not already taken up by the newly
arrived artillery. Nearly all my travelling companions left me here.
For a moment I wished that I too had been ordered to the Verdun sector.
It was after sundown when the train drew into the station at Toul. The
town was in darkness, and I felt very doubtful as to whether I would be
able to join my escadrille that night. To my surprise, an officer,
noticing my indecision, came up to me and asked if he could help me. I
told him where I wanted to go and inquired if he could direct me. "Why,
it is too late to do this to-day," he remarked; "better wait until the
morning." With that he motioned me to step into his automobile and
directed the chauffeur to drive us to the Etat-Major.
As we rolled through the streets of the silent city I had a moment to
reflect upon what all this meant. I began to realize that a change had
taken place in my position. I was no longer a mere soldier, but an
aviator and as such entitled to courtesies usually extended only to
officers in the other branches of the army. There is no mention of this
custom in the regulations. It was merely an unwritten paragraph of
military etiquette. Here was an officer, my superior in rank, treating
me with a consideration I had rarely experienced. I noticed by the
insignia on his overcoat that he was a captain in the Aviation Corps.
He was therefore a pilot. I thought for a few moments. Suddenly an
idea occurred to me. I was also a pilot, and in the eyes of traditional
convention we were comrades, for we were both aviators. At the
Etat-Major the colonel like-wise extended a warm welcome and shook me
heartily by the hand. I suppose that my being an American had something
to do with it, but I could not help thinking that I was still only a
corporal. He immediately gave orders to requisition a large room for me
at the hotel, and bade me hurry or I would be late for dinner. No
wonder aviators are inspired to do such splendid work at the front when
their efforts meet with so much appreciation.
The next morning I started out soon after sunrise to walk out to the
aviation-field. Everywhere, above the streets of Toul, there were
posters which read "Cave Voutee," and with the number of persons,
varying from fifteen to sixty, who could be accommodated. These cellars
were protected with sand-bags and were located at convenient intervals,
so that the people might find shelter quickly whenever the German
aeroplanes made their appearance. Only a few days previous to my
arrival there had been a raid, yet everything seemed normal and the
housewives went about their marketing and shopping as if they had
nothing else to think about.
An hour's walk brought me to my escadrille, F-44. I was barely in time.
Orders had just been received transferring it to the Verdun sector and
preparations to move camp were already under way. Every one went to work
with a will, laughing and jumping around in a sort of war-dance. No
wonder they were happy. They--we, I should say, for I was now one of
them--were about to become participants in the world's greatest
defensive battle.
[Illustration: A German aeroplane brought down by a French aeroplane.
The smoke is from the German machine, which the aviator has
set fire to upon being brought down. The French machine can
be seen to the right, its wing broken by a bad landing. The
small dots in the center are French soldiers. The white
lines are the French third-line trenches.
The French pilot with his German prisoner (insert).]
The aeroplanes started for Bar-le-Duc "by air" shortly after noon. One
pilot and myself, however, had to make the journey by rail. My own
machine had not yet arrived, and his had been smashed up the day before.
When the German raiders came over Toul he had gone up with the defending
aeroplanes, and had brought down an aviatik which he had engaged. It is
customary for a pilot, when driven down in the enemy's territory to set
fire to his machine to prevent it from falling into the hands of his
adversaries. This the German proceeded to do the moment he touched
ground. My friend was frantic to prevent this and tried to make a quick
landing in order to get to him in time. He was too excited, however,
and smashed one of the wings of his own machine during the landing.
This occurred just behind the French third-line trenches. The soldiers
rushed out and made the German pilot a prisoner, but not until after he
had applied the match to his gasolene-tank.
*IN THE VERDUN SECTOR*
At Bar-le-Duc I felt again the suppressed excitement of the near-front.
Everywhere were "Cave Voutee" signs, troops were in motion on all sides,
sentries were posted at every street-corner, every one seemed to be in a
hurry to get somewhere.
