VERDUN TO THE SOMME
On the 12th of October, twenty small airplanes flying in a V
formation, at such a height they resembled a flock of geese, crossed
the river Rhine, where it skirts the plains of Alsace, and, turning
north, headed for the famous Mauser works at Oberndorf. Following in
their wake was an equal number of larger machines, and above these
darted and circled swift fighting planes. The first group of aircraft
was flown by British pilots, the second by French and three of the
fighting planes by Americans in the French Aviation Division. It was a
cosmopolitan collection that effected that successful raid.
We American pilots, who are grouped into one escadrille, had been
fighting above the battlefield of Verdun from the 20th of May until
orders came the middle of September for us to leave our airplanes, for
a unit that would replace us, and to report at Le Bourget, the great
Paris aviation centre.
The mechanics and the rest of the personnel left, as usual, in the
escadrille's trucks with the material. For once the pilots did not
take the aërial route but they boarded the Paris express at Bar-le-Duc
with all the enthusiasm of schoolboys off for a vacation. They were
to have a week in the capital! Where they were to go after that they
did not know, but presumed it would be the Somme. As a matter of fact
the escadrille was to be sent to Luxeuil in the Vosges to take part in
the Mauser raid.
Besides Captain Thénault and Lieutenant de Laage de Mieux, our French
officers, the following American pilots were in the escadrille at this
time: Lieutenant Thaw, who had returned to the front, even though his
wounded arm had not entirely healed; Adjutants Norman Prince, Hall,
Lufbery, and Masson; and Sergeants Kiffin Rockwell, Hill, Pavelka,
Johnson, and Rumsey. I had been sent to a hospital at the end of
August, because of a lame back resulting from a smash up in landing,
and couldn't follow the escadrille until later.
Every aviation unit boasts several mascots. Dogs of every description
are to be seen around the camps, but the Americans managed, during
their stay in Paris, to add to their menagerie by the acquisition of a
lion cub named "Whiskey." The little chap had been born on a boat
crossing from Africa and was advertised for sale in France. Some of
the American pilots chipped in and bought him. He was a cute,
bright-eyed baby lion who tried to roar in a most threatening manner
but who was blissfully content the moment one gave him one's finger to
suck. "Whiskey" got a good view of Paris during the few days he was
there, for some one in the crowd was always borrowing him to take him
some place. He, like most lions in captivity, became acquainted with
bars, but the sort "Whiskey" saw were not for purposes of confinement.
The orders came directing the escadrille to Luxeuil and bidding
farewell to gay "Paree" the men boarded the Belfort train with bag and
baggage--and the lion. Lions, it developed, were not allowed in
passenger coaches. The conductor was assured that "Whiskey" was quite
harmless and was going to overlook the rules when the cub began to
roar and tried to get at the railwayman's finger. That settled it, so
two of the men had to stay behind in order to crate up "Whiskey" and
take him along the next day.
The escadrille was joined in Paris by Robert Rockwell, of Cincinnati,
who had finished his training as a pilot, and was waiting at the
Reserve (Robert Rockwell had gone to France to work as a surgeon in
one of the American war hospitals. He disliked remaining in the rear
and eventually enlisted in aviation).
The period of training for a pilot, especially for one who is to fly a
fighting machine at the front, has been very much prolonged. It is no
longer sufficient that he learns to fly and to master various types of
machines. He now completes his training in schools where aërial
shooting is taught, and in others where he practises combat, group
manoeuvres, and acrobatic stunts such as looping the loop and the more
difficult tricks. In all it requires from seven to nine months.
Dennis Dowd, of Brooklyn, N.Y., is so far the only American volunteer
aviator killed while in training. Dowd, who had joined the Foreign
Legion, shortly after the war broke out, was painfully wounded during
the offensive in Champagne. After his recovery he was transferred, at
his request, into aviation. At the Buc school he stood at the head of
the fifteen Americans who were learning to be aviators, and was
considered one of the most promising pilots in the training camp. On
August 11, 1916, while making a flight preliminary to his brevet, Dowd
fell from a height of only 260 feet and was instantly killed. Either
he had fainted or a control had broken.
