did all of the questioning, and thanks to his interest, I got many
hints about our work which came back opportunely, afterward.
"Think down to the gunners. That will help a lot. It's a game after
that: your skill against theirs. I couldn't do it at first, and shell
fire seemed absolutely damnable."
"And you want to remember that a chasse machine is almost never
brought down by anti-aircraft fire. You are too fast for them. You can
fool 'em in a thousand ways."
"I had been flying for two weeks before I saw a Boche. They are not
scarce on this sector, don't worry. I simply couldn't see them. The
others would have scraps. I spent most of my time trying to keep track
of them."
"Take my tip, J. B., don't be too anxious to mix it with the first
German you see, because very likely he will be a Frenchman, and if he
isn't, if he is a good Hun pilot, you'll simply be meat for him--at
first, I mean."
"They say that all the Boche aviators on this front have had several
months' experience in Russia or the Balkans. They train them there
before they send them to the Western Front."
"Your best chance of being brought down will come in the first two
weeks."
"That's comforting."
"No, sans blague. Honestly, you'll be almost helpless. You don't see
anything, and you don't know what it is that you do see. Here's an
example. On one of my first sorties I happened to look over my
shoulder and I saw five or six Germans in the most beautiful
alignment. And they were all slanting up to dive on me. I was scared
out of my life: went down full motor, then cut and fell into a vrille.
Came out of that and had another look. There they were in the same
position, only farther away. I didn't tumble even then, except farther
down. Next time I looked, the five Boches, or six, whichever it was,
had all been raveled out by the wind. Éclats d'obus."
"You may have heard about Franklin's Boche. He got it during his first
combat. He didn't know that there was a German in the sky, until he
saw the tracer bullets. Then the machine passed him about thirty
metres away. And he kept going down: may have had motor trouble.
Franklin said that he had never had such a shock in his life. He dived
after him, spraying all space with his Vickers, and he got him!"
"That all depends on the man. In chasse, unless you are sent out on a
definite mission, protecting photographic machines or avions de
bombardement, you are absolutely on your own. Your job is to patrol
the lines. If a man is built that way, he can loaf on the job. He need
never have a fight. At two hundred kilometres an hour, it won't take
him very long to get out of danger. He stays out his two hours and
comes in with some framed-up tale to account for his disappearance:
'Got lost. Went off by himself into Germany. Had motor trouble; gun
jammed, and went back to arm it.' He may even spray a few bullets
toward Germany and call it a combat. Oh, he can find plenty of
excuses, and he can get away with them."
"That's spreading it, Dunham. What about Huston? is he getting away
with it?"
"Now, don't let's get personal. Very likely Huston can't help it.
Anyway, it is a matter of temperament mostly."
"Temperament, hell! There's Van, for example. I happen to know that he
has to take himself by his bootlaces every time he crosses into
Germany. But he sticks it. He has never played a yellow trick. I hand
it to him for pluck above every other man in the squadron."
"What about Talbott and Barry?"
"Lord! They haven't any nerves. It's no job for them to do their work
well."
This conversation continued during the rest of the journey. The life
of a military pilot offers exceptional opportunities for research in
the matter of personal bravery. Dunham and Miller agreed that it is a
varying quality. Sometimes one is really without fear; at others only
a sense of shame prevents one from making a very sad display.
"Huston is no worse than some of the rest of us, only he hasn't a
sense of shame."
"Well, he has the courage to be a coward, and that is more than you
have, son, or I either."
Our fellow pilots of the Lafayette Corps were lounging outside the
barracks on our arrival. They gave us a welcome which did much to
remove our feelings of strangeness; but we knew that they were only
mildly interested in the news from the schools and were glad when they
let us drop into the background of conversation. By a happy chance
mention was made of a recent newspaper article of some of the exploits
of the _Escadrille_, written evidently by a very imaginative
journalist; and from this the talk passed to the reputation of the
Squadron in America, and the almost fabulous deeds credited to it by
some newspaper correspondents. One pilot said that he had kept record
of the number of German machines actually reported as having been
brought down by members of the Corps. I don't remember the number he
gave, but it was an astonishing total. The daily average was so high,
that, granting it to be correct, America might safely have abandoned
her far-reaching aerial programme. Long before her first pursuit
squadron could be ready for service, the last of the imperial German
air-fleet would, to quote from the article, have "crashed in
smouldering ruin on the war-devastated plains of northern France."
