twenty-five hundred metres in height. The trenches were now plainly
visible, and the brown strip of sterile country where they lay was
vastly broader. Several times I felt the concussion of shell
explosions, my machine being lifted and then dropped gently with an
uneasy motion. Constantly searching the air, I gave no thought to my
position with reference to the lines, nor to the possibility of
anti-aircraft fire. Talbott had said: "Never fly in a straight line
for more than fifteen seconds. Keep changing your direction
constantly, but be careful not to fly in a regularly irregular
fashion. The German gunners may let you alone at first, hoping that
you will become careless, or they may be plotting out your style of
flight. Then they make their calculations and they let you have it. If
you have been careless, they'll put 'em so close, there'll be no
question about the kind of a scare you will have."
There wasn't in my case. I was looking for my patrol to the exclusion
of thought of anything else. The first shell burst so close that I
lost control of my machine for a moment. Three others followed, two in
front, and one behind, which I believed had wrecked my tail. They
burst with a terrific rending sound in clouds of coal-black smoke. A
few days before I had been watching without emotion the bombardment of
a German plane. I had seen it twisting and turning through the
_éclatements_, and had heard the shells popping faintly, with a sound
like the bursting of seed-pods in the sun.
My feeling was not that of fear, exactly. It was more like despair.
Every airman must have known it at one time or another, a sudden
overwhelming realization of the pitilessness of the forces which men
let loose in war. In that moment one doesn't remember that men have
loosed them. He is alone, and he sees the face of an utterly evil
thing. Miller's advice was, "Think down to the gunners"; but this is
impossible at first. Once a French captain told me that he talked to
the shells. "I say, 'Bonjour, mon vieux! Tiens! Comment ça va, toi!
Ah, non! je suis pressé!' or something like that. It amuses one."
This need of some means of humanizing shell fire is common. Aviators
know little of modern warfare as it touches the infantryman; but in
one respect, at least, they are less fortunate. They miss the human
companionship which helps a little to mask its ugliness.
However, it is seldom that one is quite alone, without the sight of
friendly planes near at hand, and there is a language of signs which,
in a way, fills this need. One may "waggle his flippers," or "flap his
wings," to use the common expressions, and thus communicate with his
comrades. Unfortunately for my ease of mind, there were no comrades
present with whom I could have conversed in this way. Miller was
within five hundred metres and saw me all the time, although I didn't
know this until later.
Talbott's instructions were, "If you get lost, go home"--somewhat
ambiguous. I knew that my course to the aerodrome was southwest. At any
rate, by flying in that direction I was certain to land in France. But
with German gunners so keen on the baptism-of-fire business, I had been
turning in every direction, and the floating disk of my compass was
revolving first to the right, then to the left. In order to let it
settle, I should have to fly straight for some fixed point for at
least half a minute. Under the circumstances I was not willing to do
this. A compass which would point north immediately and always would
be a heaven-sent blessing to the inexperienced pilot during his first
few weeks at the front. Mine was saying North--northwest--west--
southwest--south--southeast--east--and after a moment of hesitation
reading off the points in the reverse order. The wind was blowing
into Germany, and unconsciously, in trying to find a way out of the
_éclatements_, I was getting farther and farther away from home and
coming within range of additional batteries of hostile anti-aircraft
guns.
I might have landed at Karlsruhe or Cologne, had it not been for
Miller. My love for concentric circles of red, white, and blue dates
from the moment when I saw the French _cocarde_ on his Spad.
"And if I had been a Hun!" he said, when we landed at the aerodrome.
"Oh, man! you were fruit salad! Fruit salad, I tell you! I could have
speared you with my eyes shut."
I resented the implication of defenselessness. I said that I was
keeping my eyes open, and if he had been a Hun, the fruit salad might
not have been so palatable as it looked.
"Tell me this: Did you see me?"
I thought for a moment, and then said, "Yes."
"When?"
"When you passed over my head."
"And twenty seconds before that you would have been a sieve, if either
of us had been a Boche."
I yielded the point to save further argument.
He had come swooping down fairly suddenly. When I saw him making his
way so saucily among the _éclatements_ I felt my confidence returning
in increasing waves. I began to use my head, and found that it was
possible to make the German gunners guess badly. There was no menace
in the sound of shells barking at a distance, and we were soon clear
of all of them.
J. B. took me aside the moment I landed. He had one of his fur boots
in his hand and was wearing the other. He had also lighted the cork
end of his cigarette. To one acquainted with his magisterial
orderliness of mind and habit, these signs were eloquent.
"Now, keep this quiet!" he said. "I don't want the others to know it,
but I've just had the adventure of my life. I attacked a German. Great
Scott! what an opportunity! and I bungled it through being too eager!"
"When was this?"
