Anglo-Saxons, clad in their khaki uniforms, the perfection of utility
and smartness. There were the English, the Australians, and the
Canadians, and, following them, a regiment of Indian cavalry. Then came
the Scotch, headed by their pipers. They marched perfectly, swinging
their legs in unison. Each time their right feet came forward a hundred
white tartans rose together and exposed to the view of the astonished
populace a hundred kilts and a hundred bare knees.
After the Allies came the French. The first regiment was from the
Twentieth Corps. These were the men who had saved Verdun. There were
many other units represented, many other regiments and brigades, but
none received the welcome and the enthusiasm caused by the appearance of
"Petain's Iron Brigade" as they marched by in their quick, business-like
step, with bayonets fixed to their rifles.
There have been many parades in Paris during the past decade, but there
never was one like this. It was not a review--it was a war. Yesterday
all these men were at the front. To-morrow they would be back there
again. For them this was only a momentary drop of the curtain on the
tragedy in which they had been called upon to be participants. I could
not help thinking of these poor fellows, some of whom I had very likely
seen before, passing me in ambulances and motor-buses, muddy from head
to foot and benumbed by the shock of battle. How many of these that I
was seeing to-day would be in the ranks at the next review? I doubt
whether these thoughts were in their minds. To-morrow they would be on
their way to take part in the battle of the Somme, but with refreshed
spirits and light hearts.
There was very little gayety or color in the parade. All the troops
were in their service uniforms. This was an hour of heroism and
suffering, an hour of fixed determination which impressed upon one the
feeling that the Germans could never win the war.
After the troops had filed by I joined some friends on the boulevards.
It seemed difficult to believe that only a few miles away the hostile
lines were linked in a death-grapple. Paris seemed normal. Of course
there was not the animation that we formerly associated with the French
capital, but there was little to remind one of the great conflict--only
the aeroplanes patrolling overhead and the hundreds of permissionnaires
wandering about the streets in their weather-stained and battle-stained
uniforms.
That night I had to leave Paris for Dijon, to report at headquarters
before going to Pau. By a strange coincidence I arrived at the same
hour as on my first appearance to enlist. Now I viewed everything with
different eyes. Instead of being a mere "petit bleu," as they call the
young soldier, I was now a "pilote" who had been at the front. I felt
privileged therefore to walk right up to the buffet, and before long I
was sharing a bottle of wine with a captain, a sergeant, and a
second-class poilu. Such is the democracy of war.
*THE FINISHING TOUCHES*
Great changes had taken place at Pau since my first visit six months
before. The school had been improved and enlarged. Permanent sheds had
replaced the canvas hangars, and the German prisoners had built a
narrow-gauge railway from the town out to the field. The trains ran out
to the aviation school every morning and afternoon, and returned before
luncheon and again in the evening. This was a great convenience for
many of us and in bad weather saved us many a long, weary walk. When
the days were clear, however, we often made the journey on foot, as in
this way we had sufficient exercise to keep us in good physical
condition.
Only men who had already qualified as pilots or who had had previous
experience at the front were allowed at the Ecole de Combat. We enjoyed
practically the same liberties as at the front. We were free to go
where we pleased, except during the working hours, when strict
attendance and discipline were enforced.
I thought that my previous experience with the heavier machines would
enable me to omit some of the more elementary courses, but this was not
the case. I had to start at the very bottom. The management of a
monoplane or of a small Nieuport is more delicate than anything I had
ever tried, and the pilots have, therefore, to acquire a new "sense of
touch" which is not required when flying in the larger biplanes.
[Illustration: A Penguin.]
