Suddenly we heard the roar of motors just over the barracks,_High Adventure: A Narrative of Air Fighting in France

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The Riverside Library

High Adventure

A Narrative of Air Fighting in France

JAMES NORMAN HALL

[Illustration]

BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

The Riverside Press Cambridge

_Published June, 1918_

The Riverside Press

CAMBRIDGE · MASSACHUSETTS

PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

SERGENT-PILOTE DOUGLAS MACMONAGLE

KILLED IN COMBAT NEAR VERDUN

SEPTEMBER 25, 1917

[Illustration: THE AUTHOR]

Contents

I. THE FRANCO-AMERICAN CORPS 1

II. PENGUINS 24

III. BY THE ROUTE OF THE AIR 47

IV. AT G. D. E. 79

V. OUR FIRST PATROL 107

VI. A BALLOON ATTACK 144

VII. BROUGHT DOWN 167

VIII. ONE HUNDRED HOURS 182

IX. "LONELY AS A CLOUD" 200

X. "MAIS OUI, MON VIEUX!" 209

XI. THE CAMOUFLAGED COWS 216

XII. CAFARD 226

LETTER FROM A GERMAN PRISON CAMP 233

HIGH ADVENTURE

THE FRANCO-AMERICAN CORPS

It was on a cool, starlit evening, early in September, 1916, that I

first met Drew of Massachusetts, and actually began my adventures as a

prospective member of the Escadrille Américaine. We had sailed from

New York by the same boat, had made our applications for enlistment in

the Foreign Legion on the same day, without being aware of each

other's existence; and in Paris, while waiting for our papers, we had

gone, every evening, for dinner, to the same large and gloomy-looking

restaurant in the neighborhood of the Seine.

As for the restaurant, we frequented it, not assuredly because of the

quality of the food. We might have dined better and more cheaply

elsewhere. But there was an air of vanished splendor, of faded

magnificence, about the place which, in the capital of a warring

nation, appealed to both of us. Every evening the tables were laid

with spotless linen and shining silver. The wineglasses caught the

light from the tarnished chandeliers in little points of color. At the

dinner-hour, a half-dozen ancient serving-men silently took their

places about the room. There was not a sound to be heard except the

occasional far-off honk of a motor or the subdued clatter of dishes

from the kitchens. The serving-men, even the tables and the empty

chairs, seemed to be listening, to be waiting for the guests who never

came. Rarely were there more than a dozen diners-out during the course

of an evening. There was something mysterious in these elaborate

preparations, and something rather fine about them as well; but one

thought, not without a touch of sadness, of the old days when there

had been laughter and lights and music, sparkling wines and brilliant

talk, and how those merrymakers had gone, many of them, long ago to

the wars.

As it happened on this evening, Drew and I were sitting at adjoining

tables. Our common citizenship was our introduction, and after five

minutes of talk, we learned of our common purpose in coming to

France. I suppose that we must have eaten after making this latter

discovery. I vaguely remember seeing our old waiter hobbling down a

long vista of empty tables on his way to and from the kitchens. But if

we thought of our food at all, it must have been in a purely

mechanical way.

Drew can talk--by Jove, how the man can talk!--and he has the faculty

of throwing the glamour of romance over the most commonplace

adventures. Indeed, the difficulty which I am going to have in writing

this narrative is largely due to this romantic influence of his. I

might have succeeded in writing a plain tale, for I have kept my diary

faithfully, from day to day, and can set down our adventures, such as

they are, pretty much as they occurred. But Drew has bewitched me. He

does not realize it, but he is a weaver of spells, and I am so

enmeshed in his moonshine that I doubt if I shall be able to write of

our experiences as they must appear to those of our comrades in the

Franco-American Corps who remember them only through the medium of the

revealing light of day.

Not one of these men, I am sure, would confess to so strange an

immediate cause for joining the aviation service, as that related to

me by Drew, as we sat over our coffee and cigarettes, on the evening

of our first meeting. He had come to France, he said, with the

intention of joining the _Légion Étrangère_ as an infantryman. But he

changed his mind, a few days after his arrival in Paris, upon meeting

Jackson of the American Aviation Squadron, who was on leave after a

service of six months at the front. It was all because of the manner

in which Jackson looked at a Turkish rug. He told him of his

adventures in the most matter-of-fact way. No heroics, nothing of that

sort. He had not a glimmer of imagination, he said. But he had a way

of looking at the floor which was "irresistible," which "fascinated

him with the sense of height." He saw towns, villages, networks of

trenches, columns of toy troops moving up ribbons of road--all in the

patterns of a Turkish rug. And the next day, he was at the

headquarters of the Franco-American Corps, in the Champs Élysées,

making application for membership.

It is strange that we should both have come to France with so little

of accurate knowledge of the corps, of the possibilities for

enlistment, and of the nature of the requirements for the service. Our

knowledge of it, up to the time of sailing, had been confined to a few

brief references in the press. It was perhaps necessary that its

existence should not be officially recognized in America, or its

furtherance encouraged. But it seemed to us at that time, that there

must have been actual discouragement on the part of the Government at

Washington. However that may be, we wondered if others had followed

clues so vague or a call so dimly heard.

