miserable by this ceaseless bombing, while in other places a species of
unwritten understanding permits him to sleep, at least, in peace. I have
a friend in a far-off escadrille who has to jump out of bed and dive for
the dugouts nearly every clear night, when the sentry hears the
unmistakable Mercedes hum close overhead, the shutting off of the
motor, and the ominous rush of air as the Huns descend on their mark. He
knows that the Germans get as good as, or better than they give--but the
knowledge does not make up for lost sleep. In my sector, on the other
hand, we could blow the Boche aerodromes to atoms and they could
probably do as much for us, but neither side has started this useless
"strafing." Just before an attack, such bombing might be of military
value; otherwise it only harasses vainly men who need what sleep they
get, and destroys wealth on both sides, like exchanging men in checkers
without profiting in position. I have heard parlor warriors at home say,
"By all means make war as unpleasant as possible--then it won't happen
again." But there is a limit to this, when nothing of tactical value is
accomplished.
The aerodromes are the headquarters of the different squadrons, each of
which is specialized in some type of work. Military aviation divides
itself into certain groups, requiring different types of machines and
different training for pilot or observer. These groups are day-bombing,
night-bombing, observation, photography, artillery fire-control, and
chasse. I would like to tell you all about the different buses used, but
of course one is not at liberty to do so. In general, bombing-machines
are rather large two-seaters or three-seaters, designed to rise to great
heights, where they are very fast, and capable of carrying heavy loads
for long distances. They are, naturally, well armed, but depend (for
safely carrying out their missions) principally on their speed at
altitudes of eighteen thousand feet or more. Photography, observation,
and artillery control machines, on the other hand, must be fast at lower
altitudes, handy in a fight, and speedy climbers. They are, so far as I
know, always two-seaters, and are really the most important of all
aeroplanes. I believe that all the allied designers should work together
to produce a single uniform type of two-seater--small, quick to
maneuver, and very fast up to fifteen or sixteen thousand feet. Such
machines, flying about their work in small groups, are truly formidable
things for single-seater scouts to attack, as they are nearly as fast
and handy, and have the enormous advantage of being able to shoot
backward as well as forward. With light double-controls for the
machine-gun man or observing officer (who would take a few lessons in
emergency flying), they could not be brought down by killing the
pilot--a most valuable feature.
The Boches have such machines,--particularly the Rumpler,--which are
tough nuts to crack, even when outnumbered. Two of our boys had a
running fight with a Rumpler recently, and dove at him alternately for
thirty minutes over forty miles of country. Both were nearly brought
down in the process--and they failed to bag the enemy machine, though at
the last they did for the observer. This shows the great value of the
fast two-place bus. I doubt if people at home are aware of the
difficulties of designing a two-seater which one could pronounce,
without hesitation, the best. It must have four major qualities: speed,
climbing ability, diving speed, and handiness. The need of strength, or
high factor of safety, goes without saying. Speed is simply a matter of
power and head resistance, and is comparatively easy to attain alone;
the rub comes in combining with it the requisite climbing power, and
factor of safety. The Germans, in general, seem to believe in a very
heavy, substantial motor, which cuts their climbing to a certain extent,
but gives them a very fast dive. The Allies' machines, I should say,
are slightly faster climbers, but cannot follow a diving Hun. And so it
goes--to have one quality in perfection, another must be sacrificed.
Last of all come the single-seaters, whose sole purpose is to fight.
Many different types have been tried--monoplanes, biplanes, and
triplanes, with different kinds of fixed and rotary motors. At present
the biplane seems to have it (though I have seen an experimental
monoplane that is a terror), as the monoplane is by nature too weak, and
the triplane (magnificent otherwise!) is too slow in diving for either
attack or escape.
The work the different groups perform seems to be roughly the same in
the Allied and enemy armies. The day-bombers fly at great heights,
sometimes escorted and protected by single-seaters. The night-bombers
fly fairly low, never escorted. Photographers, observers, and artillery
regulators have a nasty job, as they must fly rather low, constantly
subjected to a galling attention from old Archibald. When their mission
requires it, they are escorted by chasse machines--a job that
single-seater pilots do not pine for, because they often go twenty or
thirty miles into "Bochie," where motor-trouble means a soup diet till
the end of the war; and because, at low altitudes, hovering over a slow
"cuckoo," the anti-aircraft gunners have too good a time.