In this connection I can't forbear quoting from another, one of the
brightest pages in the journalistic history of the legendary
Escadrille Lafayette. It is an account of a sortie said to have taken
place on the receipt of news of America's declaration of war.
"Uncle Sam is with us, boys! Come on! Let's get those
fellows!" These were the stirring words of Captain Georges
Thénault, the valiant leader of the Escadrille Lafayette,
upon the morning when news was received that the United
States of America had declared war upon the rulers of
Potsdam. For the first time in history, the Stars and
Stripes of Old Glory were flung to the breeze over the camp,
in France, of American fighting men. Inspired by the sight,
and spurred to instant action by the ringing call of their
French captain, this band of aviators from the U.S.A. sprang
into their trim little biplanes. There was a deafening roar
of motors, and soon the last airman had disappeared in the
smoky haze which hung over the distant battle-lines.
We cannot follow them on that journey. We cannot see them as
they mount higher and higher into the morning sky, on their
way to meet their prey. But we may await their return. We
may watch them as they descend to their flying-field,
dropping down to earth, one by one. We may learn, then, of
their adventures on that flight of death: how, far back of
the German lines, they encountered a formidable
battle-squadron of the enemy, vastly superior to their own
in numbers. Heedless of the risk they swooped down upon
their foe. Lieutenant A---- was attacked by four enemy
planes at the same time. One he sent hurtling to the ground
fifteen thousand feet below. He caused a second to retire
disabled. Sergeant B---- accounted for another in a running
fight which lasted for more than a quarter of an hour.
Adjutant C----, although his biplane was riddled with
bullets, succeeded, by a clever ruse, in decoying two
pursuers, bent on his destruction, to the vicinity of a
cloud where several of his comrades were lying in wait for
further victims. A moment later both Germans were seen to
fall earthward, spinning like leaves in that last terrible
dive of death. "These boys are Yankee aviators. They form
the vanguard of America's aerial forces. We need thousands
of others just like them," etc.
Stories of this kind have, without doubt, a certain imaginative
appeal. J. B. and I had often read them, never wholly credulous, of
course, but with feelings of uneasiness. Discounting them by more than
half, we still had serious doubts of our ability to measure up to the
standard set by our fellow Americans who had preceded us on active
service. We were in part reassured during our first afternoon at the
front. If these men were the demons on wings of the newspapers, they
took great pains to give us a different impression.
* * * * *
Many of the questions which had long been accumulating in our minds
got themselves answered during the next few days, while we were
waiting for machines. We knew, in a general way, what the nature of
our work would be. We knew that the Escadrille Lafayette was one of
four pursuit squadrons occupying hangars on the same field, and that,
together, these formed what is called a _groupe de combat_, with a
definite sector of front to cover. We had been told that combat pilots
are "the police of the air," whose duty it is to patrol the lines,
harass the enemy, attacking whenever possible, thus giving protection
to their own _corps-d'armée_ aircraft--which are only incidentally
fighting machines--in their work of reconnaissance, photography,
artillery direction, and the like. But we did not know how this
general theory of combat is given practical application. When I think
of the depths of our ignorance, to be filled in, day by day, with a
little additional experience; of our self-confidence, despite
warnings; of our willingness to leave so much for our "godfather"
Chance to decide, it is with feelings nearly akin to awe. We awaited
our first patrol almost ready to believe that it would be our first
victorious combat. We had no realization of the conditions under which
aerial battles are fought. Given good-will, average ability, and the
opportunity, we believed that the results must be decisive, one way or
the other.