This led to a discussion of our individual aptitudes for the service,

and we made many comforting discoveries about each other. It is

permissible to reveal them now, for the particular encouragement of

others who, like ourselves at that time, may be conscious of

deficiencies, and who may think that they have none of the qualities

essential to the successful aviator. Drew had never been farther from

the ground than the top of the Woolworth building. I had once taken a

trip in a captive balloon. Drew knew nothing of motors, and had no

more knowledge of mechanics than would enable him to wind a watch

without breaking the mainspring. My ignorance in this respect was a

fair match for his.

We were further handicapped for the French service by our lack of the

language. Indeed, this seemed to be the most serious obstacle in the

way to success. With a good general knowledge of the language it

seemed probable that we might be able to overcome our other

deficiencies. Without it, we could see no way to mastering the

mechanical knowledge which we supposed must be required as a

foundation for the training of a military pilot. In this connection,

it may be well to say that we have both been handicapped from the

beginning. We have had to learn, through actual experience in the air,

and at risk to life and limb, what many of our comrades, both French

and American, knew before they had ever climbed into an aeroplane. But

it is equally true that scores of men become very excellent pilots

with little or no knowledge of the mechanics of the business.

In so far as Drew and I were concerned, these were matters for the

future. It was enough for us at the moment that our applications had

been approved, our papers signed, and that to-morrow we were leaving

for the _École d'Aviation Militaire_ to begin our training. And so,

after a long evening of pleasant talk and pleasanter anticipation of

coming events, we left our restaurant and walked together through the

silent streets to the Place de la Concorde. The great windy square was

almost deserted. The monuments to the lost provinces bulked large in

the dim lamplight. Two disabled soldiers hobbled across the bridge and

disappeared in the deep shade of the avenue. Their service had been

rendered, their sacrifices made, months ago. They could look about

them now with a peculiar sense of isolation, and with, perhaps, a

feeling of the futility of the effort they had made. Our adventures

were all before us. Our hearts were light and our hopes high. As we

stood by the obelisk, talking over plans for the morrow, we heard,

high overhead, the faint hum of motors, and saw two lights, one green,

one red, moving rapidly across the sky. A moment later the long,

slender finger of a searchlight probed among little heaps of cloud,

then, sweeping in a wide arc, revealed in striking outline the shape

of a huge biplane circling over the sleeping city. It was one of the

night guard of Paris.

On the following morning, we were at the Gare des Invalides with our

luggage, a long half-hour before train-time. The luggage was absurdly

bulky. Drew had two enormous suitcases and a bag, and I a steamer

trunk and a family-size portmanteau. We looked so much the typical

American tourists that we felt ashamed of ourselves, not because of

our nationality, but because we revealed so plainly, to all the world

military, our non-military antecedents. We bore the hallmark of fifty

years of neutral aloofness, of fifty years of indifference to the

business of national defense. What makes the situation amusing as a

retrospect is the fact that we were traveling on third-class military

passes, as befitted our rank as _élève-pilotes_ and soldiers of the

_deuxième classe_.

To our great discomfiture, a couple of _poilus_ volunteered their

services in putting our belongings aboard the train. Then we crowded

into a third-class carriage filled with soldiers--_permissionnaires_,

_blessés_, _réformés_, men from all corners of France and her

colonies. Their uniforms were faded and weather-stained with long

service. The stocks of their rifles were worn smooth and bright with

constant usage, and their packs fairly stowed themselves upon their

backs.

Drew and I felt uncomfortable in our smart civilian clothing. We

looked too soft, too clean, too spick-and-span. We did not feel that

we belonged there. But in a whispered conversation we comforted

ourselves with the assurance that if ever America took her rightful

stand with the Allies, in six months after the event, hundreds of

thousands of American boys would be lugging packs and rifles with the

same familiarity of use as these French _poilus_. They would become

equally good soldiers, and soon would have the same community of

experience, of dangers and hardships shared in common, which make men

comrades and brothers in fact as well as in theory.

By the time we had reached our destination we had persuaded ourselves

into a much more comfortable frame of mind. There we piled into a

cab, and soon we were rattling over the cobblestones, down a long,

sunlit avenue in the direction of B----. It was late of a mild

afternoon when we reached the summit of a high plateau and saw before

us the barracks and hangars of the _École d'Aviation_. There was not a

breath of air stirring. The sun was just sinking behind a bank of

crimson cloud. The earth was already in shadow, but high overhead the

light was caught and reflected from the wings of scores of _avions_

which shone like polished bronze and silver. We saw the long lines of

Blériot monoplanes, like huge dragon-flies, and as pretty a sight in

the air as heart could wish. Farther to the left, we recognized Farman

biplanes, floating battleships in comparison with the Blériots, and

twin-motor Caudrons, much more graceful and alert of movement.

