pack up, in readiness for his train, which leaves at 6 P.M. When his
order of transport is given him, he finds that his escadrille is
stationed at Robinet d'Essence, in a fairly quiet, though imaginary,
sector. Before leaving the dépôt he has issued to him a fur-lined
teddy-bear suit, fur boots, sweater, fur gloves, and a huge cork safety
helmet, which Wisdom tells him to wear and Common Sense pronounces
impossible. Common Sense wins; so Wilkins gives the thing to the keeper
of the "effets chauds pour pilotes," and retires.
His flying things stuffed into a duffle-bag, which he has checked
directly through to far-off Robinet, our hero boards the train with
nothing but a light suitcase. He is delirious with joy, for it is long
since he has been to Paris, and at the dépôt discipline has been severe
and luxury scant. Every journey to the front is via Paris, and the
authorities wink a wise and kindly eye at a few hours' stopover. Outside
the station, an hour later, Wilkins is conscious of a sudden odd feeling
of calm, almost of content, which puzzles him until he thinks a bit.
Finally he has it--_this_ is what he is going to fight for, what all the
Allies are fighting for: this pleasant, crowded civilian life; the
dainty Frenchwomen going by on the arms of their permissionnaires, the
fine old buildings, the hum of peaceful pursuits. In the schools and at
the waiting dépôt he had nearly lost sight of real issues; but now it
all comes back.
At his hotel he calls up Captain X---- of the American Aviation,--an old
friend, who is in Paris on duty,--and is lucky enough to catch him at
his apartment. They dine at the Cercle des Alliés--the old Rothschild
palace, now made into a great military club, where one can see many
interesting men of all the Allied armies lunching and dining together.
Dinner over, they drop in at the Olympia, watch the show a bit, and
greet a multitude of friends who stroll about among the tables. A great
deal of air-gossip goes on: A---- has just bagged another Boche; B----,
poor chap, was shot down two days ago; C---- is a prisoner, badly
wounded. At a table near by, Wilkins, for the first time, sets eyes on
Lufbery, the famous American "ace," his breast a mass of ribbons, his
rather worn face lit up by a pleasant smile as he talks to a French
officer beside him.
At eleven our young pilot says good-bye to his friend and walks through
the darkened streets to his hotel. What a joy, to sleep in a real bed
again! The train leaves at noon, which will give him time for a late
breakfast and a little shopping in the morning. After the first real
night's sleep in a month, and a light war-time breakfast of omelet,
bacon, broiled kidneys, and coffee, he is on the boulevards again,
searching for a really good pair of goggles, a fur-lined flying cap to
replace the hopeless helmet, and a pair of heavy mittens. Old friends,
in the uniforms of American subalterns, are everywhere; many wear the
stiff-looking wings of the American Flying Corps on their breasts. All
are filled with envy to hear that he is leaving for the front; their
turn will come before long, but meanwhile the wait grows tiresome.
At length it is train time, and so, hailing a taxi and picking up his
bag on the way, Wilkins heads (let us say) for the Gare de l'Est,
getting there just in time to reserve a place and squeeze into the
dining-car, which is crowded with officers on their way to the front.
These are not the embusqué type of officers which he has been
accustomed to in the schools,--clerkish disciplinarians, insistent on
all the small points of military observance,--but real fighting men and
leaders; grizzled veterans of the Champagne and the Somme, hawk-nosed,
keen-eyed, covered with decorations.
Back in his compartment, our pilot dozes through the afternoon, until,
just as it has become thoroughly dark, the train halts at Robinet. On
the platform, half a dozen pilots of the escadrille, smart in their
laced boots and black uniforms, are waiting to welcome the newcomer, and
escort him promptly to the mess, where dinner is ready. Dinner over, he
is shown to his room--an officer's billet, with a stove, bathtub, and
other unheard-of luxuries.
Next morning, one of his new comrades calls for Wilkins, presents him to
the captain, who proves very chic and shows him his machine, which has
just been brought out from the dépôt. The armorer is engaged in fitting
a Vickers gun on it, so Wilkins spends the rest of the day at the
hangar, sighting the gun, adjusting his belt, installing altimeter,
tachometer, and clock.