"Just after the others dove. You remember--"
I told him, briefly, of my experience, adding, "And I didn't know
there was a German in sight until I saw the smoke of the tracer
bullets."
"Neither did I, only I didn't see even the smoke."
This cheered me immensely. "What! you didn't--"
"No. I saw nothing but sky where the others had disappeared. I was
looking for them when I saw the German. He was about four hundred
metres below me. He couldn't have seen me, I think, because he kept
straight on. I dove, but didn't open fire until I could have a nearer
view of his black crosses. I wanted to be sure. I had no idea that I
was going so much faster. The first thing I knew I was right on him.
Had to pull back on my stick to keep from crashing into him. Up I went
and fell into a nose-dive. When I came out of it there was no sign of
the German, and I hadn't fired a shot!"
"Did you come home alone?"
"No; I had the luck to meet the others just afterward. Now, not a word
of this to any one!"
But there was no need for secrecy. The near combat had been seen by
both Talbott and Porter. At luncheon we both came in for our share of
ragging.
"You should have seen them following us down!" said Porter; "like two
old rheumatics going into the subway. We saw them both when we were
taking height again. The scrap was all over hours before, and they
were still a thousand metres away."
"You want to dive vertically. Needn't worry about your old 'bus.
She'll stand it."
"Well, the Lord has certainly protected the innocent to-day!"
"One of them was wandering off into Germany. Bill had to waggle Miller
to page him."
"And there was Drew, going down on that biplane we were chasing. I've
been trying to think of one wrong thing he might have done which he
didn't do. First he dove with the sun in his face, when he might have
had it at his back. Then he came all the way in full view, instead of
getting under his tail. Good thing the mitrailleur was firing at us.
After that, when he had the chance of a lifetime, he fell into a
vrille and scared the life out of the rest of us. I thought the
gunner had turned on him. And while we were following him down to see
where he was going to splash, the Boche got away."
* * * * *
All this happened months ago, but every trifling incident connected
with our first patrol is still fresh in mind. And twenty years from
now, if I chance to hear the "Chansons sans Paroles," or if I hum to
myself a few bars of a ballad, then sure to be long forgotten by the
world at large, "Oh, movin' man, don't take ma baby grand!" I shall
have only to close my eyes, and wait passively. First Tiffin will come
with the lighted candle: "Beau temps, monsieur." I shall hear Talbott
shouting, "Rendezvous two thousand over field. If--get lost--better--home."
J. B. will rush up smoking the cork end of a cigarette. "I've just had
the adventure of my life!" And Miller, sitting on an essence-case,
will have lost none of his old conviction. "Oh, man! you were fruit
salad! Fruit salad, I tell you! I could have speared you with my eyes
shut!"
And in those days, happily still far off, there will be many another
old gray-beard with such memories; unless they are all to wear out
their days uselessly regretting that they are no longer young, there
must be clubs where they may exchange reminiscences. These need not be
pretentious affairs. Let there be a strong odor of burnt castor oil
and gasoline as you enter the door; a wide view from the verandas of
earth and sky; maps on the walls; and on the roof a canvas
"pantaloon-leg" to catch the wind. Nothing else matters very much.
There they will be as happy as any old airman can expect to be,
arguing about the winds and disputing one another's judgment about the
height of the clouds.
If you say to one of them, "Tell us something about the Great War," as
likely as not he will tell you a pleasant story enough. And the pity
of it will be that, hearing the tale, a young man will long for
another war. Then you must say to him, "But what about the shell fire?
Tell us something of machines falling in flames." Then, if he is an
honest old airman whose memory is still unimpaired, the young one who
has been listening will have sober second thoughts.
VI
A BALLOON ATTACK
"I'm looking for two balloonatics," said Talbott, as he came into the
messroom; "and I think I've found them."
Percy, Talbott's orderly, Tiffin the steward, Drew, and I were the
only occupants of the room. Percy is an old _légionnaire_, crippled
with rheumatism. His active service days are over. Tiffin's working
hours are filled with numberless duties. He makes the beds, and serves
food from three to five times daily to members of the Escadrille
Lafayette. These two being eliminated, the identity of the
balloonatics was plain.
"The orders have just come," Talbott added, "and I decided that the
first men I met after leaving the bureau would be balloonatics. Virtue
has gone into both of you. Now, if you can make fire come out of a
Boche sausage, you will have done all that is required. Listen. This
is interesting. The orders are in French, but I will translate as I
read:--
On the umteenth day of June, the escadrilles of Groupe de
Combat Blank [that's ours] will cooperate in an attack on
the German observation balloons along the sector extending
from X to Y. The patrols to be furnished are: (1) two
patrols of protection, of five _avions_ each, by the
escadrilles Spa. 87 and Spa. 12; (2) four patrols of attack,
of three _avions_ each, by the escadrilles Spa. 124 [that's
us], Spa. 93, Spa. 10, and Spa. 12.