But, most wonderful of all to us then, we saw a strange, new

_avion_,--a biplane, small, trim, with a body like a fish. To see it

in flight was to be convinced for all time that man has mastered the

air, and has outdone the birds in their own element. Never was swallow

more consciously joyous in swift flight, never eagle so bold to take

the heights or so quick to reach them. Drew and I gazed in silent

wonder, our bodies jammed tightly into the cab-window, and our heads

craned upward. We did not come back to earth until our ancient,

earth-creeping conveyance brought up with a jerk, and we found

ourselves in front of a gate marked "École d'Aviation Militaire de

B----."

After we had paid the cabman, we stood in the road, with our mountain

of luggage heaped about us, waiting for something to happen. A moment

later a window in the administration building was thrown open and we

were greeted with a loud and not over-musical chorus of

"Oh, say, can you see by the dawn's early light--"

It all came from one throat, belonging to a chap in leathers, who came

down the drive to give us welcome.

"Spotted you _toute suite_" he said. "You can tell Americans at six

hundred yards by their hats. How's things in the States? Do you think

we're coming in?"

We gave him the latest budget of home news, whereupon he offered to

take us over to the barracks. When he saw our luggage he grinned.

"Some equipment, believe me! _Attendez un peu_ while I commandeer a

battalion of Annamites to help us carry it, and we'll be on our way."

The Annamites, from Indo-China, who are quartered at the camp for

guard and fatigue duty, came back with him about twenty strong, and we

started in a long procession to the barracks. Later, we took a

vindictive pleasure in witnessing the beluggaged arrival of other

Americans, for in nine cases out of ten they came as absurdly

over-equipped as did we.

Our barracks, one of many built on the same pattern, was a long, low

wooden building, weather-stained without and whitewashed within. It

had accommodation for about forty beds. One end of the room was very

manifestly American. There was a phonograph on the table, baseball

equipment piled in one corner, and the walls were covered with

cartoons and pictures clipped from American periodicals. The other end

was as evidently French, in the frugality and the neatness of its

furnishings. The American end of the room looked more homelike, but

the French end more military. Near the center, where the two nations

joined, there was a very harmonious blending of these characteristics.

Drew and I were delighted with all this. We were glad that we were not

to live in an exclusively American barracks, for we wanted to learn

French; but more than this, we wanted to live with Frenchmen on terms

of barrack-room familiarity.

By the time we had given in our papers at the captain's office and had

passed the hasty preliminary examination of the medical officer, it

was quite dark. Flying for the day was over, and lights gleamed

cheerily from the barrack-room windows. As we came down the principal

street of the camp, we heard the strains of "Waiting for the Robert E.

Lee," to a gramophone accompaniment, issuing from the _chambre des

Américains_.

"See them shuffle along,

Oh, ma honey babe,

Hear that music and song."

It gave us the home feeling at once. Frenchmen and Americans were

singing together, the Frenchmen in very quaint English, but hitting

off the syncopated time as though they had been born and brought up to

it as we Americans have.

Over in one corner, a very informal class in French-English

pronunciation was at work. Apparently, this was tongue-twisters'

night. "_Heureux_" was the challenge from the French side, and

"_Hooroo_" the nearest approach to a pronunciation on the part of the

Americans, with many more or less remote variations on this theme. An

American, realizing how difficult it is for a Frenchman to get his

tongue between his teeth, counter-challenged with "Father, you are

withered with age." The result, as might have been expected, was a

series of hissing sounds of _z_, whereupon there was an answering howl

of derision from all the Americans. Up and down the length of the room

there were little groups of two and three, chatting together in

combinations of Franco-American which must have caused all deceased

professors of modern languages to spin like midges in their graves.

And throughout all this before-supper merriment, one could catch the

feeling of good-comradeship which, so far as my experience goes, is

always prevalent whenever Frenchmen and Americans are gathered

together.

At the _ordinaire_, at supper-time, we saw all of the _élève-pilotes_

of the school, with the exception of the non-commissioned officers,

who have their own mess. To Drew and me, but newly come from remote

America, it was a most interesting gathering. There were about one

hundred and twenty-five in all, including eighteen Americans. The

large majority of the Frenchmen had already been at the front in other

branches of army service. There were artillerymen, infantrymen,

marines,--in training for the naval air-service,--cavalrymen, all

wearing the uniforms of the arm to which they originally belonged. No

one was dressed in a uniform which distinguished him as an aviator;

and upon making inquiry, I found that there is no official dress for

this branch of the service. During his period of training in aviation,

and even after receiving his military brevet, a pilot continues to

wear the dress of his former service, plus the wings on the collar,

and the star-and-wings insignia on his right breast. This custom does

not make for the fine uniform appearance of the men of the British

Royal Flying Corps, but it gives a picturesqueness of effect which is,

perhaps, ample recompense. As for the Americans, they follow

individual tastes, as we learned later. Some of them, with an eye to

color, salute the sun in the red trousers and black tunic of the

artilleryman. Others choose more sober shades, various French blues,

with the thin orange aviation stripe running down the seams of the

trousers. All this in reference to the dress uniform. At the camp most

of the men wear leathers, or a combination of leathers and the

gray-blue uniform of the French _poilu_, which is issued to all

Americans at the time of their enlistment.