Our escadrille was camped in a field adjoining that occupied by the
American Escadrille. Our "train" consisted of a dozen light, covered
trucks with their tent-like trailers, and three automobiles for the use
of the officers and pilots. Our camp was pitched by the time I had made
the trip from Toul by rail, and the array of tents and the park of
tractors had every outward appearance of a country circus. It was my
first impression of an air-squadron camp at the front, and I must admit
that my previous conception of the amount of equipment required by each
of these units was far below what I now beheld. The personnel of my
escadrille alone looked like an expeditionary force for service in
Mexico. There were a dozen artillery-observers, seven pilots, countless
mechanics, chauffeurs, orderlies, servants, wireless operators,
photographers, and other "attaches," over a hundred and twenty-five men
in all. Each of these hundred-odd men were essential to the work of the
nineteen pilots and observers.
It was a pleasant surprise to find the American pilots here. I had not
heard that they had been ordered to the Verdun sector. This honor had
been thrust upon them unexpectedly. They were now here, among the best
fighting units of the French Army, to protect the photography,
fire-control, and bombarding-machines of this sector. Their camp was
thirty miles behind the lines, but with their fast little Nieuports it
took them less than fifteen minutes to be in the thick of the fray. The
government had given them a large, comfortable villa to live in. I must
say I felt a bit envious when I compared their feather-beds and baths
with my little tent and canvas-covered cot.
That evening I had dinner with my compatriots. It was a meal I will
never forget. As visiting pilot I was seated on the right of their
commander, Captain Thenault. Across the table, opposite me, sat Victor
Chapman, Norman Prince, and Kiffen Rockwell--all three since fallen on
the "champ d'honneur." At the other end of the table were Elliot
Cowdin, Jim McConnell, and "Red" Rumsey, together with Clyde Balsley,
Chouteau Johnston, and Dudley Hill. Bill Thaw was not with us, as he
was in the hospital, having been wounded in a recent combat with a
Boche. The places of the three pilots killed have since been taken by
other volunteers, but in the minds and memories of the Americans dining
at the camp that night their places can never be filled. We know that
they did not die in vain, and that what they did will live in history.
Their spirit was one of sincere patriotism to the cause they had made
their own, and among the Allies the sympathy and the belief they
expressed has been amply proved.
The escadrille was to make its first sortie as a unit in the morning.
Captain Thenault had much to say to his men, and after dinner the
conversation continued along the same general lines. There seemed to be
so much detail to attend to and signals to arrange that I was almost
tempted to ask them how escadrilles ever managed to co-operate so well
in the presence of the enemy air squadrons.
[Illustration: A bi-motor Caudron.
A captured Fokker.]
When I awoke next morning it was raining. The clouds hung low, too low
for flying over the lines, so the Americans remained in their beds. Our
escadrille, however, was obliged to move on, as the station to which it
had been assigned was directly behind the lines. The planes had to
proceed "par la voie de l'air," but the ground was so soft and muddy
that it was difficult to get the machines to leave the earth. The
pilots all seemed nervous, yet all rose in good form except one, who was
a little late in getting off. He did not know the way, and was afraid
of losing his companions in the mist. In his haste he took too short a
run, so that when he came to the end of the field he was not high enough
to clear the line of hangars in his path. To make matters worse the
unlucky man lost his head. He tried to make a sharp turn, but it was
too late. The tip of his wing caught the canvas of the tent, and the
machine fell with a crash to the ground, killing the pilot and pinning
his mechanic beneath the wreckage.
We felt much depressed by this accident. Our departure for the new camp
seemed to emphasize our sadness, for, as we moved off in our long line
of motors our procession had an appearance almost funereal. First came
the automobiles; then, following them, the twelve tractors and
trailers--twenty-seven vehicles in all--moving slowly toward the front.
As we turned into the main road to Verdun the traffic was so heavy that
we had to move at a snail's pace. Ahead of us rumbled a steady stream
of "camions" with ammunition and supplies. Alongside of the road were
the columns of troops going to the trenches. Their heavy coats were
already soaked, and the probability was that they would remain so for a
week, but nothing daunted them. They just plodded along gayly, singing
their marching songs, utterly unmindful of the rain-drops that were
hourly weighting down their equipment more and more.