Much of our enforced leisure was spent at the bureau of the group,
where the pilots gathered after each sortie to make out their reports.
There we heard accounts of exciting combats, of victories and narrow
escapes, which sounded like impossible fictions. A few of them may
have been, but not many. They were told simply, briefly, as a part of
the day's work, by men who no longer thought of their adventures as
being either very remarkable or very interesting. What, I thought,
will seem interesting or remarkable to them after the war, after such
a life as this? Once an American gave me a hint: "I'm going to apply
for a job as attendant in a natural-history museum."
Only a few minutes before, these men had been taking part in aerial
battles, attacking infantry in trenches, or enemy transport on roads
fifteen or twenty kilometres away. And while they were talking of
these things the drone of motors overhead announced the departure of
other patrols to battle-lines which were only five minutes distant by
the route of the air. For when weather permitted there was an
interlapping series of patrols flying over the sector from daylight
till dark. The number of these, and the number of _avions_ in each
patrol, varied as circumstances demanded.
On one wall of the bureau hung a large-scale map of the sector, which
we examined square by square with that delight which only the study of
maps can give. Trench-systems, both French and German, were outlined
upon it in minute detail. It contained other features of a very
interesting nature. On another wall there was a yet larger map, made
of aeroplane photographs taken at a uniform altitude and so pieced
together that the whole was a complete picture of our sector of
front. We spent hours over this one. Every trench, every shell hole,
every splintered tree or fragment of farmhouse wall stood out clearly.
We could identify machine-gun posts and battery positions. We could
see at a glance the result of months of fighting; how terribly men had
suffered under a rain of high explosives at this point, how lightly
they had escaped at another; and so we could follow, with a certain
degree of accuracy, what must have been the infantry actions at
various parts of the line.
The history of these trench campaigns will have a forbidding interest
to the student of the future; for, as he reads of the battles on the
Aisne, the Somme, of Verdun and Flanders, he will have spread out
before him photographs of the battlefields themselves, just as they
were at different phases of the struggle. With a series of these
pictorial records, men will be able to find the trenches from which
their fathers or grandfathers scrambled with their regiments to the
attack, the wire entanglements which held up the advance at one point,
the shell holes where they lay under machine-gun fire. And often they
will see the men themselves as they advanced through the barrage fire,
the sun glinting on their helmets. It will be a fascinating study, in
a ghastly way; and while such records exist, the outward meanings, at
least, of modern warfare will not be forgotten.
* * * * *
Tiffin, the messroom steward, was standing by my cot with a lighted
candle in his hand. The furrows in his kindly old face were outlined
in shadow. His bald head gleamed like the bottom of a yellow bowl. He
said, "Beau temps, monsieur," put the candle on my table, and went
out, closing the door softly. I looked at the window square, which was
covered with oiled cloth for want of glass. It was a black patch
showing not a glimmer of light.
The other pilots were gathering in the messroom, where a fire was
going. Some one started the phonograph. Fritz Kreisler was playing the
"Chansons sans Paroles." This was followed by a song, "Oh, movin' man,
don't take ma baby grand." It was a strange combination, and to hear
them, at that hour of the morning, before going out for a first sortie
over the lines, gave me a "mixed-up" feeling, which it was impossible
to analyze.
Two patrols were to leave the field at the same time, one to cover the
sector at an altitude of from two thousand to three thousand metres,
the other, thirty-five hundred to five thousand metres. J. B. and I
were on high patrol. Owing to our inexperience, it was to be a purely
defensive one between our observation balloons and the lines. We had
still many questions to ask, but having been so persistently
inquisitive for three days running, we thought it best to wait for
Talbott, who was leading our patrol, to volunteer his instructions.
He went to the door to look at the weather. There were clouds at about
three thousand metres, but the stars were shining through gaps in
them. On the horizon, in the direction of the lines, there was a broad
belt of blue sky. The wind was blowing into Germany. He came back
yawning. "We'll go up--ho, hum!"--tremendous yawn--"through a hole
before we reach the river. It's going to be clear presently, so the
higher we go the better."
