fine, which had to be dropped into the bank at once. This regulation
proved a godsend to the mess--and to our conversation.
As I was not "disponible," I was sent on several trips with the staff
automobile. Its most frequent runs were to the artillery headquarters to
deliver photographs of the enemy's positions. These were situated in a
near-by village, within sight of the German trenches. All the roads
approaching this place were masked, and the town itself was in ruins.
Everywhere sand-bags reinforced the stone walls. The telephone central
was a veritable fortress, and continually within the zone of the German
artillery "strafes." The life of the officers of the Etat-Major was
certainly not an enviable or an easy one.
*CO-OPERATING WITH THE ARTILLERY*
By the time my second machine arrived I had been at the front long
enough to appreciate the role played by each of the different types of
aeroplanes used in this great conflict. Camped near us was a bombarding
unit. Every night when the heavens were clear these machines would go
up, turning great circles over our heads until they reached the desired
altitude. They would then vanish with their destructive bombs in the
direction of the enemy. We could always tell when they passed over the
lines, for the German search-lights would become very active, and the
sky would become dotted with sparks, which in reality were exploding
shrapnel. Then, in the early hours of the morning, they would return,
having flown far into the enemy's country to drop their bombs. This is
tiresome and disagreeable duty, but not by any means as dangerous a one
as the other branches of aviation, for bombers are practically free from
interruption by enemy aeroplanes in the dark.
Camped with us was the famous N-64, the crack fighting unit of the
French Aviation Corps. Among its pilots were such famous aviators as
Navarre, Nungesser, and Vialet, known familiarly as the "aces." Every
evening just before sunset these men would take their machines up in the
twilight and do "stunts" for the benefit of hundreds of admiring
"poilus" gathered from neighboring camps. These were the self-same
"stunts" which on many occasions had enabled them to escape from sure
death at the hands of some superior enemy force. As I have said before,
the fighting work, although in reality the safest, requires the most
experienced and accomplished pilots. The chief duty of the Nieuports is
"barrage," or sentry duty. There are always several of them flying over
the lines, on the lookout for some "Boche." It is their task to swoop
down like a hawk upon them and destroy or else drive them away. Of
course, our own "avions de chasse" are as liable to be attacked by the
enemy, and they must in consequence be continually on the "qui vive."
When one of the larger reconnoissance machines is compelled to go far
into the German lines on special-mission work, it is usually accompanied
by a body-guard of several Nieuports. Spies, on the other hand, are
carried only in the fast-flying Nieuports, which in this case are
double-seated. It seems that it is comparatively easy to take a man
over and leave him far in the rear of the German trenches, but going
back for him is another matter. After several days the pilot returns to
a prearranged place, but, as sometimes happens, his compatriot may have
been caught. In this case a like fate usually awaits him at the hands
of the watchful enemy.
For reconnoissance work the large bi-motor Caudrons are generally used.
They are fitted with a small wireless apparatus; but this means of
communication cannot be used very often. The machines, on many
occasions, have to go beyond the effective radius of their radio, and at
other times its use is inadvisable, as its messages might become known,
or else blocked by the enemy. Resort has been had, therefore, to
carrier-pigeons. These are released the moment any important
information has to be conveyed to headquarters, and these swift little
messengers have proved extremely useful and reliable. Their use has, in
consequence, become general.
The bimotor Caudrons are employed also by the photography section of the
army, though much of this work is actually done by artillery machines
detailed for this service. Photography is a dangerous duty, because the
flights have to be made at low altitudes to obtain the best results. On
the other hand, it is not at all tedious. The mission upon which the
machine has been sent is usually accomplished in a brief space of time,
and the machine often stays out less than an hour. In comparison with
the amount of flying required of the aviators in the other branches of
the service, which varies in length from three to five hours a day,
photography is easy work.