An hour before sundown all is ready; so the American climbs into his
seat for a spin, fully aware that many appraising eyes will watch his
maiden performance. Off she goes with a roar, skimming low, over the
field, until her full speed is attained, when the pilot pulls her up in
a beautiful "zoom," banking at the same time to make her climb in a
spiral. Up and up and up, her motor snarling almost musically--and
suddenly she stops, quivers, and plunges downward, spinning. A hundred
yards off the ground she straightens out magically, banks stiffly to the
left, skims the hangars, and disappears. The mechanicians watching,
hands on hips, below, nod to one another in the French way. "Il marche
pas mal, celui-là," they say--high praise from them.
Wilkins, meanwhile, has flown down the river, to where a target is
anchored in a broad shallow. Over it he tilts up and dives until the
cross hairs in his telescopic sight center on the mark. "Tut-tut-tut,"
says the Vickers, and white dashes of foam spring out close to the
canvas. He nods to himself as he turns back toward the aerodrome.
At dinner there is much talk, as the weather has been good. A---- and
L---- had a stiff fight with a two-place Hun, who escaped miraculously,
leaving their machines riddled with holes. M---- had a landing cable cut
by a bullet; J---- had a panne, and was forced to land uncomfortably
close to the lines. At eight o'clock an orderly comes in with the next
day's schedule: "Wilkins: protection patrol at 8 A.M."
The French have not the English objection to "talking shop," and over
the coffee the conversation turns to the difficulties of bringing down
Huns and getting them officially counted--"homologue" the French call
it. The great airmen, of course,--men like Bishop, Ball, Nungesser, and
Guynemer,--get their thirty, forty, or fifty Boches; but nevertheless it
is a very considerable feat to get even one, and growing harder every
day. Nearly all the German hack-work--photography, reglage of artillery,
observation, and so forth--is now done by their new two-seaters, very
fast and handy machines and formidable to attack, as they carry four
machine-guns and can shoot in almost any direction. Most of the fighting
must be done in their lines; and far above, their squadrons of Albatross
single-seaters watch ceaselessly for a chance to pounce unseen.
Add to this the fact that, to get an official count, the falling
Hun must be checked by two independent observers, such as
observation-balloon men, and you can see that it is no easy trick.
Just before bedtime, the leader of the morning's patrol explains the
matter to Wilkins. The rendezvous is over a near-by village at three
thousand feet. Wilkins is to be last in line on the right wing of the V,
a hundred yards behind the machine ahead of him. Signals are: a wriggle
of the leader's tail means, "Open throttles, we're off"; a sideways
waving of his wings means, "I'm going to attack; stand by"; or, "Easy, I
see a Boche."
After a not entirely dreamless sleep and a cup of coffee, our hero is at
the hangars at 7.30, helping his mechanic give the "taxi" a final
looking over. At 8 he takes the air and circles over the meeting-place
till the V is formed. Just as he falls into his allotted station the
leader, who has been flying in great circles, throttled down, wriggles
his tail, opens the throttle wide, and heads for the lines, climbing at
a hundred miles an hour.
Wilkins is so busy keeping his position that he has scarcely time to
feel a thrill or to look about him. Suddenly, from below comes a vicious
growling thud, another, and another: _Hrrrump, hrrrump, hrrrump._ He
strains his head over the side of the fuselage. There below him, and
horribly close, he thinks, dense black balls are springing out--little
spurts of crimson at their hearts. The patrol leader begins to weave
about to avoid the "Archies," banking almost vertically this way and
that in hairpin turns, and poor Wilkins, at the tail end, is working
frantically to keep his place. He has never seen such turns, and makes
the common mistake of not pulling back hard enough when past forty-five
degrees. The result is that he loses height in a side-slip each time,
and gets farther and farther behind his man.
Meanwhile, far up in the blue, their shark-like bodies and broad short
wings glimmering faintly in the upper sunlight, a patrol of Albatross
monoplaces is watching. Thousands of feet below, close to the trenches,
they see the clumsy photographic biplaces puffing back and forth about
their business. Above these, they see the V of Spads turning and
twisting as they strive to stay above the photographers they are
protecting. But wait, what is wrong with the Spad on the right end of
the V--a beginner surely, for at this rate he will soon lose his patrol?