While a patient at the hospital Dowd had been sent packages by a young
French girl of Neuilly. A correspondence ensued, and when Dowd went to
Paris on convalescent leave he and the young lady became engaged. He
was killed just before the time set for the wedding.
When the escadrille arrived at Luxeuil it found a great surprise in
the form of a large British aviation contingent. This detachment from
the Royal Navy Flying Corps numbered more than fifty pilots and a
thousand men. New hangars harboured their fleet of bombardment
machines. Their own anti-aircraft batteries were in emplacements near
the field. Though detached from the British forces and under French
command this unit followed the rule of His Majesty's armies in France
by receiving all of its food and supplies from England. It had its own
transport service.
Our escadrille had been in Luxeuil during the months of April and May.
We had made many friends amongst the townspeople and the French pilots
stationed there, so the older members of the American unit were
welcomed with open arms and their new comrades made to feel at home in
the quaint Vosges town. It wasn't long, however, before the Americans
and the British got together. At first there was a feeling of reserve
on both sides but once acquainted they became fast friends. The naval
pilots were quite representative of the United Kingdom hailing as they
did from England, Canada, New South Wales, South Africa, and other
parts of the Empire. Most of them were soldiers by profession. All
were officers, but they were as democratic as it is possible to be. As
a result there was a continuous exchange of dinners. In a few days
every one in this Anglo-American alliance was calling each other by
some nickname and swearing lifelong friendship.
"We didn't know what you Yanks would be like," remarked one of the
Englishmen one day. "Thought you might be snobby on account of being
volunteers, but I swear you're a bloody human lot." That, I will
explain, is a very fine compliment.
There was trouble getting new airplanes for every one in the
escadrille. Only five arrived. They were the new model Nieuport
fighting machine. Instead of having only 140 square feet of
supporting surface, they had 160, and the forty-seven shot Lewis
machine gun had been replaced by the Vickers, which fires five hundred
rounds. This gun is mounted on the hood and by means of a timing gear
shoots through the propeller. The 160 foot Nieuport mounts at a
terrific rate, rising to 7,000 feet in six minutes. It will go to
20,000 feet handled by a skillful pilot.
It was some time before these airplanes arrived and every one was
idle. There was nothing to do but loaf around the hotel, where the
American pilots were quartered, visit the British in their barracks at
the field, or go walking. It was about as much like war as a Bryan
lecture. While I was in the hospital I received a letter written at
this time from one of the boys. I opened it expecting to read of an
air combat. It informed me that Thaw had caught a trout three feet
long, and that Lufbery had picked two baskets of mushrooms.
Day after day the British planes practised formation flying. The
regularity with which the squadron's machines would leave the ground
was remarkable. The twenty Sopwiths took the air at precise intervals,
flew together in a V formation while executing difficult manoeuvres,
and landed one after the other with the exactness of clockwork. The
French pilots flew the Farman and Breguet bombardment machines
whenever the weather permitted. Every one knew some big bombardment
was ahead but when it would be made or what place was to be attacked
was a secret.
Considering the number of machines that were continually roaring above
the field at Luxeuil it is remarkable that only two fatal accidents
occurred. One was when a British pilot tried diving at a target, for
machine-gun practice, and was unable to redress his airplane. Both he
and his gunner were killed. In the second accident I lost a good
friend--a young Frenchman. He took up his gunner in a two-seated
Nieuport. A young Canadian pilot accompanied by a French officer
followed in a Sopwith. When at about a thousand feet they began to
manoeuvre about one another. In making a turn too close the tips of
their wings touched. The Nieuport turned downward, its wings folded,
and it fell like a stone. The Sopwith fluttered a second or two, then
its wings buckled and it dropped in the wake of the Nieuport. The two
men in each of the planes were killed outright.