"Reglage," or fire-control, on the other hand, is the most difficult and
the most dangerous work to be performed by the Flying Corps at the
front. The machines used are large and unwieldy, built to carry the
weight of two men and all sorts of equipment. They are fairly fast, but
their spread of wing is so large that it is almost impossible for them
to make a turn quickly when attacked. They are armed with a machine
gun, it is true, but they are always at a great disadvantage in the
presence of an enemy fighting-machine which can out-manoeuvre them at
every turn.
The first duty to which I was assigned was "reglage," and this, I found,
involves many complications. The chief source of trouble usually is the
wireless apparatus, which has to be maintained in perfect working order.
Before leaving the home field you usually circle over it, while your
observer tests his sending apparatus. The receiving operator then
answers by visual signals. Usually these are large white sheets laid on
the ground in different formations, which have a prearranged meaning.
When the radio is found to be in perfect order you are off to the
battery you have been ordered to co-operate with. By wireless your
observer then reports to the battery commander, and receives his orders
by means of the same visual signals. You then head in the direction
indicated to you before leaving, and, hovering over the position to be
bombarded, the observer signals back "fire." The moment the shells have
landed you turn quickly about and inform the artillery just how many
metres their fire was long, short, or to the right or left. Your
message is once more answered with the sheets. Again you fly back
toward the enemy's position, circling in this way backward and forward
between the battery and the target until the reglage is completed.
Naturally every care must be taken not to disclose the position of your
own guns to the enemy, or retaliation--"strafe," the English call
it--summarily follows. Sometimes it is the battery which interrupts the
work with the signal, "Avion ennemi," when the fire instantly ceases
until the German aeroplane has disappeared or been driven off.
With such occasional interruptions the work continues until your
observer can send back the signal "fire correct," which is generally
answered by the "sheet signal" with the information that you may return
home. Until this dismissal occurs, however, the ground below wholly
engrosses the attention of your observer. You yourself are forced to
keep a close watch for Boche fighting-machines so as not to be caught
unawares by one of them. This is often a very trying task, as the models
of some of the French and German aeroplanes are so very much alike that
they cannot be distinguished until they are within range. The tricolor
cockade and the black iron cross painted on the top and bottom of each
wing serve to identify the fliers of the two belligerents, but these
colors cannot be seen very far. You consequently have little warning as
to whether the approaching planes are friends or foes.
Sometimes the enemy's anti-aircraft batteries become a bit too familiar.
On such occasions the observer tries to signal to his batteries to drop
a shell or two where these pieces are mounted. Often quiet is not
restored until the machine has been more or less riddled with shrapnel
bullets.
One reglage is very much like another, and when you have read the
description of one you become familiar with them all. It is only in the
results accomplished that the details vary.
It is a curious fact that in the first months of the war many artillery
officers refused to follow the directions of their aerial observers. A
colonel of artillery who has been firing big guns all his life cannot be
blamed for not thinking that a young observation officer and a mere
aviator know enough about the work of batteries to tell him where his
shells are falling. Orders, consequently, had to be issued placing the
artillery absolutely under the direction of the observers and calling
upon the pilots to report any case where a battery refused to be guided
by the signals it received. That put an end to the trouble.
At first I felt a strong aversion to flying over batteries in action.
You are bound to get in close proximity to the trajectory of the shells,
and the constant sensation and sound of the passing projectiles is none
too pleasant. You get them both coming and going, and, no matter which
you are trying to avoid, you are always taking a chance with the other.
It is a question of choosing between the devil and the deep sea, with
the devil constantly stepping into your path.
[Illustration: Reduced facsimile of the photographic report supplied
to the Headquarters Stall of the fighting at Cumieres.]
When you are observing for the artillery you must stay and die, if
necessary, in the performance of your assigned duty. It is another
matter with reconnoissance or photographic work. Here the main thing is
to get back to headquarters with the information you have gained. If
you are attacked and you see no chance of successfully fighting off the
enemy, it is your business to run.
After some weeks of service with the fire-control detail I was ordered
to serve as a photography pilot. This I found a most interesting duty.