The single-seaters may be divided into two classes: the first does
escort work about half the time, the second does nothing but parade up
and down the lines, hunting for trouble. The last are the élite among
airmen. Unfortunately I am not one of them, as they are recruited only
from tried and skillful pilots. As to fighting, there is a good deal of
popular misconception. One imagines picturesque duels to the death,
between A (the great French or English ace) and X (his German
competitor)--the multitude of straining, upturned eyes, the distant
rattle of shots, the flaming spin of the loser. As a matter of fact, a
duel between two monoplaces, handled by pilots of anything like equal
skill, who are _aware of each other's presence_, is not unlikely to end
without bloodshed. Bear in mind that they can shoot only forward, that
the gun must be aimed by aiming the whole machine (to which it is fixed
immovably), and that a twisting, climbing, banking aeroplane, traveling
at over one hundred miles per hour, is no joke to hit in its small
vitals, and you can see that this must be so.
The truth is, that the vast majority of fights which end in a victory
are between scouts and two-seaters, and that it needs two scouts to
attack one biplace with anything like even chances of winning. Think a
moment. The two-seater is nearly as fast and handy as you are; he can
therefore avoid you and shoot forward almost as well, and in addition,
he has a man astern who can shoot up, sideways, and backwards with most
superior accuracy. This disconcerting individual, it is true, cannot
shoot straight down when the wings are horizontal, but to enable him to
do so, the pilot has only to tilt the machine to the necessary angle.
Now, suppose two French monoplaces sight an Iron-Crossed two-seater.
Flying at sixteen thousand feet, they see French shrapnel in white puffs
bursting below them at two thousand feet, and several miles away. They
change their course, and presently, dodging in and out among the fleecy
balls, they espy a fast biplace, heavily camouflaged in queer splotches
of green, brown, and violet. Coming nearer, they make out the
crosses--ha, a Boche! Nearer and nearer they come, till they are four
hundred yards behind and six hundred feet above the enemy, who has seen
them and is making tracks for home. Three hundred yards, by the way, is
the closest one may safely approach a machine-gun in the air. At this
point A dives on the Boche to about two hundred and fifty yards, shoots
a short burst, and veers off. The German machine-gunner lets him have a
rafale, but meanwhile B has dived under and behind the enemy's tail.
There he stays, at a fairly safe distance, with his eye on the rudder
above him, ready to anticipate the banks which might enable the gunner
to get in a burst. As soon as A sees that B is beneath the Boche, he
dives and shoots again. The gunner is in a quandary--if he aims at A, B
will slip up and forward, rear his machine into position, and deliver a
possibly deadly burst. If he devotes his attention to B, A will be safe
to make a dive to dangerously close quarters. There you have the theory
of the most common of all attacks--but in reality it is more difficult
than it sounds. The three machines are traveling at great speed, and
constantly twisting, rearing, and diving. It is the easiest thing in the
world to pass another plane, turn to follow it, and see nothing, no
matter how you strain your eyes. In passing, your combined speed might
be roughly _one hundred and twenty yards per second_, and you are both
moving in three dimensions. The object for which you search may be to
the side, ahead, above, below; and every second of your search may be
increasing its distance at enormous speed.
It is bitterly cold, and I am sitting in our cozy mess-room waiting for
lunch, which is at twelve. A dense fog hangs over the aerodrome, and the
trees are beautifully frosted.
Just had word that a boy who was at Avord in my time has bagged one of
the "Tangos"--no mean feat. It is the crack escadrille of all
Germany--Albatross DIII's, driven by the pick of the Hun fighting
pilots, and commanded, I believe, by Von Richthofen--the most famous of
German aces. They are a formidable aggregation, recognizable by rings of
tango red around their Iron Crosses, and stripes of the same color along
the fuselage. For a young pilot to bring one of these birds down in one
of his first flights over the lines is a wonderful piece of luck and
skill.