Next to falling in flames a drop in a wrecked machine is the worst
death an aviator can meet. I know of no sound more horrible than that
made by an airplane crashing to earth. Breathless one has watched the
uncontrolled apparatus tumble through the air. The agony felt by the
pilot and passenger seems to transmit itself to you. You are helpless
to avert the certain death. You cannot even turn your eyes away at the
moment of impact. In the dull, grinding crash there is the sound of
breaking bones.
Luxeuil was an excellent place to observe the difference that exists
between the French, English, and American aviator, but when all is
said and done there is but little difference. The Frenchman is the
most natural pilot and the most adroit. Flying comes easier to him
than to an Englishman or American, but once accustomed to an airplane
and the air they all accomplish the same amount of work. A Frenchman
goes about it with a little more dash than the others, and puts on a
few extra frills, but the Englishman calmly carries out his mission
and obtains the same results. An American is a combination of the
two, but neither better nor worse. Though there is a large number of
expert German airmen I do not believe the average Teuton makes as good
a flier as a Frenchman, Englishman, or American.
In spite of their bombardment of open towns and the use of explosive
bullets in their aërial machine guns, the Boches have shown up in a
better light in aviation than in any other arm. A few of the Hun
pilots have evinced certain elements of honor and decency. I remember
one chap that was the right sort.
He was a young man but a pilot of long standing. An old infantry
captain stationed near his aviation field at Etain, east of Verdun,
prevailed upon this German pilot to take him on a flight. There was a
new machine to test out and he told the captain to climb aboard.
Foolishly he crossed the trench lines and, actuated by a desire to
give his passenger an interesting trip, proceeded to fly over the
French aviation headquarters. Unfortunately for him he encountered
three French fighting planes which promptly opened fire. The German
pilot was wounded in the leg and the gasoline tank of his airplane was
pierced. Under him was an aviation field. He decided to land. The
machine was captured before the Germans had time to burn it up.
Explosive bullets were discovered in the machine gun. A French
officer turned to the German captain and informed him that he would
probably be shot for using explosive bullets. The captain did not
understand.
"Don't shoot him," said the pilot, using excellent French, "if you're
going to shoot any one take me. The captain has nothing to do with the
bullets. He doesn't even know how to work a machine gun. It's his
first trip in an airplane."
"Well, if you'll give us some good information, we won't shoot you,"
said the French officer.
"Information," replied the German, "I can't give you any. I come from
Etain, and you know where that is as well as I do."
"No, you must give us some worth-while information, or I'm afraid
you'll be shot," insisted the Frenchman.
"If I give you worth-while information," answered the pilot, "you'll
go over and kill a lot of soldiers, and if I don't you'll only kill
one--so go ahead."
The last time I heard of the Boche he was being well taken care of.
Kiffin Rockwell and Lufbery were the first to get their new machines
ready and on the 23rd of September went out for the first flight since
the escadrille had arrived at Luxeuil. They became separated in the
air but each flew on alone, which was a dangerous thing to do in the
Alsace sector. There is but little fighting in the trenches there, but
great air activity. Due to the British and French squadrons at
Luxeuil, and the threat their presence implied, the Germans had to
oppose them by a large fleet of fighting machines. I believe there
were more than forty Fokkers alone in the camps of Colmar and
Habsheim. Observation machines protected by two or three fighting
planes would venture far into our lines. It is something the Germans
dare not do on any other part of the front. They had a special trick
that consisted in sending a large, slow observation machine into our
lines to invite attack. When a French plane would dive after it, two
Fokkers, that had been hovering high overhead, would drop on the tail
of the Frenchman and he stood but small chance if caught in the trap.
Just before Kiffin Rockwell reached the lines he spied a German
machine under him flying at 11,000 feet. I can imagine the
satisfaction he felt in at last catching an enemy plane in our lines.
Rockwell had fought more combats than the rest of us put together, and
had shot down many German machines that had fallen in their lines, but
this was the first time he had had an opportunity of bringing down a
Boche in our territory.