Whenever we received orders to photograph a position we would start out
immediately, flying very low--say, from one thousand eight hundred to
three thousand feet. As we reached the part of the enemy's positions to
be photographed I would fly in parallel lines, while my observer took
the photographs with a specially constructed telephoto camera. We would
then hasten back to camp and immediately hand the plates over to the
sergeant in charge of the dark room. This taciturn non-com would waste
no time with words. In a few moments the photographs would be ready and
on their way to headquarters. On several occasions I have seen
photographs placed in the hands of the Etat-Major within an hour and a
half after the order had been issued by the commanding officer
there--examples of celerity and efficiency of service which have placed
the photographic branch of aviation "hors concours."
*ALL IN THE DAY'S WORK*
It is strange how easily you become accustomed to being at the front.
At first you sense your proximity to the vast military operations that
are in progress, but after a while the newness wears off. One day passes
like another without special notice, although daily something out of the
ordinary is occurring somewhere along the western front. These
experiences, however, generally fall to the lot of the
fighting-machines. We of the artillery and photography sections share
only the dangers. It is all in the day's work.
I remember one curious incident that occurred while I was in the Verdun
sector. Victor Chapman, who was doing combat work with the American
Escadrille after a brush with four German aeroplanes, was forced to
descend to our field. Not only had he received a bad scalp-wound from a
bullet but his machine had been riddled and nearly wrecked. One bullet
had even severed a metal stability control. By all the rules of
aviation he should have lost control of his aeroplane and met with a
fatal accident. But Chapman was an expert pilot. He simply held on to
the broken rod with one hand, while with the other he steered his
machine. This needed all the strength at his command, but he had the
power and the skill necessary to bring him safely to earth. A surgeon
immediately dressed his wound, our mechanics repaired his machine. The
repairs completed, he was off and up again in pursuit of some more
Boches. I must say that every one considered him a remarkable pilot.
He was absolutely fearless, and always willing and able to fly more than
was ever required of him. His machine was a sieve of patched-up
bullet-holes. A few days later came his last fight. He was carrying
two bags of oranges to Clyde Balsley, who lay wounded in a hospital not
far away. There was an aerial combat against odds within the German
lines, and Chapman lost no time in going to the aid of his hard-pressed
comrades. He brought down one of the enemy airmen, but the others were
still too numerous, and the fight then was only a matter of seconds. He
was last seen falling behind the German lines.
Balsley had been wounded in an encounter with several Germans. He was
doing well, when he was struck in the thigh by an explosive bullet which
burst in his stomach. He immediately lost all consciousness. His
machine began to tumble straight toward the lines. Just before reaching
the ground, however, Balsley regained his senses sufficiently to realize
what was happening. By a superhuman effort he managed to right his
machine and make a landing in a neighboring meadow. He was carried to a
near-by hospital, where for days he wavered between life and death. Two
fragments of the explosive bullet were removed from his intestines.
These he kept wrapped up in a handkerchief as proof that the enemy,
despite their denials, do violate the rules of civilized warfare. For a
long time the only nourishment he could take was the juice of oranges,
and that was why Chapman was on this mission on that unfortunate day.
A sad accident occurred on a neighboring aviation-field while I was at
the front. The captain of one of the escadrilles had visiting him his
younger brother, a bright lad of nineteen. The boy was unusually
well-informed about aeronautical matters, but he had never made a
flight. His request to go up was acceded to, but the captain did not
want to take him, so he asked one of his officers, the best pilot in the
escadrille, to take him as a passenger. I suppose that the lieutenant
was on his mettle, for before his machine was three hundred feet from
the ground he began to do stunts. He was a past master in his art, but
a bit too bold. Suddenly his machine slipped off on the wing, and
crashed to the ground. Even the best pilot was not immune against fate.