From the opposite direction came the empty supply-trains. Sandwiched in
with these were ambulances and motor-buses, bearing the men returning
from their "stage" in the trenches. The poor fellows looked hardly
human, for they were brown with mud from head to foot. Their faces were
caked with dirt, and a week's growth of beard gave them a still more
uninviting appearance. They seemed to gaze at us with a far-away,
half-conscious expression, so utterly stupefied were they by the
terrible bombardment to which they had been subjected.
The farther we went the more numerous were the evidences of war. The
roar of the cannonade became louder. On both sides of the roads the
villages were in ruins. Not a farmhouse was inhabited, and the fields
were dotted everywhere with soldiers' graves; on each cross hung the
"kepi" of the dead hero. In some of the military cemeteries there were
graves without little wooden crosses--only a small fence marked them off
from the rest. These, I was told, were the graves of the Mohammedan
African troops, whose comrades claimed for them a plot apart from the
"unsacred ground" used by their Christian allies.
It was almost dark by the time we reached our new camping-site. The
fields were soaked with the heavy rain, and we splashed about in the mud
for hours before the task of pitching camp was completed. By nine
o'clock, however, all was ready and we sat down to a good, warm supper.
Then we turned in. It was so cold and chilly that I went to bed in my
fur-lined clothes. But tired as I was I could not get to sleep. The
roar of the artillery was frightful. On every side of us it crashed and
thundered, unceasingly, uninterruptedly. An attack was in process at the
Mort-Homme, and every little while there would be a "tir de barrage," or
curtain fire as we call it. The small 75's would sound like the rat-tat
of a snare-drum accompanying the louder beats of the deep-bass drums.
I got out of bed and gazed toward the battle-field. The earth was
brilliantly illuminated by the rockets and flares that were being sent
up everywhere. The sky seemed full of fire-flies--in reality exploding
shells. On all sides the guns flashed angrily. Search-lights played
about in every direction. It was a most superb spectacle, but it was
terrible. It was hell.
*MY FIRST FLIGHT OVER THE LINES*
Unfavorable weather conditions kept us inactive for several days, but as
soon as the skies cleared our escadrille immediately went to work again.
For some reason my own machine was delayed "en route," and did not
arrive for a week. This was time I could ill afford to lose, so the
"chef pilote" took me as a passenger in his biplane to familiarize me
with the ground in our sector.
We started late one afternoon. The atmosphere was extraordinarily
clear. Every detail in the landscape stood out boldly, and as we rose
the dozens of camps in the immediate vicinity spread out below us like
models set in a painted scenery. The valleys, the tents, the guns, the
troops, all were visible to the naked eye. On all sides were
aviation-camps, which were easily distinguished from the others--there
must have been at least twenty of them within a radius of five miles.
As soon as we reached a height of three thousand feet my pilot headed
the machine toward the lines. At our feet lay the terrain of the
"Verdun sector." From the forest of the Argonne on our left to the
plains of the Woevre on our right stretched one of the bloodiest
battle-fields of history. At regular intervals along the front the
French captive balloons--there were eighteen in sight at this
moment--swung lazily in the breeze. They looked for all the world like
the "saucisses" they are named after. Day and night they are kept
aloft, maintaining ceaseless vigil over the movements of the enemy.
Passing the balloons, we could see the various important points of the
defense at closer range. The city of Verdun nestled close to the banks
of the Meuse, which wound like a silver band through that now desolate
land. Far off to the right were the forts of Vaux and Douaumont. A
trifle nearer was Fleury. To the left, in the distance, I could make
out the "Mort-Homme" and Hill 304, while directly before us lay Cumieres
and Chattancourt. The entire Verdun sector was spread out like a
relief-map.