The others yawned sympathetically.
"I don't feel very pugnastic this morning."
"It's a crime to send men out at this time of day--night, rather."
More yawns of assent, of protest. J. B. and I were the only ones fully
awake. We had finished our chocolate and were watching the clock
uneasily, afraid that we should be late getting started. Ten minutes
before patrol time we went out to the field. The canvas hangars
billowed and flapped, and the wooden supports creaked with the quiet
sound made by ships at sea. And there was almost the peace of the sea
there, intensified, if anything, by the distant rumble of heavy
cannonading.
Our Spad biplanes were drawn up in two long rows, outside the hangars.
They were in exact alignment, wing to wing. Some of them were clean
and new, others discolored with smoke and oil; among these latter were
the ones which J. B. and I were to fly. Being new pilots we were given
used machines to begin with, and ours had already seen much service.
_Fuselage_ and wings had many patches over the scars of old battles,
but new motors had been installed, the bodies overhauled, and they
were ready for further adventures.
It mattered little to us that they were old. They were to carry us out
to our first air battles; they were the first _avions_ which we could
call our own, and we loved them in an almost personal way. Each
machine had an Indian head, the symbol of the Lafayette Corps, painted
on the sides of the _fuselage_. In addition, it bore the personal mark
of its pilot,--a triangle, a diamond, a straight band, or an
initial,--painted large so that it could be easily seen and recognized
in the air.
The mechanicians were getting the motors _en route_, arming the
machine guns, and giving a final polish to the glass of the
wind-shields. In a moment every machine was turning over _ralenti_,
with the purring sound of powerful engines which gives a voice to
one's feeling of excitement just before patrol time. There was no more
yawning, no languid movement.
Rodman was buttoning himself into a combination suit which appeared to
add another six inches to his six feet two. Barry, who was leading the
low patrol, wore a woolen helmet which left only his eyes uncovered.
I had not before noticed how they blazed and snapped. All his energy
seemed to be concentrated in them. Porter wore a leather face-mask,
with a lozenge-shaped breathing-hole, and slanted openings covered
with yellow glass for eyes. He was the most fiendish-looking demon of
them all. I was glad to turn from him to the Duke, who wore a
_passe-montagne_ of white silk which fitted him like a bonnet. As he
sat in his machine, adjusting his goggles, he might have passed for a
dear old lady preparing to read a chapter from the Book of Daniel. The
fur of Dunham's helmet had frayed out, so that it fitted around the
sides of his face and under the chin like a beard, the kind worn by
old-fashioned sailors.
The strain of waiting patiently for the start was trying. The sudden
transformation of a group of typical-looking Americans into monsters
and devotional old ladies gave a moment of diversion which helped to
relieve it.
I heard Talbott shouting his parting instructions and remembered that
I did not know the rendezvous. I was already strapped in my machine
and was about to loosen the fastenings, when he came over and climbed
on the step of the car.
"Rendezvous two thousand over field!" he yelled.
I nodded.
"Know me--Big T--wings--fuselage. I'll--turning right. You and others
left. When--see me start--lines, fall in behind--left. Remember stick
close--patrol. If--get lost, better--home. Compass southwest. Look
carefully--landmarks going out. Got--straight?"
I nodded again to show that I understood. Machines of both patrols
were rolling across the field, a mechanician running along beside each
one. I joined the long line, and taxied over to the starting-point,
where the captain was superintending the send-off, and turned into the
wind in my turn. As though conscious of his critical eye, my old
veteran Spad lifted its tail and gathered flying speed with all the
vigor of its youth, and we were soon high above the hangars, climbing
to the rendezvous.