We had a very excellent supper of soup, followed by a savory roast of

meat, with mashed potatoes and lentils. Afterward, cheese and beer. I

was slightly discomfited physically on learning that the beef was

horse-meat, but Drew convinced me that it was absurd to let old

scruples militate against a healthy appetite. In 1870 the citizens of

France ate _ragoût de chat_ with relish. Furthermore, the roast was of

so delicious a flavor and so closely resembled the finest cuts of

beef, that it was easy to persuade one's self that it was beef, after

all.

After the meal, to our great surprise, every one cleaned his dishes

with huge pieces of bread. Such waste seemed criminal in a country

beleaguered by submarines, in its third year of war, and largely

dependent for its food-supply on the farm labor of women and children.

We should not have been surprised if it had been only the Americans

who indulged in this wasteful dish-cleansing process; but the

Frenchmen did it, too. When I remarked upon this to one of my American

comrades, a Frenchman, sitting opposite, said:--

"Pardon, monsieur, but I must tell you what we Frenchmen are. We are

very economical when it is for ourselves, for our own families and

purses, that we are saving. But when it is the Government which pays

the bill, we do not care. We do not have to pay directly and so we

waste, we throw away. We are so careful at home, all of our lives,

that this is a little pleasure for us."

I have had this same observation made to me by so many Frenchmen since

that time, that I believe there must be a good deal of truth in it.

After supper, all of the Americans adjourned for coffee to Ciret's, a

little café in the village which nestles among the hills not far from

the camp. The café itself was like any one of thousands of French

provincial restaurants. There was a great dingy common room, with a

sanded brick floor, and faded streamers of tricolor paper festooned in

curious patterns from the smoky ceiling. The kitchen was clean, and

filled with the appetizing odor of good cooking. Beyond it was

another, inner room, "_toujours réservée à mes Américains_," as M.

Ciret, the fat, genial _patron_ continually asserted. Here we gathered

around a large circular table, pipes and cigarettes were lighted, and,

while the others talked, Drew and I listened and gathered impressions.

For a time the conversation did not become general, and we gathered up

odds and ends of it from all sides. Then it turned to the reasons

which had prompted various members of the group to come to France, the

topic, above all others, which Drew and I most wanted to hear

discussed. It seemed to me, as I listened, that we Americans closely

resemble the British in our sensitive fear of any display of fine

personal feeling. We will never learn to examine our emotions with

anything but suspicion. If we are prompted to a course of action by

generous impulses, we are anxious that others shall not be let into

the secret. And so it was that of all the reasons given for offering

their services to France, the first and most important was the last to

be acknowledged, and even then it was admitted by some with a

reluctance nearly akin to shame. There was no man there who was not

ready and willing to give his life, if necessary, for the Allied

cause, because he believed in it; but the admission could hardly have

been dragged from him by wild horses.

But the adventure of the life, the peculiar fascination of it--that

was a thing which might be discussed without reserve, and the men

talked of it with a willingness which was most gratifying to Drew and

me, curious as we were about the life we were entering. They were all

in the flush of their first enthusiasms. They were daily enlarging

their conceptions of distance and height and speed. They talked a new

language and were developing a new cast of mind. They were like

children who had grown up over night, whose horizons had been

immeasurably broadened in the twinkling of an eye. They were still

keenly conscious of the change which was upon them, for they were but

fledgling aviators. They were just finding their wings. But as I

listened, I thought of the time which must come soon, when the air, as

the sea, will be filled with stately ships, and how the air-service

will develop its own peculiar type of men, and build up about them its

own laws and its own traditions.

As we walked back through the straggling village street to the camp, I

tried to convey to Drew something of the new vision which had come to

me during the evening. I was aglow with enthusiasm and hoped to strike

an answering spark from him. But all that I was thinking and feeling

then he had thought and felt long before. I am sure that he had

already experienced, in imagination, every thrill, every keen joy, and

every sudden sickening fear which the life might have in store for

him. For this reason I forgave him for his rather bored manner of

answering to my mood, and the more willingly because he was full of

talk about a strange illusion which he had had at the restaurant.

During a moment of silence, he had heard a clatter of hoof-beats in

the village street. (I had heard them too. Some one rode by

furiously.) Well, Drew said that he almost jumped from his seat,

expecting M. Ciret to throw open the door and shout, "The British are

coming!" He actually believed for a second or two that it was the year

1775, and that he was sitting in one of the old roadside inns of

Massachusetts. The illusion was perfect, he said.

Now, why--etc., etc. At another time I should have been much

interested; but in the presence of new and splendid realities I could

not summon any enthusiasm for illusions. Nevertheless, I should have

had to listen to him indefinitely, had it not been for an event which

cut short all conversation and ended our first day at the _École

d'Aviation_ in a truly spectacular manner.