My first assignment was to a Penguin, so called because it is nothing
more than a Bleriot monoplane with its wings cut down so that it cannot
fly. The Penguins, however, are just as difficult to manage as a
full-fledged flying-machine, for on the ground your movements have to be
more rough than when flying in the air. There are so many
irregularities and air currents to affect your course that you have to
be very quick with the controls. The Penguin, besides, does not answer
the rudder as easily as the other types. I found that it was very
difficult to keep a straight course when tearing across a field at the
rate of about forty miles an hour. It was comical to see how the clumsy
contraption behaved, turning circles, making "chevaux de bois," rolling
over on its wing, and behaving in every way like a drunken sailor trying
to walk on a chalk line. You have to keep your head all the time,
because the slightest misjudgment may result in an accident. When
engaging a "chevaux de bois," you must turn off your motor instantly,
for neglect to do so will probably cause your machine to fall over
sideways on its wing. When moving you must constantly keep the tail of
the Penguin in the air in an imaginary line of flight, and if the tail
is lifted too high you run the risk of sticking the nose of the machine
into the ground and turning an unpleasant somersault. It was really
interesting to discover how much skill it takes to manage a Penguin. It
was several days before I could make the six straight lines required
before you are allowed to pass into the next higher class.
In the second course a thirty-horse-power Bleriot is used. I was made
to fly in straight lines at very feeble altitudes, varying from
twenty-five to fifty feet. The object of this instruction, it seems, is
to teach the aviator how to take small, fast machines off the ground and
bring them down properly. These smaller machines are able to climb much
faster than the larger artillery types. This advantage is
counterbalanced by the fact that they volplane much less, and are much
more prone to slip off the wing. You have to handle them with the
utmost care and gentleness. This point is very much emphasized in the
instruction which you receive when flying in the 30-Bleriots. Their
motors are so small that you have to be very careful with them. You
have to go about everything very gradually, except when making a
landing. Then you must dive, and dive quickly, in order to retain your
momentum.
As soon as I had been pronounced "apt" on the "ligne droite," I was
assigned to the 50-Bleriot. This, to my joy, included real flying. The
difference between this machine and the ones I had flown in at the front
was astonishing. There was practically no effort required of the pilot.
The slightest move on the controls produced an instant response in the
aeroplane. As in the case of the 30-Bleriot, I found that the moment
the motor was shut off, on account of the lack of volplaning qualities,
to descend I had to point the machine straight at the ground. With the
Farman I used to glide from unbelievable distances, but now I had to
change my tactics completely and learn everything over again.
This course completed, I was granted leave of absence to return to
America. Needless to say, I did not lose a moment in gathering my
effects and engaging my passage. Next month, upon my return to Pau,
however, I will have to take up my work where I left off. The first
test required is a series of figure eights in a 50-Bleriot and a number
of difficult landings after this performance. Then follows a course in
a Morane-Parasol. This machine, as I stated in an earlier chapter, is
by far the most tricky machine in use to-day. After you have learned to
handle a Parasol, everything else is child's play. That is the reason
why every pilot of a fighting escadrille is made to master them. It is
the best experience to give you a sense of balance yet discovered.
Before you are allowed to fly in a Nieuport and attend the School Aerial
Acrobatics there is another requirement. This is a brief period of
instruction at the Mitrailleuses School at Casso, where, on the shores
of the long lake, the French army has established an ideal range for the
training of its pointers. It is less than an hour by rail from Bordeaux
and well within the reach of every military depot in the south-western
part of France. Each branch of the service has its own course. For the
Flying Corps the range consists of a number of captive balloons and of a
series of moving targets on the lake. The pupil is taken up as a
passenger in a double-seated aeroplane and operates the mitrailleuse.
After two or three weeks of this practice he becomes quite used to
shooting from an aeroplane and finds that he can score hits almost as
easily as if he were on terra firma. In the beginning, however, one
experiences great difficulty in adjusting himself to the changes of
perspective found in the air.
After this the pilot is sent back to Pau, where he has to perfect
himself sufficiently in his art to master the various stunts essential
in combat-work. Until then he may not go to the front for service in an
"appareil de chasse."
The first test is looping the loop. The machine is made to dive very
fast for a short distance. Then the pilot gives a sharp pull on his
controls, which makes it climb very abruptly, at the same time shutting
off the motor. The little Nieuport climbs until it loses its speed, and
then falls over backward. At the instant of reaching the line of diving
the spark is then turned on again and the flight is resumed.