A captain, the commandant of an Alsatian village, watched the aërial
battle through his field glasses. He said that Rockwell approached so
close to the enemy that he thought there would be a collision. The
German craft, which carried two machine guns, had opened a rapid fire
when Rockwell started his dive. He plunged through the stream of lead
and only when very close to his enemy did he begin shooting. For a
second it looked as though the German was falling, so the captain
said, but then he saw the French machine turn rapidly nose down, the
wings of one side broke off and fluttered in the wake of the airplane,
which hurtled earthward in a rapid drop. It crashed into the ground in
a small field--a field of flowers--a few hundred yards back of the
trenches. It was not more than two and a half miles from the spot
where Rockwell, in the month of May, brought down his first enemy
machine. The Germans immediately opened up on the wreck with
artillery fire. In spite of the bursting shrapnel, gunners from a
near-by battery rushed out and recovered poor Rockwell's broken body.
There was a hideous wound in his breast where an explosive bullet had
torn through. A surgeon who examined the body, testified that if it
had been an ordinary bullet Rockwell would have had an even chance of
landing with only a bad wound. As it was he was killed the instant the
unlawful missile exploded.
Lufbery engaged a German craft but before he could get to close range
two Fokkers swooped down from behind and filled his aeroplane full of
holes. Exhausting his ammunition he landed at Fontaine, an aviation
field near the lines. There he learned of Rockwell's death and was
told that two other French machines had been brought down within the
hour. He ordered his gasoline tank filled, procured a full band of
cartridges and soared up into the air to avenge his comrade. He sped
up and down the lines, and made a wide détour to Habsheim where the
Germans have an aviation field, but all to no avail. Not a Boche was
in the air.
The news of Rockwell's death was telephoned to the escadrille. The
captain, lieutenant, and a couple of men jumped in a staff car and
hastened to where he had fallen. On their return the American pilots
were convened in a room of the hotel and the news was broken to them.
With tears in his eyes the captain said: "The best and bravest of us
all is no more."
No greater blow could have befallen the escadrille. Kiffin was its
soul. He was loved and looked up to by not only every man in our
flying corps but by every one who knew him. Kiffin was imbued with the
spirit of the cause for which he fought and gave his heart and soul to
the performance of his duty. He said: "I pay my part for Lafayette
and Rochambeau," and he gave the fullest measure. The old flame of
chivalry burned brightly in this boy's fine and sensitive being. With
his death France lost one of her most valuable pilots. When he was
over the lines the Germans did not pass--and he was over them most of
the time. He brought down four enemy planes that were credited to him
officially, and Lieutenant de Laage, who was his fighting partner,
says he is convinced that Rockwell accounted for many others which
fell too far within the German lines to be observed. Rockwell had been
given the Médaille Militaire and the Croix de Guerre, on the ribbon of
which he wore four palms, representing the four magnificent citations
he had received in the order of the army. As a further reward for his
excellent work he had been proposed for promotion from the grade of
sergeant to that of second lieutenant. Unfortunately the official
order did not arrive until a few days following his death.
The night before Rockwell was killed he had stated that if he were
brought down he would like to be buried where he fell. It was
impossible, however, to place him in a grave so near the trenches. His
body was draped in a French flag and brought back to Luxeuil. He was
given a funeral worthy of a general. His brother, Paul, who had
fought in the Legion with him, and who had been rendered unfit for
service by a wound, was granted permission to attend the obsequies.
Pilots from all near-by camps flew over to render homage to Rockwell's
remains. Every Frenchman in the aviation at Luxeuil marched behind
the bier. The British pilots, followed by a detachment of five
hundred of their men, were in line, and a battalion of French troops
brought up the rear. As the slow moving procession of blue and
khaki-clad men passed from the church to the graveyard, airplanes
circled at a feeble height above and showered down myriads of flowers.