As if a silent signal had been given, five Albatrosses detach themselves
from the flock, and reducing their motors still more, point their sharp
noses downward, and begin to drift insensibly nearer.
Wilkins has been having a tough time of it, and at last, in a
three-hundred-foot wing-slip, has lost his comrades altogether, and is
flying erratically here and there, too intent and too new at the game to
watch behind him. Suddenly, two sparks of fire like tiny shooting stars
whizz by him, a long rip appears in the fabric of his lower wing, and
next moment, clear and unmistakable, he hears, "Tut, tut, tut, tut." He
nearly twists his head off, and perceives with horror that five sinister
forms, gray, sharp-snouted, and iron-crossed, are hemming him in, above,
below, behind. His thoughts, which occupy possibly a second and a half,
may be set down roughly as follows: "Five Boche single-seaters--too
many--must beat it--how? Oh, yes--climb in zigzags and circles, heading
for our lines."
Leaving Wilkins for a moment, I must tell you a curious thing which
shows that men have much in common with dogs. You know how, in his own
yard, a fox-terrier will often put a mastiff to flight--and a
fox-terrier, at that, who fears for his life when he ventures on the
street? The same thing applies to flying--over the German lines you have
a sort of a small, insignificant feeling, look at things
pessimistically, and are apt to let your imagination run too freely. The
minute you are over friendly country, that changes: your chest
immediately expands several inches, you become self-assertive, rude, and
over-confident. Thus Wilkins.
In a wild series of zooms and half-spirals, to throw off his pursuers'
aim, he reaches his own lines safely, and finds that all but one
Albatross have given up the chase. One of them, possibly a beginner
anxious for laurels, is not to be thrown off; so the American resolves
to have a go at him.
They are at twelve thousand feet. The German is behind and slightly
below, maneuvering to come up under the Spad's tail. A second's
thought, and Wilkins banks sharply to the left, circles, and dives
before the Boche has realized that it is an air-attack. With the wind
screaming through his struts, he sees the enemy's black-leather helmet
fair on the cross hairs of the telescope, and presses the catch of the
gun. A burst of half a dozen shots, a pull and a heave to avoid
collision. As he rushes past the Albatross, he sees the pilot sink
forward in his seat; the machine veers wildly, begins to dive, to spin.
Good God--he's done it--what luck--poor devil!
And that night at mess, Wilkins stands champagne for the crowd.
Young H---- has had another wild time. He ran across a very fast German
two-seater ten miles behind our lines, fought him till they were twenty
miles inside the Boche lines, followed him down to his own aerodrome,
circled at fifty feet in a perfect hail of bullets, killed the Hun
pilot as he walked (or ran) from machine to hangars, riddled the
hangars, rose up, and flew home.
He shot away over four hundred rounds--a remarkable amount from a
single-seater bus, as the average burst is only five or six shots before
one is forced to maneuver for another aim.
On a raw foggy day, in the cozy living-room of our apartment, with a
delicious fire glowing in the stove, and four of the fellows having a
lively game of bridge, one is certainly comfortable--absurdly so. Talk
about the hardships of life on the front!
The mess is the best I have seen, and very reasonable for these times--a
dollar and a half per day each, including half a bottle of wine, beer,
or mineral water at each meal. A typical dinner might be: excellent
soup, entrée, beefsteak, mashed potatoes, dessert, nuts, figs, salad.
While no man would appreciate an old-fashioned home-type American meal
more than I, one is forced to admit that the French have made a deep
study of cookery and rations designed to keep people in the best shape.
There is a certain balance to their meals--never too much concentrated,
starchy, or bulky food. The variety, considering the times, is really
wonderful. Breakfasts my pal and I cook ourselves, occasionally breaking
out some delicacy such as kidneys en brochette.