When we had all assembled, Talbott headed northeast, the rest of us
falling into our places behind him. Then I found that, despite the
new motor, my machine was not a rapid climber. Talbott noticed this
and kept me well in the group, he and the others losing height in
_renversements_ and _retournements_, diving under me and climbing up
again. It was fascinating to watch them doing stunts, to observe the
constant changing of positions. Sometimes we seemed, all of us, to be
hanging motionless, then rising and falling like small boats riding a
heavy swell. Another glance would show one of them suspended bottom
up, falling sidewise, tipped vertically on a wing, standing on its
tail, as though being blown about by the wind, out of all control. It
is only in the air, when moving with them, that one can really
appreciate the variety and grace of movement of a flock of
high-powered _avions de chasse_.
I was close to Talbott as we reached the cloud-bank. I saw him in dim
silhouette as the mist, sunlight-filtered, closed around us. Emerging
into the clear, fine air above it, we might have been looking at early
morning from the casement
"opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faëry lands forlorn."
The sun was just rising, and the floor of cloud glowed with delicate
shades of rose and amethyst and gold. I saw the others rising through
it at widely scattered points. It was a glorious sight.
Then, forming up and turning northward again, just as we passed over
the receding edge of the cloud-bank, I saw the lines. It was still
dusk on the ground and my first view was that of thousands of winking
lights, the flashes of guns and of bursting shells. At that time the
Germans were making trials of the French positions along the Chemin
des Dames, and the artillery fire was unusually heavy.
The lights soon faded and the long, winding battle-front emerged from
the shadow, a broad strip of desert land through a fair, green
country. We turned westward along the sector, several kilometres
within the French lines, for J. B. and I were to have a general view
of it all before we crossed to the other side. The fort of Malmaison
was a minute square, not as large as a postage-stamp. With thumb and
forefinger I could have spanned the distance between Soissons and
Laon. Clouds of smoke were rising from Allemant to Craonne, and these
were constantly added to by infinitesimal puffs in black and white. I
knew that shells of enormous calibre were wrecking trenches, blasting
out huge craters; and yet not a sound, not the faintest reverberation
of a gun. Here was a sight almost to make one laugh at man's idea of
the importance of his pygmy wars.
But the Olympian mood is a fleeting one. I think of Paradis rising on
one elbow out of the slime where he and his comrades were lying,
waving his hand toward the wide, unspeakable landscape.
"What are we, we chaps? And what's all this here? Nothing at all. All
we can see is only a speck. When one speaks of the whole war, it's as
if you said nothing at all--the words are strangled. We're here, and
we look at it like blind men."
To look down from a height of more than two miles, on an endless
panorama of suffering and horror, is to have the sense of one's
littleness even more painfully quickened. The best that the airman can
do is to repeat, "We're here, and we look at it like blind men."
We passed on to the point where the line bends northward, then turned
back. I tried to concentrate my attention on the work of identifying
landmarks. It was useless. One might as well attempt to study Latin
grammar at his first visit to the Grand Cañon. My thoughts went
wool-gathering. Looking up suddenly, I found that I was alone.
To the new pilot the sudden appearance or disappearance of other
_avions_ is a weird thing. He turns his head for a moment. When he
looks again, his patrol has vanished. Combats are matters of a few
seconds' duration, rarely of more than two or three minutes. The
opportunity for attack comes almost with the swiftness of thought and
has passed as quickly. Looking behind me, I was in time to see one
machine tip and dive. Then it, too, vanished as though it had melted
into the air. Shutting my motor, I started down, swiftly, I thought;
but I had not yet learned to fall vertically, and the others--I can
say almost with truth--were miles below me. I passed long streamers of
white smoke, crossing and recrossing in the air. I knew the meaning of
these, machine-gun tracer bullets. The delicately penciled lines
had not yet frayed out in the wind. I went on down in a steep spiral,
guiding myself by them, and seeing nothing. At the point where they
ended, I redressed and put on my motor. My altimeter registered two
thousand metres. By a curious chance, while searching the empty sky, I
saw a live shell passing through the air. It was just at the second
when it reached the top of its trajectory and started to fall. "Lord!"
I thought, "I have seen a shell, and yet I can't find my patrol!"