Suddenly we heard the roar of motors just over the barracks, and, at

the same time, the siren sounded the alarm in a series of prolonged,

wailing shrieks. Some belated pilot was still in the air. We rushed

out to the field just as the flares were being lighted and placed on

the ground in the shape of an immense T, with the cross-bar facing in

the direction from which the wind was coming. By this time the hum of

motors was heard at a great distance, but gradually it increased in

volume and soon the light of the flares revealed the machine circling

rapidly over the _piste_. I was so much absorbed in watching it

manoeuvre for a landing that I did not see the crowd scattering to

safe distances. I heard many voices shouting frantic warnings, and so

ran for it, but, in my excitement, directly within the line of descent

of the machine. I heard the wind screaming through the wires, a

terrifying sound to the novice, and glancing hurriedly over my

shoulder, I saw what appeared to be a monster of gigantic proportions,

almost upon me. It passed within three metres of my head and landed

just beyond.

When at last I got to sleep, after a day filled with interesting

incidents, Paul Revere pursued me relentlessly through the mazes of a

weird and horrible dream. I was on foot, and shod with lead-soled

boots. He was in a huge, twin-motor Caudron and flying at a terrific

pace, only a few metres from the ground. I can see him now, as he

leaned far out over the hood of his machine, an aviator's helmet set

atilt over his powdered wig, and his eyes glowing like coals through

his goggles. He was waving two lighted torches and shouting, "The

British are coming! The British are coming!" in a voice strangely like

Drew's.

PENGUINS

Having simple civilian notions as to the amount of time necessary for

dressing, Drew and I rose with the sound of the bugle on the following

morning. We had promised each other that we would begin our new life

in true soldier style, and so we reluctantly hurried to the

wash-house, where we shaved in cold water, washed after a fashion, and

then hurried back to the unheated barrack-room. We felt refreshed,

morally and physically, but our heroic example seemed to make no

impression upon our fellow aviators, whether French or American.

Indeed, not one of them stirred until ten minutes before time for the

morning _appel_, when, there was a sudden upheaval of blankets down

the entire length of the room. It was as though the patients in a hospital

ward had been inoculated with some wonderful, instantaneous-health-giving

virus. Men were jumping into boots and trousers at the same time, and

running to and from the wash-house, buttoning their shirts and drying

their faces as they ran. It must have taken months of experiment to

perfect the system whereby every one remained in bed until the last

possible moment. They professed to be very proud of it, but it was

clear that they felt more at ease when Drew and I, after a week of

heroic, early-morning resolves, abandoned our daily test of courage.

We are all Doctor Johnsons at heart.

It was a crisp, calm morning--an excellent day for flying. Already the

mechanicians were bringing out the machines and lining them up in

front of the hangars, in preparation for the morning work, which began

immediately after _appel_. Drew and I had received notice that we were

to begin our training at once. Solicitous fellow countrymen had warned

us to take with us all our flying clothes. We were by no means to

forget our goggles, and the fur-lined boots which are worn over

ordinary boots as a protection against the cold. Innocently, we obeyed

all instructions to the letter. The absurdity of our appearance will

be appreciated only by air-men. Novices begin their training, at a

Blériot monoplane school, in Penguins--low-powered machines with

clipped wings, which are not capable of leaving the ground. We were

dressed as we would have no occasion to be dressed until we should be

making sustained flights at high altitudes. Every one, Frenchmen and

Americans alike, had a good laugh at our expense, but it was one in

which we joined right willingly; and one kind-hearted _adjudant-moniteur_,

in order to remove what discomfiture we may have felt, told us,

through an interpreter, that he was sure we would become good air-men.

The _très bon pilote_ could be distinguished, in embryo, by the way he

wore his goggles.

The beginners' class did not start work with the others, owing to the

fact that the Penguins, driven by unaccustomed hands, covered a vast

amount of ground in their rolling sorties back and forth across the

field. Therefore Drew and I had leisure to watch the others, and to

see in operation the entire scheme by means of which France trains her

combat pilots for the front. Exclusive of the Penguin, there were

seven classes, graded according to their degree of advancement. These,

in their order, were the rolling class (a second-stage Penguin class,

in which one still kept on the ground, but in machines of higher

speed); the first flying class--short hops across the field at an

altitude of two or three metres; the second flying class, where one

learned to mount to from thirty to fifty metres, and to make landings

without the use of the motor; _tour de piste_ (A)--flights about the

aerodrome in a forty-five horse-power Blériot; _tour de piste_

(B)--similar flights in a fifty horse-power machine; the spiral class,

and the brevet class.

Our reception committee of the day before volunteered his services as

guide, and took us from one class to another, making comments upon the

nature of the work of each in a bewildering combination of English and

Americanized French. I understood but little of his explanation,

although later I was able to appreciate his French translation of some

of our breezy Americanisms. But explanation was, for the most part,

unnecessary. We could see for ourselves how the prospective pilot

advanced from one class to another, becoming accustomed to machines of

higher and higher power, "growing his wings" very gradually, until at

last he reached the spiral class, where he learned to make landings at

a given spot and without the use of his motor, from an altitude of

from eight hundred to one thousand metres, losing height in volplanes

and serpentines. The final tests for the military brevet were two

cross-country flights of from two hundred to three hundred kilometres,

with landings during each flight, at three points, two short voyages

of sixty kilometres each, and an hour flight at a minimum altitude of

two thousand metres.