The German attacks upon the French position on the Mort-Homme were still
in progress. I had never before seen a battle, and to see such an
important conflict from "the gallery" seemed most strange. It looked
more like a pan of boiling water, with the steam hanging in a pall over
it, than anything else I can think of. In fact, a yellow mist rose to a
great height and almost obscured the view. Tiny flashes showed where
the guns were concealed, but to us the battle was a silent one. The
noise of our motor drowned the whistling of the shells and the roar of
the bombardment. I could not help thinking how much some of those poor
fellows below us would appreciate a little of this silence.
We could plainly see the network of the trenches, broken and
half-obliterated in the mud. In some places they were so close together
that it was difficult to make out where the French lines ended and the
German earthworks began. The ground was speckled with "pock-marks"
caused by shell explosions, and altogether it was a weird scene of
desolation. All signs of nature which had once beautified this region
had vanished. The forests and the green fields had disappeared. Ruined
villages lay like piles of disused stone among the circular
"entonnoirs," or shell-holes. In color it was all a dirty brown.
[Illustration: A view of the Mort-Homme taken from a height of 3,600
feet.
These are two photographs pasted together.
Exact maps of the front are made in this manner daily
by the photographic sections.]
On every side of us were the French artillery biplanes. They were
hovering over the German lines like gulls, continually wirelessing back
the ranges to their batteries. High above us circled the little
Nieuports on guard, to protect us and to prevent the Fokkers and
aviatiks from crossing over our lines. Everywhere were little white
puffs, which seemed to follow the machines about. I watched them,
strangely fascinated and amused, until my pilot informed me that these
were caused by exploding shrapnel from the enemy's anti-aircraft guns.
Then I noticed with uneasiness that the same puffs were also following
us. My interest in the little white puffs from that moment assumed
quite another character. I listened for the sharp crack of their
explosions, but all I could hear was a dull "whung." The thought that
very few machines are really brought down by shrapnel was a bit
reassuring, but I must admit that when the enemy is sending them on all
sides of you, you do not feel like giving much credence to what others
may have told you.
Presently my attention was called to the lines of German captive
balloons, which are moored some miles behind their first-line trenches.
Several aeroplanes stood guard over them, and as we knew that they were
armed and that we on this occasion were not we decided to turn back.
I made several of these trips over the different positions on our
immediate front. By the time my own machine arrived I was thoroughly
familiar with the sector and also with the main dangers to be
encountered by aviators over the battle lines. The first precaution I
learned was--always, when landing, to unhook the belt that held me in my
seat. This is one of the most important things to remember at the
front. The fields are not always in the best condition, and the
slightest obstruction may cause an unexpected crash. If you are in an
artillery pusher-machine when this happens you are invariably crushed
under the motor, unless your belt is unfastened, when you are usually
thrown clear.
[Illustration: "Everywhere little white puffs seemed to follow the
machines about."]
Another danger, which I would never have thought of if an experienced
pilot had not pointed it out, lies in the cables mooring the captive
balloons. These are invisible to an approaching aviator and to collide
with one means a fatal smash. When flying low enough to pass under the
"saucisses," aviators must watch out for these "tethers." Nevertheless,
you can always take advantage of one of their peculiarities. The cable
always stretches to windward, and in a good breeze it stretches far. By
keeping well to leeward you can always rest reasonably assured that you
are on the safe side. Many aviators, however, have met with fatal
accidents, through fouling these cables. I know of only one instance
where the pilot did escape unhurt after striking the wire. It seems
that the moment he saw what was going to happen he put his machine into
a vertical bank, so that when the impact came he was turning about the
cable. Then, strangely enough, by continuing his spiral he was able
finally to disengage himself and escape.
Telephone and telegraph wires also are a certain menace to aviators.
They form a regular network behind the lines, while on every
aviation-field there are in addition wireless aerials to avoid. Many a
returning pilot has forgotten them in his haste to get back to camp, and
fouled them, to his regret. One pilot I knew met his fate in this way.