Our escadrille also met with a heart-breaking tragedy. One of our
pilots, who had only recently joined us, was making his first flight
over the lines with a young artillery officer, who was also
inexperienced. Unluckily they flew too low and were brought down by
rifle-fire. No one yet knows whether the pilot was mortally wounded or
if it was the machine that was disabled. At any rate, the aeroplane
came down in no man's land, between the French and German lines. The
poilus immediately made a sally to rescue the two men and save their
maps and important papers. The Germans had like intentions and opened a
murderous fire upon them with their machine guns, trying themselves to
reach the aeroplane. The result was a hand-to-hand struggle, and then a
deadlock. Each feared that the other would reach the goal under cover
of darkness. For a while there was a lull on both sides. Then an inferno
burst loose. Machine guns and field-pieces showered the unfortunate
aviators with shell and shrapnel. In a short while the machine and its
occupants were completely annihilated. The men, I believe, were alive
when they landed, but it was impossible to save them. If the pilot could
have steered fifty yards to the right or left, they would have been
inside either line and their lives would have been spared. As it was,
there never will be a monument to mark the spot where they perished at
the hands of both friend and foe.
Occasionally the bombarding escadrilles have thrilling experiences to
narrate. I remember one case in particular. The raiders were returning
from a long flight into the enemy's territory when they were attacked by
a group of German fighting-planes. An incendiary bullet pierced the
gasolene-tank of one of the French machines and ignited it. The pilot
knew that he was sure to be "grille" and that he did not have time even
to reach the ground. His minutes were numbered. Without a moment's
hesitation he turned his machine sharply about and headed straight for
one of his pursuers. The German tried to avoid the head-on collision,
but he was too late. There was a sickening crash and both machines fell
to earth.
[Illustration: Handbill dropped in Germany by French aviators.]
Another case of desperate courage that attracted wide-spread comment
occurred about the same time. This also related to a bomber who had
been over the German trenches. The pilot was about to spiral down for
the landing, when his passenger looked out to see if everything was in
good order. To his horror, he noticed that two of the bombs were still
unreleased, having become caught on the chassis or running-gear of the
machine. If they landed in this condition, there was every likelihood
that there would be nothing to mark their landing-place but a deep
crater in the ground. The two men were desperate. To climb down and
unhook the bombs seemed impossible. No one had ever been known to do
it. It was like clambering up to the main truck of a sailing vessel in
the teeth of a hurricane. It was the only alternative left to them.
The passenger mustered up his courage and climbed out on the wing and
then down on the running-gear. Holding on with only one hand, he leaned
down and carefully loosed the bombs with the other. It was a splendid
exhibition of nerve and courage, and it saved the lives of both men.
Now and then you meet a pilot who has had a real adventure, but this is
something only the most venturesome have to their credit. Not long ago,
during an extensive reconnoissance behind the German lines, one of the
pilots found himself flying parallel with an important railroad line.
Presently he overtook a troop-train going in the same direction. Flying
very low, he raked the cars with his machine gun until his magazine was
empty. He then caught up with the engine and shot the engineer and
fireman with his revolver. A little farther there was a sharp turn in
the road, which the train took at full speed. Every car left the rails,
and hundreds of soldiers perished when the train crashed down into the
ravine below. The pilot confessed that he was sickened by the sight of
the disaster, but it was war and he simply had to do it.
As far as my own experience at the front is concerned, it was unusually
uneventful. My machine was never once hit by shrapnel nor was it
attacked by the enemy. In fact, the work was very monotonous, one day
being exactly like another. After six weeks I applied to my captain for
permission to pass into a fighting escadrille, where the experience I
had gained on the slower machines would be very useful and the work more
agreeable. To my delight, my request was granted, and forty-eight hours
later I received my orders to proceed without delay to the Ecole de
Combat at Pau for further training.
It seemed rather strange, after weeks of actual service, to be leaving
the front to go again to school. I had become so used to the life that
the muddy fields and the little tents began to seem like home to me. Now
that it was over, the "popotte" served to us in the mess-tent was most
palatable, and I knew that I would miss the restraining influence of our
system of fines.