Rockwell's death urged the rest of the men to greater action, and the
few who had machines were constantly after the Boches. Prince brought
one down. Lufbery, the most skillful and successful fighter in the
escadrille, would venture far into the enemy's lines and spiral down
over a German aviation camp, daring the pilots to venture forth. One
day he stirred them up, but as he was short of fuel he had to make for
home before they took to the air. Prince was out in search of a combat
at this time. He got it. He ran into the crowd Lufbery had aroused.
Bullets cut into his machine and one exploding on the front edge of a
lower wing broke it. Another shattered a supporting mast. It was a
miracle that the machine did not give way. As badly battered as it was
Prince succeeded in bringing it back from over Mulhouse, where the
fight occurred, to his field at Luxeuil.
The same day that Prince was so nearly brought down Lufbery missed
death by a very small margin. He had taken on more gasoline and made
another sortie. When over the lines again he encountered a German with
whom he had a fighting acquaintance. That is he and the Boche, who
was an excellent pilot, had tried to kill each other on one or two
occasions before. Each was too good for the other. Lufbery manoeuvred
for position but, before he could shoot, the Teuton would evade him by
a clever turn. They kept after one another, the Boche retreating into
his lines. When they were nearing Habsheim, Lufbery glanced back and
saw French shrapnel bursting over the trenches. It meant a German
plane was over French territory and it was his duty to drive it off.
Swooping down near his adversary he waved good-bye, the enemy pilot
did likewise, and Lufbery whirred off to chase the other
representative of Kultur. He caught up with him and dove to the
attack, but he was surprised by a German he had not seen. Before he
could escape three bullets entered his motor, two passed through the
fur-lined combination he wore, another ripped open one of his woolen
flying boots, his airplane was riddled from wing tip to wing tip, and
other bullets cut the elevating plane. Had he not been an exceptional
aviator he never would have brought safely to earth so badly damaged a
machine. It was so thoroughly shot up that it was junked as being
beyond repairs. Fortunately Lufbery was over French territory or his
forced descent would have resulted in his being made prisoner.
I know of only one other airplane that was safely landed after
receiving as heavy punishment as did Lufbery's. It was a two-place
Nieuport piloted by a young Frenchman named Fontaine with whom I
trained. He and his gunner attacked a German over the Bois le Pretre
who dove rapidly far into his lines. Fontaine followed and in turn was
attacked by three other Boches. He dropped to escape, they plunged
after him forcing him lower. He looked and saw a German aviation field
under him. He was by this time only 2,000 feet above the ground.
Fontaine saw the mechanics rush out to grasp him, thinking he would
land. The attacking airplanes had stopped shooting. Fontaine pulled on
full power and headed for the lines. The German planes dropped down on
him and again opened fire. They were on his level, behind and on his
sides. Bullets whistled by him in streams. The rapid-fire gun on
Fontaine's machine had jammed and he was helpless. His gunner fell
forward on him, dead. The trenches were just ahead, but as he was
slanting downward to gain speed he had lost a good deal of height, and
was at only six hundred feet when he crossed the lines, from which he
received a ground fire. The Germans gave up the chase and Fontaine
landed with his dead gunner. His wings were so full of holes that they
barely supported the machine in the air.
The uncertain wait at Luxeuil finally came to an end on the 12th of
October. The afternoon of that day the British did not say: "Come on
Yanks, let's call off the war and have tea," as was their wont, for
the bombardment of Oberndorf was on. The British and French machines
had been prepared. Just before climbing into their airplanes the
pilots were given their orders. The English in their single-seated
Sopwiths, which carried four bombs each, were the first to leave. The
big French Brequets and Farmans then soared aloft with their tons of
explosive destined for the Mauser works. The fighting machines, which
were to convoy them as far as the Rhine, rapidly gained their height
and circled above their charges. Four of the battleplanes were from
the American escadrille. They were piloted respectively by Lieutenant
de Laage, Lufbery, Norman Prince, and Masson.
The Germans were taken by surprise and as a result few of their
machines were in the air. The bombardment fleet was attacked, however,
and six of its planes shot down, some of them falling in flames.