He had been wounded by a shrapnel-ball over the German lines, and had
managed to return to his own field. He was so weak from the loss of
blood that in his anxiety to land quickly he forgot the aerials. His
machine caught the wires and fell to the ground. Both the pilot's legs
were broken in the fall and he died, not so much from his wound as from
this unfortunate accident.
Still another risk is encountered when flying in the clouds. A cloud is
dangerous at any time because there may be an enemy--or, in fact, any
machine--in it. If you enter the mist you may be going head on into
another aeroplane without having the slightest warning of its presence.
Your own motor makes so much noise that you never under any
circumstances hear that of another machine until too late. You are in
consequence deprived of both your eyesight and your hearing. At the
front the risk of meeting an enemy aeroplane under such circumstances
can never be overlooked, for often fighting machines use the mist to
cover their presence.
Shells also have to be carefully avoided, for, though destined for some
far-away target below you, they sometimes in their flight destroy
aeroplanes unintentionally. As I have already explained, we devoted much
time to this subject at Chateauroux, learning the trajectories of the
different calibers. Still, at the front, the theory is not so easily
put into practice. It seems almost impossible to keep track of all the
artillery massed by your own side, especially in such a sector as
Verdun, where the guns often were placed so close together that their
wheels almost touched. On more than one occasion when flying quietly
through the air my machine has given a sudden lurch, and I have heard
the dull "tung" of a passing shell. There is none of the whistling we
are accustomed to on the earth; merely the dulled sound caused by the
sudden displacement of the air.
My own machine finally arrived, after delays that seemed interminable,
and my two mechanics immediately set to work installing the various
instruments, and painting it. These two men were personally responsible
to me for the condition of the motor and planes, but, as pilot, I was
the master of the machine, which was reserved for my own use. In fact,
each aeroplane has painted on its body and rudder the name and
distinguishing marks of its pilot and escadrille.
After a few short flights I became aware of the fact that my biplane, in
spite of all my efforts to correct it, showed a strong tendency to lean
to the right. At times I could hardly make a turn to the left. This
was a serious matter at the front, as an enemy might at any moment
appear on my "weak" side and I would be placed in a serious position. I
therefore mentioned the matter to my captain. To my surprise, he
immediately ordered a new machine for me and gave directions that the
one I was using should be sent back to the factory. The defect in this
particular case was one mechanics could not remedy, and it seems that it
was nothing out of the ordinary to send a machine back to the shops. At
the front a pilot must have a perfect machine to work with or none at
all. The life of a good aeroplane seldom is more than fifty hours of
actual flying.
During this time the organization of the escadrille was perfected. The
pilots were divided into two "watches," one-half being on duty while the
other was "standing by" ready for service in case of emergency. All the
pilots except myself were "disponibles." I was exempt because I had no
machine, and was therefore for the time being my own master, even when
it came to rising in the morning. When the others on duty were
awakened, at early dawn, I would be awakened with the rest. My turn had
not yet come, however, and I could just turn over and sleep to my
heart's content.
Our camp looked like a little tented city; there were seven enormous
canvas hangars, and grouped about these six other tents, each serving a
particular purpose: captain's office, wireless plant, telephone central,
repair-shop, photographic division, and kitchen. At one end of the
field were the living-quarters of the captain and the observers, while
at the other were parked the thirty automobiles of our two escadrilles.
On the opposite sides of the field were the quarters of the pilots of
the two escadrilles. The mechanics slept in the hangars with their
machines.
Considering everything, we were fairly comfortable. The pilots of each
escadrille shared two large tents, and in addition each group had a
large mess-tent. Inside each sleeping-tent each one of us had a little
alcove. Our cots were raised on wooden platforms. At one end we fitted
up a shower-bath, for which purpose a gasolene tank punctured with holes
proved ideal. Of course, every time you wanted a bath some one had to
empty pails of water into the "tank" above you. Our mess--"popotte"
they call it in the French army--was very good. We had a regular daily
allowance from the government, but this was not always enough to buy all
the supplies we needed. We therefore instituted a system of fines, and
our treasurer provided our table with a small tin box in lieu of a
centrepiece.