With all the activities of the school taking place at once, we were as

excited as two boys seeing their first three-ring circus. We scarcely

knew which way to turn in our anxiety to miss nothing. But my chief

concern, in anticipation, had been this: how were English-speaking

_élèves-pilotes_ to overcome the linguistic handicap? My uneasiness

was set at rest on this first morning, when I saw how neatly most of

the difficulties were overcome. Many of the Americans had no knowledge

of French other than that which they had acquired since entering the

French service, and this, as I have already hinted, had no great

utilitarian value. An interpreter had been provided for them through

the generosity and kindness of the Franco-American Committee in Paris;

but it was impossible for him to be everywhere at once, and much was

left to their own quickness of understanding and to the ingenuity of

the _moniteurs_. The latter, being French, were eloquent with their

gestures. With the additional aid of a few English phrases which they

had acquired from the Americans, and the simplest kind of French, they

had little difficulty in making their instructions clear. Both of us

felt much encouraged as we listened, for we could understand them very

well.

As for the business of flying, as we watched it from below, it seemed

the safest and simplest thing in the world. The machines left the

ground so easily, and mounted and descended with such sureness of

movement, that I was impatient to begin my training. I believed that I

could fly at once, after a few minutes of preliminary instruction,

without first going through with all the tedious rolling along the

ground in low-powered machines. But before the morning's work was

finished, I revised my opinion. Accidents began to happen, the first

one when one of the "old family cuckoos," as the rolling machines were

disdainfully called, showed a sudden burst of old-time speed and left

the ground in an alarming manner.

It was evident that the man who was driving it, taken completely by

surprise, had lost his head, and was working the controls erratically.

First he swooped upward, then dived, tipping dangerously on one wing.

In this sudden emergency he had quite forgotten his newly acquired

knowledge. I wondered what I would do in such a strait, when one must

think with the quickness and sureness of instinct. My heart was in my

mouth, for I felt certain that the man would be killed. As for the

others who were watching, no one appeared to be excited. A _moniteur_

near me said, "Oh, là là! Il est perdu!" in a mild voice. The whole

affair happened so quickly that I was not able to think myself into a

similar situation before the end had come. At the last, the machine

made a quick swoop downward, from a height of about fifty metres, then

careened upward, tipped again, and diving sidewise, struck the ground

with a sickening rending crash, the motor going at full speed. For a

moment it stood, tail in air; then slowly the balance was lost, and it

fell, bottom up, and lay silent.

An enterprising moving-picture company would have given a great deal

of money to film that accident. It would have provided a splendid

dramatic climax to a war drama of high adventure. Civilian audiences

would have watched in breathless, awe-struck silence; but at a

military school of aviation it was a different matter. "Oh, là là! Il

est perdu!" adequately gauges the degree of emotional interest taken

in the incident. At the time I was surprised at this apparent

callousness, but I understood it better when I had seen scores of such

accidents occur, and had watched the pilots, as in this case, crawl

out from the wreckage, and walk sheepishly, and a little shaken, back

to their classes. Although the machines were usually badly wrecked,

the pilots were rarely severely hurt. The landing chassis of a Blériot

is so strong that it will break the force of a very heavy fall, and

the motor, being in front, strikes the ground first instead of

pinning the pilot beneath it.

To anticipate a little, in more than four months of training at the

Blériot school there was not a single fatality, although as many as

eleven machines were wrecked in the course of one working day, and

rarely less than two or three. There were so many accidents as to

convince me that Blériot training for novices is a mistake from the

economic point of view. The up-keep expense is vastly greater than in

double-command biplane schools, where the student pilot not only

learns to fly in a much more stable machine, but makes all his early

flights in company with a _moniteur_ who has his own set of controls

and may immediately correct any mistakes in handling. But France is

not guided by questions of expense in her training of _pilotes de

chasse_, and opinion appears to be that single-command monoplane

training is to be preferred for the airman who is to be a combat

pilot. Certain it is that men have greater confidence in themselves

when they learn to fly alone from the beginning; and the Blériot,

which requires the most delicate and sensitive handling, offers

excellent preliminary schooling for the Nieuport and Spad, the fast

and high-powered biplanes which are the _avions de chasse_ above the

French lines.

A spice of interest was added to the morning's thrills when an

American, not to be outdone by his French compatriot, wrecked a

machine so completely that it seemed incredible that he could have

escaped without serious injury. But he did, and then we witnessed the

amusing spectacle of an American, who had no French at all, explaining

through the interpreter just how the accident had happened. I saw his

_moniteur_, who knew no English, grin in a relieved kind of way when

the American crawled out from under the wreckage. The reception

committee whispered to me, "This is Pourquoi, the best bawler-out

we've got. 'Pourquoi?' is always his first broadside. Then he wades in

and you can hear him from one end of the field to the other.

_Attendez!_ this is going to be rich!"