Baron, the famous French night bombarder, lost his life in one of the
Farmans. Two Germans were brought down by machines they attacked and
the four pilots from the American escadrille accounted for one each.
Lieutenant de Laage shot down his Boche as it was attacking another
French machine and Masson did likewise. Explaining it afterward he
said: "All of a sudden I saw a Boche come in between me and a Breguet
I was following. I just began to shoot, and darned if he didn't fall."
As the fuel capacity of a Nieuport allows but little more than two
hours in the air the _avions de chasse_ were forced to return to their
own lines to take on more gasoline, while the bombardment planes
continued on into Germany. The Sopwiths arrived first at Oberndorf.
Dropping low over the Mauser works they discharged their bombs and
headed homeward. All arrived, save one, whose pilot lost his way and
came to earth in Switzerland. When the big machines got to Oberndorf
they saw only flames and smoke where once the rifle factory stood.
They unloaded their explosives on the burning mass.
The Nieuports having refilled their tanks went up to clear the air of
Germans that might be hovering in wait for the returning raiders.
Prince found one and promptly shot it down. Lufbery came upon three.
He drove for one, making it drop below the others, then forcing a
second to descend, attacked the one remaining above. The combat was
short and at the end of it the German tumbled to earth. This made the
fifth enemy machine which was officially credited to Lufbery. When a
pilot has accounted for five Boches he is mentioned by name in the
official communication, and is spoken of as an "Ace," which in French
aërial slang means a super-pilot. Papers are allowed to call an "ace"
by name, print his picture and give him a write-up. The successful
aviator becomes a national hero. When Lufbery worked into this
category the French papers made him a head liner. The American "Ace,"
with his string of medals, then came in for the ennuis of a matinee
idol. The choicest bit in the collection was a letter from
Wallingford, Conn., his home town, thanking him for putting it on the
map.
Darkness was coming rapidly on but Prince and Lufbery remained in the
air to protect the bombardment fleet. Just at nightfall Lufbery made
for a small aviation field near the lines, known as Corcieux.
Slow-moving machines, with great planing capacity, can be landed in
the dark, but to try and feel for the ground in a Nieuport, which
comes down at about a hundred miles an hour, is to court disaster. Ten
minutes after Lufbery landed Prince decided to make for the field. He
spiraled down through the night air and skimmed rapidly over the trees
bordering the Corcieux field. In the dark he did not see a
high-tension electric cable that was stretched just above the tree
tops. The landing gear of his airplane struck it. The machine snapped
forward and hit the ground on its nose. It turned over and over. The
belt holding Prince broke and he was thrown far from the wrecked
plane. Both of his legs were broken and he naturally suffered internal
injuries. In spite of the terrific shock and his intense pain Prince
did not lose consciousness. He even kept his presence of mind and
gave orders to the men who had run to pick him up. Hearing the hum of
a motor, and realizing a machine was in the air, Prince told them to
light gasoline fires on the field. "You don't want another fellow to
come down and break himself up the way I've done," he said.
Lufbery went with Prince to the hospital in Gerardmer. As the
ambulance rolled along Prince sang to keep up his spirits. He spoke of
getting well soon and returning to service. It was like Norman. He
was always energetic about his flying. Even when he passed through
the harrowing experience of having a wing shattered, the first thing
he did on landing was to busy himself about getting another fitted in
place and the next morning he was in the air again.
No one thought that Prince was mortally injured but the next day he
went into a coma. A blood clot had formed on his brain. Captain Haff
in command of the aviation groups of Luxeuil, accompanied by our
officers, hastened to Gerardmer. Prince lying unconscious on his bed,
was named a second lieutenant and decorated with the Legion of Honor.