The captain took me to Bar-le-Duc in his own automobile. As we left the
field of our activities I looked back at our little camp. The mechanics
were busy in the great canvas hangars, cleaning and repairing the
aeroplanes and motors. Others loitered outside waiting for the return
of their "patron" or for their pilot to go up. No one complained of the
work or of the danger. It was indeed a privilege to be with such men.
I felt a pang of regret at leaving them. Though they called out a
cheery "Au revoir!" and "Bonne chance!" I knew that the parting was not
so light-hearted.
*JULY 14TH, 1916*
My trip back to Paris was very much like the one I had made in the
opposite direction about six weeks before. Bar-le-Duc seemed unchanged
as far as the outward signs were concerned. The movement of troops was
just as great as during the previous weeks, only this time the regiments
were leaving Verdun. The German efforts to take the fortress had failed
signally and the offensive had passed to the French in the region of the
Somme.
My train was very late in starting. Although scheduled for five in the
afternoon, it did not actually get off until after midnight. It was
filled to overflowing with permissionnaires and the crowded cars
reminded me of a New York City rush hour in the subway. Fortunately
there was a dining-car attached to the train. As this was kept open all
night, we did not have to go hungry, and every one kept in the best of
humor. It was interesting to see how quickly the men forgot what they
had been through at the front. Within a few hours the permissionnaires
were thinking only of the holiday which they were going to enjoy, of the
good times they were going to have on the boulevards, and of home. The
horror of battle was entirely left behind.
When we arrived at the Gare de l'Est it was barely five o'clock. The
quais, however, were crowded with women who had apparently waited all
night to greet their loved ones. Every one seemed so happy. The men
made no attempt to control their feelings. Tears veiled many a pair of
eyes. How strange the contrast between this return and the departure for
the front that I had witnessed not very long before!
Before leaving the station I had to have my papers stamped by the
military authorities. This done, I hurried to a hotel. I was so tired
after the journey that I could hardly keep my eyes open. It was not
long before I was fast asleep.
When I awoke it was already late. I dressed and went out on the
streets. To my surprise, large crowds lined the sidewalks. All seemed
so gay. This was almost too sudden a transition from the type of crowds
I was used to seeing in the Verdun sector. Then I remembered. It was
the fourteenth of July, the "Fete nationale," always a great day for the
French people, but especially so this year. Some one soon informed me
that there was to be a great review of the Allied troops, and that every
one was in consequence "en fete." At the front, however, I had heard
little of this.
At the Place de la Concorde the throng was immense. The more
enterprising had provided themselves with boxes and ladders to stand and
sit on. Others good-naturedly climbed up on the lamp-posts. The rest
craned their necks in an effort to miss nothing of what was going on.
Earlier in the day the statues of the cities of Strasbourg and Lille had
been bedecked with flowers. At the Petit Palais the President of the
Republic had decorated, as is now the custom, the wives and children of
those who had fallen on the "champ d'honneur" before their gallantry and
patriotism could be rewarded.
As I reached the place the head of the parade swung out from the
Champs-Elysees. It was the most impressive spectacle I have ever
witnessed. Every one in the crowd showed his emotion. The women could
not conceal their tears, and the men only with difficulty restrained
their feelings. First came the Dragoons, followed by the Belgian
Bicycle Corps. Then the khaki-clad French African troops, with only
their red fezes to remind one of their once showy uniforms. Their
mitrailleuses came next, brought back from the front to accompany the
gallant regiment on this occasion. The crowd then commenced to roar. A
battery of 75's then came into view, the "soixante-quinzes," which to
the Frenchman symbolize victory. Suddenly the crowd became attentive
and quiet. The Russians were singing their deep battle-hymn as they
marched. They were fierce-looking giants, and as they swung by to the
wild, measured beats of their chants, the people were silent with
admiration.