Both of them started talking at once, the _moniteur_ in French and the

American in English. Then they turned to the interpreter, and any one

witnessing the conversation from a distance would have thought that he

was the culprit. The American had left the ground with the wind behind

him, a serious fault in an airman, and he knew it very well.

"Look here, Pete," he said; "tell him I know it was my fault. Tell him

I took a Steve Brody. I wanted to see if the old cuckoo had any pep in

'er. When I--"

"Pourquoi? Nom de Dieu! Qu'est-ce que je vous ai dit? Jamais faire

comme ça! Jamais monter avec le vent en arrière! Jamais! Jamais!"

The others listened in hilarious silence while the interpreter turned

first to one and then to the other. "Tell him I took a Steve Brody." I

wondered if he translated that literally. Steve took a chance, but it

is hardly to be expected that a Frenchman would know of that daring

gentleman's history. In this connection, I remember a little talk on

caution which was given to us, later, by an English-speaking

_moniteur_. It was after rather a serious accident, for which the

spirit of Steve Brody was again responsible.

"You Americans," he said, "when you go to the front you will get the

Boche; but let me tell you, they will kill many of you. Not one or

two; very many."

Accidents delayed the work of flying scarcely at all. As soon as a

machine was wrecked, Annamites appeared on the spot to clear away the

débris and take it to the repair-shops, where the usable portions were

quickly sorted out. We followed one of these processions in, and spent

an hour watching the work of this other department of aviation upon

which our own was so entirely dependent. Here machines were being

built as well as repaired. The air vibrated with the hum of machinery,

with the clang of hammers upon anvils and the roar of motors in

process of being tested.

There was a small army of women doing work of many kinds. They were

quite apt at it, particularly in the department where the fine strong

linen cloth which covers the wings was being sewn together and

stretched over the framework. There were great husky peasant-women

doing the hardest kind of manual labor. In these latter days of the

great world-war, women are doing everything, surely, with the one

exception of fighting. It is not a pleasant thing to see them, however

strong they may be, doing the rough, coarse work of men, bearing great

burdens on their backs as though they were oxen. There must be many

now whose muscles are as hard and whose hands as horny as those of a

stevedore. Several months after this time, when we were transferred to

another school of aviation, one of the largest in Europe, we saw women

employed on a much larger scale. They lived in barracks which were no

better than our own,--not so good, in fact,--and roughed it like

common soldiers.

Toward evening the wind freshened and flying was brought to a halt.

Then the Penguins were brought from their hangars, and Drew and I,

properly dressed this time, and accompanied by some of the Americans,

went out to the field for our first sortie. As is usual on such

occasions, there was no dearth of advice. Every graduate of the

Penguin class had a method of his own for keeping that unmanageable

bird traveling in a direct line, and every one was only too willing to

give us the benefit of his experience. Finally, out of the welter of

suggestions, one or two points became clear: it was important that

one should give the machine full gas, and get the tail off the ground.

Then, by skillful handling of the rudder, it might be kept traveling

in the same general direction. But if, as usually happened, it showed

willful tendencies, and started to turn within its own length, it was

necessary to cut the contact, to prevent it from whirling so rapidly

as to overturn.

Never have I seen a stranger sight than that of a swarm of Penguins at

work. They looked like a brood of prehistoric birds of enormous size,

with wings too short for flight. Most unwieldy birds they were, driven

by, or more accurately, driving beginners in the art of flying; but

they ran along the ground at an amazing speed, zigzagged this way and

that, and whirled about as if trying to catch their own tails. As we

stood watching them, an accident occurred which would have been

laughable had we not been too nervous to enjoy it. In a distant part

of the field two machines were rushing wildly about. There were acres

of room in which they might pass, but after a moment of uncertainty,

they rushed headlong for each other as though driven by the hand of

fate, and met head-on, with a great rending of propellers. The

onlookers along the side of the field howled and pounded each other in

an ecstasy of delight, but Drew and I walked apart for a hasty

consultation, for it was our turn next. We kept rehearsing the points

which we were to remember in driving a Penguin: full gas and tail up

at once. Through the interpreter, our _moniteur_ explained very

carefully what we were to do, and mounted the step, to show us, in

turn, the proper handling of the gas _manet_ and of the

_coupe-contact_ button. Then he stepped down and shouted, "Allez! en

route!" with a smile meant to be reassuring.

I buckled myself in, fastened my helmet, and nodded to my mechanic.

"Coupe, plein gaz," he said.

"Coupe, plein gaz," I repeated.

He gave the propeller a few spins to suck in the mixture.

"Contact, reduisez."

Again he spun the propeller, and the motor took. I pulled back my

_manet_, full gas, and off I went at what seemed to me then breakneck

speed. Remembering instructions, I pushed forward on the lever which

governs the elevating planes, and up went my tail so quickly and at

such an angle that almost instinctively I cut off my contact. Down

dropped my tail again, and I whirled round in a circle--my first

_cheval de bois_, as this absurd-looking manoeuvre is called. I had

forgotten that I had a rudder. I was like a man learning to swim, and

could not yet coördinate the movements of my hands and feet. My bird

was purring gently, with the propeller turning slowly. It seemed

thoroughly domesticated, but I knew that I had but to pull back on

that _manet_ to transform it into a rampant bird of prey. Before

starting again I looked about me, and there was Drew racing all over

the field. Suddenly he started in my direction as if the whole force

of his will was turned to the business of running me down. Luckily he

shut off his motor, and by the grace of the law of inertia came to a

halt when he was within a dozen paces of me.