The next requirement involves cork-screw looping, or, as they say in
French, "le renversement sur l'aile." This requires still greater skill
than the previous test. It is not an easy manoeuvre to explain and,
besides, I have not yet attempted it myself. The theory, however, is as
follows: If you tip your machine enough to fly in a vertical position,
your controls become reversed; in other words, the control for climbing
and diving becomes the rudder and the rudder becomes the climbing
control. To do the "renversement" the machine is put in a vertical
position and the spark is shut off. The machine then loses its momentum
and starts to fall. At that moment you must give a pull on your control
and push the rudder "hard a-port," as a sailor would say. This forces
the machine to complete the turn and dive from the normal horizontal
position.
The final examination for the second brevet involves the dreaded
"vrille," or tail-spin. For many years any aviator who engaged in a
vrille was given up for lost. Even to-day many aviators are killed
attempting to master this most important trick. Yet it has to be
learned, for in modern aerial warfare it may sometime be the one
manoeuvre which will enable you to escape from an assailant or make a
sudden attack. The modern aeroplane is so stable that when it is made
to dive it always attempts to rise and resume its flight. In the
"vrille," on the other hand, this resistance is overcome, and the
machine spins down with incredible rapidity. The beginner usually
commences by making one turn. He allows his machine to lose its speed
and slip off on the wing. After engaging in a spiral, instead of
continuing he then resumes his flight. The second time two turns have
to be made. More and more are made until the pilot feels that he has
mastered the trick to his satisfaction. The first turn is usually made
very slowly, but after that the speed increases with each succeeding
turn until the machine is spinning on the corner of one wing as an axis.
I have seen the more brilliant pilots at the front make as many as seven
or eight turns, while they fell as far as five thousand feet. Every
time I have seen any one doing a "vrille" I have thought of the young
lieutenant who was killed at Pau when I attended the school for the
first time. What are dangers for the beginner, in the hands of the
expert become weapons.
On completing this final course the pilot has learned everything that
his instructors can teach him. It remains only for him to prove that in
action he can avail himself of all the tricks that he has mastered. He
has a machine that can manoeuvre to the best advantage, and he will
enjoy a superiority which he never possessed with the heavier Farman
biplane. Often I thought of this when flying over Verdun in the
artillery machines. The little Nieuports seemed to circle about with
such ease, doing whatever they pleased, while we lumbered about in
constant danger of being attacked by some fast-flying "Fritzie" from the
enemy's lines.
The principal task assigned to our "avions de chasse" is to keep the
German airmen away from the French lines, and of attacking them when the
opportunity offers. From an altitude of about thirteen thousand feet
the Nieuports maintain a constant vigil. Although so small they are in
fact the protectors of the larger artillery and reconnoissance machines.
Far within the German lines several of the enemy's artillery biplanes
are flying low. Farther up their fighting planes are waiting for an
opportunity of coming over to attack the French. The shrapnel-puffs
from our own guns reveal that some one is crossing our lines. A German
artillery machine is coming to make a "reglage." One of the Fokkers is
flying high above it, but the Nieuports are doing "ceiling work" and
will look out for the intruders.
Different models of aeroplanes have a different position for their
mitrailleuses. The attacking pilot always tries to find out from where
he can make his attack without being riddled by his opponent. The
proper position being obtained, the Nieuport is quickly turned toward
its prey and at fifty yards the machine gun begins its staccato bark.
To simplify the pilot's task the guns are always mounted in a fixed
position and aimed dead ahead. Thus the pilot has only to think about
pointing his own machine at the enemy. If he had to fly one way and
shoot another he would be placed in a most disadvantageous position.
Combatants pass each other at terrific speed. There is time only for a
few shots. If a hit is not scored during the first encounter, the
attacking pilot goes through the same manoeuvre a second time. In the
meanwhile the German airman is also doing his best to catch his opponent
unawares. If the enemy succeeds in getting the Nieuport into a trap,
then is the moment when he can put himself "en vrille" and escape.
Such is the course of training imposed upon every airman in France. It
is the system which has been perfected under war conditions from the
lessons learned during two years of the most desperate air conflicts.