On days (like to-day) when the weather makes flying impossible, the
fellows sleep late, make a long, luxurious toilet, breakfast, and stroll
down to the hangars, where they potter around their "zincs," feeling
over the wires, adjusting the controls, tinkering their machine-guns, or
perhaps fitting on some sort of new trick sight. Sights are a hobby with
every pilot and nearly every one has different ideas on the subject,
advocating telescopic or open, one or two-eye outfits. Then, if one is
extra careful, he takes out the long belt of cartridges, feels each
bullet to make sure it is tightly crimped in the shell, and pushes and
pulls the shells until all are exactly even. "Jams" are the curse of
this game, and no amount of trouble is too much, if it insures a smooth
working gun. Some jams can be fixed in the air, but others render you
defenseless until you can land.
Each pilot has his own mechanic, who does nothing but look after his
bus, and is usually a finished comedian in addition to being a crack
mechanic. In truth, I never ran across a more comical, likable,
hard-working crew than the French aviation mechanics. They are mostly
pure Parisian "gamins"--speaking the most extraordinary jargon, in which
everything but the verbs (and half of them) is slang, of the most
picturesque sort. Quick-witted, enormously interested in their work,
intelligent and good-natured, they are the aristocrats of their trade,
and know it. You should see them when they go on leave. Jean or Chariot,
ordinarily the most oily and undignified of men, steps out of the
squadron office arrayed in a superb blue uniform, orange tabs on his
collar, a mirror-like tan belt about his waist--shaven, shorn, shining
with cleanliness, puffing an expensive-looking, gilt-banded cigar. Is it
fancy--or is there a slight condescension in his greeting? Well, it is
natural--you can never hope to look so superbly like a field-marshal. A
little crowd of pals gathers around, for it is just after lunch; and
presently the motorbus draws up with a scream of brakes and a cloud of
dust. The motor has "AV" in big letters on the side, and its driver (not
to be confounded with any mere ambulance or lorry chauffeur) would feel
it a disgrace to travel under forty miles an hour, or to make anything
but the most spectacular of turns and stops. The driver produces a
silver cigarette case, passes it round, takes a weed, taps it on his
wrist, and chaffs the permissionnaire about a new godmother on whom he
is planning to call in Paris.
Presently the captain steps out of his office; the departing one spins
about, head back and chest out, cigar hidden in his left hand;
"click"--his heels come together magnificently, and up goes his right
hand in a rigid salute. Smiling behind his mustache, our extremely
attractive captain salutes in return, and shakes Chariot's hand warmly,
wishing him a pleasant leave. He is off, and you can picture him
to-morrow strolling with princely nonchalance along the boulevards. What
if he earns but five cents a day--he saves most of that, and his pilot
presents him with a substantial sum every Saturday night, all of which
is put away for the grand splurge, three times a year.
In Paris, you will recognize the type--well dressed in neat dark blue,
orange collar with the group number on it, fingernails alone showing the
unmistakable traces of his trade, face, eyes and manner registering
interest and alert intelligence. As likely as not you see him on the
terrace of some great café--a wonderfully smart little midinette (his
feminine counterpart) beside him, with shining eyes of pride--and at the
next table a famous general of division, ablaze with the ribbons of half
a dozen orders.
The "mecanos" dress as nearly like pilots as they dare, and after flying
is over in the evening are apt to appear about the hangars in the
teddy-bear suits and fur boots of the "patron." Some funny things happen
at such times. There is a class of officers, called "officers of
administration," attached to squadrons and groups of aviation, who do
not fly, but look after the office and business end of the équipe. They
are worthy men and do absolutely necessary work, but somehow are not
very swank.
One day it became known that the revered Guynemer was to visit a certain
escadrille, and naturally all the officers were on fire to shake the
hero's hand--a reminiscence to hand down to their children's children.
The administration officer--a first lieutenant--was late in getting away
from the bureau, and when he got to the field, Guynemer had landed, left
his machine, and gone to have the sacred apéritif of five o'clock.
Meanwhile, the chief comedian of all the mechanics, dressed by chance in
his pilot's combination and boots, and proud to tinker (with reverent
fingers) the famous Spad, had run out to where it stood, filled it with
gas and oil, touched up the magneto, and cleaned a couple of plugs. The
officer, as he came to the hangars, perceived the well-known "taxi,"
with the stork on its side, and a furry figure strolling towards him. A
snap of heels, the position of attention, and he was saluting (as he
thought) one of the most glorious figures of France. The comedy
mechanician--taking in the situation at a glance--strolled magnificently
by, with a careless salute and a nod. The officer never inquired who it
was he had saluted--but what a tale to pass around the barrack stove on
winter evenings! Mistaken for Guynemer! Saluted by a two-striper!