The attack will be organized as follows: on the day set,
weather permitting, the two patrols of protection will leave
the field at 10.30 A.M. The patrol of Spa. 87 will
rendezvous over the village of N----. The patrol of
protection of Spa. 12 will rendezvous over the village of
C----. At 10.45, precisely, they will start for the lines,
crossing at an altitude of thirty-five hundred metres. The
patrol furnished by Spa. 87 will guard the sector from X to
T, between the town of O----and the two enemy balloons on
that sector. The patrol furnished by Spa. 12 will guard the
sector from T to Y, between the railway line and the two
enemy balloons on that sector. Immediately after the attack
has been made, these formations will return to the
aerodrome.
At 10.40 A.M. the four patrols of attack will leave the
field, and will rendezvous as follows. [Here followed the
directions.] At 10.55, precisely, they will start for the
lines, crossing at an approximate altitude of sixteen
hundred metres, each patrol making in a direct line for the
balloon assigned to it. Numbers 1 and 2 of each of these
patrols will carry rockets. Number 3 will fly immediately
above them, offering further protection in case of attack by
enemy aircraft. Number 1 of each patrol will first attack
the balloon. If he fails, number 2 will attack. If number 1
is successful, number 2 will then attack the observers in
their parachutes. If number 1 fails, and number 2 is
successful, number 3 will attack the observers. The patrol
will then proceed to the aerodrome by the shortest route.
Squadron commanders will make a return before noon to-day,
of the names of pilots designated by them for their
respective patrols.
In case of unfavorable weather, squadron commanders will be
informed of the date to which the attack has been postponed.
Pilots designated as numbers 1 and 2 of the patrols of
attack will be relieved from the usual patrol duty from this
date. They will employ their time at rocket shooting. A
target will be in place on the east side of the field from
1.30 P.M. to-day.
"Are there any remarks?" said Talbott, as if he had been reading the
minutes at a debating-club meeting.
"Yes," said J. B. "When is the umteenth of June?"
"Ah, mon vieux! that's the question. The commandant knows, and he
isn't telling. Any other little thing?"
I suggested that we would like to know which of us was to be number 1.
"That's right. Drew, how would you like to be the first rocketeer?"
"I've no objection," said J. B., grinning as if the frenzy of
balloonaticking had already got into his blood.
"Right! that's settled. I'll see your mechanicians about fitting your
machines for rockets. You can begin practice this afternoon."
Percy had been listening with interest to the conversation.
"You got some nice job, you boys. But if you bring him down, there
will be a lot of chuckling in the trenches. You won't hear it, but
they will all be saying, 'Bravo! Épatant!' I've been there. I've seen
it and I know. Does 'em all good to see a sausage brought down.
'There's another one of their eyes knocked out,' they say."
"Percy is right," said J. B. as we were walking down the road.
"Destroying a balloon is not a great achievement in itself. Of
course, it's so much equipment gone, so much expense added to the
German war-budget. That is something. But the effect on the
infantrymen is the important thing. Boche soldiers, thousands of them,
will see one of their balloons coming down in flame. They will be
saying, 'Where are our airmen?' like those old poilus we met at the
station when we first came out. It's bound to influence morale. Now
let's see. The balloon, we will say, is at sixteen hundred metres. At
that height it can be seen by men on the ground within a radius of--"
and so forth and so on.
We figured it out approximately, estimating the numbers of soldiers,
of all branches of service, who would witness the sight. Multiplying
this number by four, our conclusion was that, as a result of the
expedition, the length of the war and its outcome might very possibly
be affected. At any rate, there would be such an ebbing of German
morale, and such a flooding of French, that the way would be opened to
a decisive victory on that front.
But supposing we should miss our sausage? J. B. grew thoughtful.
"Have another look at the orders. I don't remember what the
instructions were in case we both fail."
I read, "If number 1 fails and number 2 is successful, number 3 will
attack the observers. The patrol will then proceed to the aerodrome by
the shortest route."
This was plain enough. Allowance could be made for one failure, but
two--the possibility had not even been considered.
"By the shortest route." There was a piece of sly humor for you. It
may have been unconscious, but we preferred to believe that the
commandant had chuckled as he dictated it. A sort of afterthought, as
much as to say to his pilots, "Well, you young bucks, you would-be
airmen: thought it would be all sport, eh? You might have known. It's
your own fault. Now go out and attack those balloons. It's possible
that you may have a scrap or two on your hands while you are at it.
Oh, yes, by the way, coming home, you'll be down pretty low. Every
Boche machine in the air will have you at a disadvantage. Better
return by the shortest route."
One feature of the programme did not appeal to us greatly, and this
was the attack to be made on the observers when they had jumped with
their parachutes. It seemed as near the border line between legitimate
warfare and cold-blooded murder as anything could well be.