He already held the Médaille Militaire and Croix de Guerre. Norman
Prince died on the 15th of October. He was brought back to Luxeuil and
given a funeral similar to Rockwell's. It was hard to realize that
poor old Norman had gone. He was the founder of the American
escadrille and every one in it had come to rely on him. He never let
his own spirits drop, and was always on hand with encouragement for
the others. I do not think Prince minded going. He wanted to do his
part before being killed, and he had more than done it. He had, day
after day, freed the line of Germans, making it impossible for them to
do their work, and three of them he had shot to earth.
Two days after Prince's death the escadrille received orders to leave
for the Somme. The night before the departure the British gave the
American pilots a farewell banquet and toasted them as their "Guardian
Angels." They keenly appreciated the fact that four men from the
American escadrille had brought down four Germans, and had cleared the
way for their squadron returning from Oberndorf. When the train pulled
out the next day the station platform was packed by khaki-clad pilots
waving good-bye to their friends the "Yanks."
The escadrille passed through Paris on its way to the Somme front. The
few members who had machines flew from Luxeuil to their new post. At
Paris the pilots were reënforced by three other American boys who had
completed their training. They were: Fred Prince, who ten months
before had come over from Boston to serve in aviation with his brother
Norman; Willis Haviland, of Chicago, who left the American Ambulance
for the life of a birdman, and Bob Soubrian, of New York, who had been
transferred from the Foreign Legion to the flying corps after being
wounded in the Champagne offensive.
Before its arrival in the Somme the escadrille had always been
quartered in towns and the life of the pilots was all that could be
desired in the way of comforts. We had, as a result, come to believe
that we would wage only a de luxe war, and were unprepared for any
other sort of campaign. The introduction to the Somme was a rude
awakening. Instead of being quartered in a villa or hotel, the pilots
were directed to a portable barracks newly erected in a sea of mud.
It was set in a cluster of similar barns nine miles from the nearest
town. A sieve was a watertight compartment in comparison with that
elongated shed. The damp cold penetrated through every crack, chilling
one to the bone. There were no blankets and until they were procured
the pilots had to curl up in their flying clothes. There were no
arrangements for cooking and the Americans depended on the other
escadrilles for food. Eight fighting units were located at the same
field and our ever-generous French comrades saw to it that no one went
hungry. The thick mist, for which the Somme is famous, hung like a
pall over the birdmen's nest dampening both the clothes and spirits of
the men.
Something had to be done, so Thaw and Masson, who is our _Chef de
Popote_ (President of the Mess) obtained permission to go to Paris in
one of our light trucks. They returned with cooking utensils, a stove,
and other necessary things. All hands set to work and as a result life
was made bearable. In fact I was surprised to find the quarters as
good as they were when I rejoined the escadrille a couple of weeks
after its arrival in the Somme. Outside of the cold, mud, and dampness
it wasn't so bad. The barracks had been partitioned off into little
rooms leaving a large space for a dining hall. The stove is set up
there and all animate life from the lion cub to the pilots centre
around its warming glow.
The eight escadrilles of fighting machines form a rather interesting
colony. The large canvas hangars are surrounded by the house tents of
their respective escadrilles; wooden barracks for the men and pilots
are in close proximity, and sandwiched in between the encampments of
the various units are the tents where the commanding officers hold
forth. In addition there is a bath house where one may go and freeze
while a tiny stream of hot water trickles down one's shivering form.
Another shack houses the power plant which generates electric light
for the tents and barracks, and in one very popular canvas is located
the community bar, the profits from which go to the Red Cross.
We had never before been grouped with as many other fighting
escadrilles, nor at a field so near the front. We sensed the war to
better advantage than at Luxeuil or Bar-le-Duc. When there is
activity on the lines the rumble of heavy artillery reaches us in a
heavy volume of sound. From the field one can see the line of
sausage-shaped observation balloons, which delineate the front, and
beyond them the high-flying airplanes, darting like swallows in the
shrapnel puffs of anti-air-craft fire. The roar of motors that are
being tested, is punctuated by the staccato barking of machine guns,
and at intervals the hollow whistling sound of a fast plane diving to
earth is added to this symphony of war notes.