We have an amusing system of fines for various offenses: half a franc if
late for a meal; a franc if over fifteen minutes late; half a franc for
throwing bread at the table; half a franc for breaking a tail-skid (on a
"cuckoo"); a franc for a complete smash; a franc and a half if you hurt
yourself to boot; and so on. A fellow hit a tree a while ago, had a
frightful crash, and broke both his legs. When he leaves the hospital,
the court will decide this precedent and probably impose on him a
ruinous fine.
Of course no one ever pays a fine without passionate protests; so our
meals are enlivened by much debate. As we have a very clever lawyer and
a law student almost his equal, accuser and accused immediately engage
counsel, and it is intensely entertaining to hear their impassioned
arraignments and appeals to justice and humanity: deathless Gallic
oratory, enriched with quotations, classical allusions, noble gestures;
such stuff as brings the Chamber to its feet, roaring itself hoarse; and
all for a ten-penny fine!
A good bit of excitement lately, over uniforms. In aviation, one knows,
there is no regulation uniform: each man is supposed to wear the color
and cut of his previous arm. The result is that each airman designs for
himself a creation which he fondly believes is suited to his style of
soldierly beauty--and many of these confections haven't the slightest
connection with any known French or Allied uniform. One may see
dark-blue, light-blue, horizon-blue, black, and khaki; trousers turned
up at the bottom; open-front tunics (like a British officer), and every
variety of hat, footwear, and overcoat.
I, for instance (being in the Foreign Legion), wear khaki, open-fronted
tunic, a very unmilitary khaki stock necktie, Fox's puttees, and United
States Army boots. Naturally, I have to duck for cover whenever I see
the general loom up in the offing; for he is a rather particular, testy
old gentleman, very military, and can't abide the "fantaisies" of the
aviator tribe. Lately he has caught and severely reprimanded several of
the boys; so I guess that I shall have to have the tailor make certain
unfortunate changes in my garments.
The weather of late has been wretched for flying. A low, frosty mist
hangs over the countryside; the trees, especially the pines, are
exquisite in their lacy finery of frost. The few days we have of decent
weather are usually interesting, as the Hun ventures over chez nous to
take a few photographs, and with a little luck the boys are able to
surprise him into a running fight. At night, when the tired war-birds
buzz home to roost, a crowd of pilots and mechanics gathers before the
hangars. All gaze anxiously into the northeastern sky. The captain paces
up and down--though he has flown four hours, he will not eat or drink
till he has news of his pilots. Jean is missing, and Charlot, and
Marcel. Night is drawing on--the sky flushes and fades, and faces are
growing just a trifle grave.
Suddenly a man shouts and points--Jean's mechanician,--and high up in
the darkening east we see three specks--the missing combat patrol. Next
moment the hoarse drone of their motors reaches our ears; the sound
ceases; in great curving glides they descend on the aerodrome. We hear
the hollow whistling of their planes, see them, one after another, clear
the trees at ninety miles an hour, dip, straighten, and rush toward us,
a yard above the grass. A slight bumping jar, a half-stop, and each
motor gives tongue again in short bursts, as the pilots taxi across to
the hangars, snapping the spark on and off.
Then a grand scamper to crowd around our half-frozen comrades, who
descend stiffly from their "zincs," and tell of their adventures, while
mechanics pull off their fur boots and combinations. Other "mecanos" are
examining the machines for bullet- and shrapnel-holes--often a new wing
is needed, or a new propeller; sometimes a cable is cut half through.
Snatches of talk (unintelligible outside the "fancy") reach one; we, of
course, know only the French, but the R.F.C. stuff is equally cryptic.
"Spotted him at four thousand eight, 'piqued' on him, got under his
tail, did a chandelle, got in a good rafale, did a glissade, went into a
vrille, and lost so much height I could not catch him again."
An R.F.C. man would say, "Spotted him at forty-eight hundred, dove on
him, got under his tail, did a zoom, got in a good burst, did a
side-slip, went into a spin," etc. I may say that "chandelle" or "zoom"
means a sudden, very steep leap upward (limited in length and steepness
by the power and speed of the machine). Some of our latest machines will
do the most extraordinary feats in this line--things that an old
experienced pilot in America would have to see to believe. A "glissade"
is a wing-slip to the side, and down; a "vrille" is a spinning
nose-dive.