We turned our machines tail to tail and started off in opposite

directions, but in a moment I was following hard after him. Almost it

seemed that those evil birds had wills of their own. Drew's turned as

though it were angry at the indignity of being pursued. We missed each

other, but it was a near thing, and, not being able to think fast

enough, I stalled my motor, and had to await helplessly the assistance

of a mechanic. Far away, at our starting-point, I could see the

Americans waving their arms and embracing each other in huge delight,

and then I realized why they had all been so eager to come with us to

the field. They had been through all this. Now they were having their

innings. I could hear them shouting, although their voices sounded

very thin and faint. "Why don't you come back?" they yelled. "This

way! Here we are! Here's your class!" They were having the time of

their vindictive lives, and knew very well that we would go back if we

could.

Finally we began to get the hang of it, and we did go back, although

by circuitous routes. But we got there, and the _moniteur_ explained

again what we were to do. We were to anticipate the turn of the

machine with the rudder, just as in sailing a boat. Then we

understood the difficulty. In my next sortie, I fixed my eye upon the

flag at the opposite side of the field, and reached it without a

single _cheval de bois_. I could have kissed the Annamite who was

stationed there to turn the machines which rarely came. I had mastered

the Penguin! I had forced my will upon it, compelled it to do my

bidding! Back across the field I went, keeping a direct course, and

thinking how they were all watching, the _moniteur_, doubtless, making

approving comments. I reduced the gas at the proper time, and taxied

triumphantly up to the starting-point.

But no one had seen my splendid sortie. Now that I had arrived, no one

paid the least attention to me. All eyes were turned upward, and

following them with my own, I saw an airplane outlined against a

heaped-up pile of snow-white cloud. It was moving at tremendous speed,

when suddenly it darted straight upward, wavered for a second or two,

turned slowly on one wing and fell, nose-down, turning round and round

as it fell, like a scrap of paper. It was the _vrille_, the prettiest

piece of aerial acrobatics that one could wish to see. It was a

wonderful, an incredible sight. Only seven years ago Blériot crossed

the English Channel, and a year earlier the world was astonished at

the exploits of the Wright brothers, who were making flights,

straight-line flights, of from fifteen to twenty minutes' duration!

Some one was counting the turns of the _vrille_. Six, seven, eight;

then the airman came out of it on an even keel, and, nosing down to

gather speed, looped twice in quick succession. Afterward he did the

_retournement_, turning completely over in the air and going back in

the opposite direction; then spiraled down and passed over our heads

at about fifty metres, landing at the opposite side of the field so

beautifully that it was impossible to know when the machine touched

the ground. The airman taxied back to the hangars and stopped just in

front of us, while we gathered round to hear the latest news from the

front.

For he had left the front, this birdman, only an hour before! I was

incredulous at first, for I still thought of distances in the old way.

But I was soon convinced. Mounted on the hood was the competent-looking

Vickers machine gun, with a long belt of cartridges in place, and on

the side of the _fuselage_ were painted the insignia of an escadrille.

The pilot was recognized as soon as he removed his helmet and goggles.

He had been a _moniteur_ at the school in former days, and was well

known to some of the older Americans. He greeted us all very

cordially, in excellent English, and told us how, on the strength of a

hard morning's work over the lines, he had asked his captain for an

afternoon off that he might visit his old friends at B----.

As soon as he had climbed down, those of us who had never before seen

this latest type of French _avion de chasse_, crowded round, examining

and admiring with feelings of awe and reverence. It was a marvelous

piece of aero-craftsmanship, the result of more than two years of

accumulating experience in military aviation. It was hard to think of

it as an inanimate thing, once having seen it in the air. It seemed

living, intelligent, almost human. I could readily understand how it

is that airmen become attached to their machines and speak of their

fine points, their little peculiarities of individuality, with a kind

of loving interest, as one might speak of a fine-spirited horse.

While the mechanicians were grooming this one, and replenishing the

fuel-tanks, Drew and I examined it line by line, talking in low tones

which seemed fitting in so splendid a presence. We climbed the step

and looked down into the compact little car, where the pilot sat in a

luxuriously upholstered seat. There were his compass, his _altimétre_,

his revolution-counter, his map in its roller case, with a course

pricked out on it in a red line. Attached to the machine gun, there

was an ingenious contrivance by means of which he fired it while still

keeping a steady hand on his controls. The gun itself was fired

directly through the propeller by means of a device which timed the

shots. The necessity for accuracy in this timing device is clear, when

one remembers that the propeller turns over at a normal rate of

between fifteen hundred and nineteen hundred revolutions per minute.