In clothes and get-up the mechanics follow the pilots' lead, but in
language the situation is reversed--we take pride in memorizing,
chuckling over, and using at every opportunity the latest word or phrase
invented by these gifted slangsters. An aeroplane is never "avion" or
"appareil," but "zinc," "taxi," or "coucou." Motor is "moulin"--to start
it, one "turns the mill." In the aviation, one does not eat, one
"pecks." One is not killed--one "breaks one's face," though face is not
the inelegant word in use. Gasoline is "sauce"; to open the throttle,
you "give her the sauce." A motor breakdown is not, as in the automobile
service, a "panne," but a "carafe"--heaven knows why! and so on.
Life out here is in many ways a contrast to the last six months. Though
only a beginner, a bleu, I am Somebody, through the mere fact of being a
pilot, and most of all a pilote de chasse--a most chic thing to be. I
must dress well, shave daily, wear my hair brushed straight back and
long,--in contrast to all other branches of the army,--have my boots and
belt polished like a mirror, and frequent only the best café in town.
These are, of course, unwritten rules, but sternly lived up to--and I
confess that the return of self-respect, after months of dirt and
barrack life, is not unpleasant.
Our escadrille, composed of ten French pilots, two Americans, and the
officers, is really a very decent crowd of chaps of good family and
education. Frenchmen of this kind are good fellows and pleasant
companions, differing from us only on certain racial points of outlook
and humor. Among them are two lawyers (with all the French lawyer's
delicate wit, irony, and love of play on words), a large wine-grower (if
you can grow wine), a professional soldier from Morocco, a medical
student, and my room-mate, a most attractive chap, an English
public-school man, whose family are French importers in London. He has
been nearly everywhere, is absolutely bi-lingual, and is the sort of man
who is at home in any kind of company.
From time to time, of course, some one is brought down, and though I
dislike it intensely, one feels that decency demands one's presence at
the funeral. Elaborate, rather fine ceremony usually, where the Gallic
emotional nature appears at its best. At the last one, for instance, the
captain (brave as a lion, and a man to his finger-tips) was overcome in
the midst of his speech of eulogy and burst into tears. Impossible to an
Anglo-Saxon, but to me there was something very fine in the sight of
this splendid officer, frankly overcome with grief at the loss of one of
his men. When the ceremony is over, each pilot and friend comes to pay
respect to the departed comrade, takes up in turn an implement shaped
like an Indian-club, dips it in holy water, makes a sign with it over
the coffin, draped in the Tri-color, and sprinkles a few drops of water
on the flag.
At our mess, we have queer little things of glass to rest knife and fork
on, while the dishes are being changed; and last night at dinner, when
the captain's orderly assigned one pilot to a particularly ticklish
mission, an irrepressible American youth who was dining with us picked
up one of these knife-rests (shaped exactly like a holy-water
sprinkler), stood up very solemnly, made the sign over his victim, and
sprinkled a few drops on his head. Amid roars of laughter every one at
the table stood up in turn and did likewise. A harmless joke to us, but
I am not sure of its good taste to a Frenchman.
If I had known France before the war I could decide better a question
that constantly occurs to me: "Has France grown more religious with
war?" The educated Frenchman is certainly the most intelligent, the most
skeptical, the least inclined to take things on trust of all men, yet on
the whole I am inclined to believe that religious feeling (by no means
orthodox religion) has grown and is growing. In peace times, death seems
a vitally important thing, to be spoken of with awe and to be dreaded,
perhaps as the end of the game, if you chance to be a materialist.
All that is changed now. You go to Paris on leave, you spend two or
three days delightfully with Bill or Jim or Harry, a very dear friend,
also in on leave from his battery, regiment, or squadron.
A week later some one runs up to you with a long face. "Bill got crowned
on Thursday," he says; "joined a Boche patrol by mistake and brought
down before he saw the crosses. Poor old cuss." You sigh, thinking of
the pleasant hours you have passed with Bill--your long talks together,
his curious and interesting kinks of outlook, the things which make
personality, make one human being different from another. Somehow your
thoughts don't dwell on his death as they would in peace-times--a week
or a month later your mind has not settled into taking for granted his
non-existence. Next time you visit Paris, you hasten to his former
haunts--half expecting to find him absorbing a bock and expounding his
peculiar philosophy.