Among the younger pilots are several who entertain spectators with all
sorts of acrobatic feats over the aerodrome. A fine exhibition of skill
and courage, but foolish at times--especially after a fight, when vital
parts may be dangerously weakened by bullet-holes. Too much acrobacy
strains and weakens the strongest aeroplane. I believe in doing just
enough to keep your hand in, as in fights you are forced to put enough
unusual stresses on your bus.
I hope to know very soon whether or not we are to be transferred to the
American army. The long delay has worked hardships on a good many of us,
as of course no pilot could begin to live on the pay we get. The
Franco-American Flying-Corps fund (for which, I believe, we must thank
the splendid generosity of Mr. Vanderbilt) has helped immensely in the
past, but some of the boys are in hard straits now. I hope we shall be
transferred, because the pay will make us self-supporting, and any
American would rather be in United States uniform nowadays, in spite of
the bully way the French treat us, and our liking for our French
comrades, with whom it will be a wrench to part.
The point regarding our present pay is this: all French aviators are
volunteers, knowing conditions in the air-service beforehand. Before
volunteering, therefore, they arrange for the necessary private funds;
if not available, they keep out of flying. We get two and a half francs
a day (as against five sous in the infantry), but on the other hand, we
are lodged, and forced by tradition to live, like officers. It is fine
for the chap who has a little something coming in privately, but tough
for the one who is temporarily or permanently "broke."
Our boys are going to do splendid things over here. Everywhere one sees
discipline, efficiency, and organization that make an American's chest
go out. The first slackness (unavoidable at the start of a huge and
unfamiliar job) has completely disappeared. People at home should know
of all this as quickly and as much in detail as expedient: they are
giving their money and their flesh and blood, and prompt and racy news
helps wonderfully to hearten and stimulate those whose duty is at home.
For myself, there is nowhere and nobody I would rather be at present
than here and a pilot. No man in his senses could say he enjoyed the
war; but as it must be fought out, I would rather be in aviation than
any other branch. A pleasant life, good food, good sleep, and two to
four hours a day in the air. After four hours (in two spells) over the
lines, constantly alert and craning to dodge scandalously accurate
shells and suddenly appearing Boches, panting in the thin air at twenty
thousand feet, the boys are, I think, justified in calling it a day. I
have noticed that the coolest men are a good bit let down after a dogged
machine-gun fight far up in the rarefied air. It may seem soft to an
infantryman--twenty hours of sleep, eating, and loafing; but in reality
the airman should be given an easy time outside of flying.
I was unfortunate enough to smash a beautiful new machine yesterday. Not
my fault; but it makes one feel rotten to see a bright splendid thing
one has begun to love strewn about the landscape. Some wretched little
wire, or bit of dirt where it was not wanted, made my engine stop dead,
and a forced landing in rough country full of woods and ditches is no
joke. I came whizzing down to the only available field, turned into the
wind, only to see dead ahead a series of hopeless ditches which would
have made a frightful end-over-end crash. Nothing to do but pull her up
a few feet and sail over, risking a loss of speed. I did this, and
"pancaked" fairly gently, but had to hit ploughed ground across the
furrow. The poor "coucou"--my joy and pride--was wrecked, and I climbed,
or rather dropped, out, with nothing worse than a sore head, where the
old bean hit the carlingue. Now all the world looks gray, though our
captain behaved like the splendid chap he is about it: not a word of the
annoyance he must have felt.
The very finest motors, of course, do stop on occasions. Better luck, I
hope, from now on.
As the days go by, I find much that is novel and interesting about the
aerial war, which in reality is quite different from any idea of it that
I had had. I will try to give a rough idea of how the upper war is
carried on.
The trenches, sometimes visible, often quite invisible from the heights
at which one flies, form the dividing line between us and the Boche.
Behind them, at distances of from seven to fifteen miles, are the
aerodromes--a few acres of tolerably flat land, three or four or half a
dozen hangars (often cleverly camouflaged), barracks, and sheds for
automobiles. Each side, of course, knows pretty well the locations of
the enemy aerodromes. This gives rise to a certain amount of give and
take in the bombing line, which, in the end, accomplishes very little.