Is there a life after death? Of course there is--you smile a little to
yourself to think you could ever have believed otherwise. This, I am
confident, is common experience nowadays. The belief that individuality
ceases, that death is anything but a quick and not very alarming change,
is too absurd to hold water. It is a comforting thought and gives men
strength to perform duties and bear losses which in ordinary times would
come hard.
I have just been made popotier--I don't know what you call it in
English, but it means the individual who attends to the mess: buys
provisions, wine, and so forth, makes out menus, keeps accounts, and
bosses the cook. A doubtful honor, but one of which I am rather proud
when I think that a crowd of French officers have entrusted to me the
sacred rites of the table. I was never much of a gourmet, but what
little I know stands me in good stead.
To-day was the occasion of the first considerable feast under my
régime--a lunch given by the officers of our squadron to some
distinguished French visitors. The cook and I held long and anxious
consultations and finally turned out a meal on which every one
complimented us: excellent hors d'oeuvres, grilled salmon steaks, roast
veal, asparagus, and salad. A dry Chablis with the fish and some really
good Burgundy with the roast. Not bad for the front, really.
I give the cook each night enough money for the next day's marketing.
The following evening he tells me the amount of the day's expenses,
which sum I divide by the number present, giving each man's share for
the day. Very simple.
Since I got my new machine I have become a genuine hangar-loafer. It is
so delicate and complicated that my unfortunate mechanics have to work
practically all the time to keep me going. The only way to get the work
done well is to know about it yourself; and so, against my instincts, I
have been forced for the first time to study the technical and
mechanical side of my bus.
Some say, "The pilot should never know too much about his machine--it
destroys his dash." Perhaps they are right--certainly a plunge into this
maze of technicalities destroys his sleep--there is an unwholesome
fascination about it: hundreds of delicate and fragile parts, all
synchronized as it were and working together, any one of which, by its
defection, can upset or even wreck the whole fabric. A simple
motor-failure, even in our own lines and at a good altitude, is no joke
in the case of the modern single-seater. Small and enormously heavy for
its wing-surface, it first touches ground at too high a speed for
anything but the longest and smoothest fields. In pannes of this sort,
the pilot usually steps out of the most frightful-looking wreck smiling
and quite unhurt; but you can scarcely imagine the chagrin and
depression one feels at breaking a fine machine. I did it once, and it
made me half sick for a week, though it was not really my fault at all.
After lunch, instead of taking a nap as one does when on duty at
daybreak, I go to the "bar" to read letters and papers and see friends
from the other squadrons. As I go in the door, five friends in flying
clothes go out.
"See you in two hours," says Lieutenant D----. "Let's have a poker game;
I've got a patrol now."
"All right," I say, "I'll be here"--though I'm not very keen on French
poker, which is somewhat different from ours.
The two hours pass in a wink of time as I lie in a steamer-chair,
reading and reveling in the warm drowsy May afternoon. A sound of
motors, the hollow whistling rush of landing single-seaters, and I
glance out of the door. Here they come, lumbering across the field--but
only four. I get up hastily and run to where the flight-commander is
descending stiffly from his bus. His face is long, as we crowd around.
"Where's D----?" I ask anxiously.
"Brought down, I'm afraid," he answers. "We chased some two-seaters
twenty-five miles into the Boche lines, and nine Albatrosses dropped on
us. Got two of them, I think; but after the first mix-up, I lost track
of D----, and he didn't come back with us."
A melancholy little procession heads for the bar, and while the affair
is being reëxplained, the telephone rings.
"Lieutenant D---- has been found at X----. He was shot through the
chest, but managed to regain our lines before he died. He was on the
point of landing in a field when he lost consciousness. The machine is
not badly smashed."
At a near-by table, a dice game, which started after lunch and has been
interrupted to hear the news, continues. I resume my place in my chair
and spread out the Paris "Herald"--unable to focus my mind on the
steamship arrivals or the offensive. Poor old D----!
We have had lovely weather for the past fortnight--long warm days have
made the trees burst into leaf and covered the meadows with
wild-flowers. The quail have begun to nest--queer little fellows, quite
unlike ours, whose love-song is, "_Whit_, twit, whit," with a strong
emphasis on the first "whit."