"You are armed with a machine-gun. He may have an automatic pistol. It
will require from five to ten minutes for him to reach the ground
after he has jumped. You can come down on him like a stone. Well, it's
your job, thank the Lord! not mine," said Drew.
It was my job, but I insisted that he would be an accomplice. In
destroying the balloon, he would force me to attack the observers. When
I asked Talbott if this feature of the attack could be eliminated he
said:--
"Certainly. I have instructions from the commandant touching on this
point. In case any pilot objects to attacking the observers with
machine-gun fire, he is to strew their parachutes with autumn leaves
and such field-flowers as the season affords. Now, listen! What
difference, ethically, is there, between attacking one observation
officer in a parachute, and dropping a ton of bombs on a train-load
of soldiers? And to kill the observers is really more important than
to destroy the balloon. If you are going to be a military pilot, for
the love of Pete and Alf be one!"
He was right, of course, but that didn't make the prospect any the
more pleasant.
The large map at the bureau now had greater interest for us than ever.
The German balloons along the sector were marked in pictorially, with
an ink line, representing the cable, running from the basket of each
one down to the exact spot on the map from which they were launched.
Under one of these, "Spa. 124" was printed, neatly, in red ink. It was
the farthest distant from our lines of the four to be attacked, and
about ten kilometres within German-held territory. The cable ran to
the outskirts of a village situated on a railroad and a small stream.
The location of enemy aviation fields was also shown pictorially, each
one represented by a minute sketch, very carefully made, of an
Albatross biplane. We noticed that there were several aerodromes not
far distant from our balloon.
After a survey of the map, the commandant's afterthought, "by the
shortest route," was not so needless as it appeared at first. The
German positions were in a salient, a large corner, the line turning
almost at right angles. We could cross them from the south, attack our
balloon, and then, if we wished, return to French territory on the
west side of the salient.
"We may miss some heavy shelling. If we double on our tracks going
home, they will be expecting us, of course; whereas, if we go out on
the west side, we will pass over batteries which didn't see us come
in. If there should happen to be an east wind, there will be another
reason in favor of the plan. The commandant is a shrewd soldier. It
may have been his way of saying that the longest way round is the
shortest way home."
Our Spads were ready after luncheon. A large square of tin had been
fastened over the fabric of each lower wing, under the rocket
fittings, to prevent danger of fire from sparks. Racks for six
rockets, three on a side, had been fastened to the struts. The rockets
were tipped with sharp steel points to insure their pricking the silk
balloon envelope. The batteries for igniting them were connected with
a button inside the car, within easy reach of the pilot. Lieutenant
Verdane, our French second-in-command, was to supervise our practice
on the field. We were glad of this. If we failed to "spear our
sausage," it would not be through lack of efficient instruction. He
explained to Drew how the thing was to be done. He was to come on the
balloon into the wind, and preferably not more than four hundred
metres above it. He was to let it pass from view under the wing; then,
when he judged that he was directly over it, to reduce his motor and
dive vertically, placing the bag within the line of his two circular
sights, holding it there until the bag just filled the circle. At that
second he would be about 250 metres distant from it, and it was then
that the rockets should be fired.
The instructions were simple enough, but in practicing on the target
we found that they were not so easy to carry out. It was hard to judge
accurately the moment for diving. Sometimes we overshot the target,
but more often we were short of it. Owing to the angle at which the
rockets were mounted on the struts, it was very important that the
dive should be vertical.
One morning, the attack could have been made with every chance of
success. Drew and I left the aerodrome a few minutes before sunrise
for a trial flight, that we might give our motors a thorough testing.
We climbed through a heavy mist which lay along the ground like water,
filling every fold and hollow, flowing up the hillsides, submerging
everything but the crests of the highest hills. The tops of the twin
spires of S---- cathedral were all that could be seen of the town.
Beyond, the long chain of heights where the first-line trenches were
rose just clear of the mist, which glowed blood-red as the sun came
up.
The balloons were already up, hanging above the dense cloud of vapor,
elongated planets drifting in space. The observers were directing the
fire of their batteries to those positions which stood revealed.
Shells were also exploding on lower ground, for we saw the mist billow
upward time after time with the force of mighty concussions, and
slowly settle again. It was an awe-inspiring sight. We might have
been watching the last battle of the last war that could ever be, with
the world still fighting on, bitterly, blindly, gradually sinking from
sight in a sea of blood. I have never seen anything to equal that
spectacle of an artillery battle in the mists.
Conditions were ideal for the attack. We could have gone to the
objective, fired our rockets, and made our return, without once having
been seen from the ground. It was an opportunity made in heaven, an
Allied heaven. "But the infantry would not have seen it," said J. B.;
which was true. Not that we cared to do the thing in a spectacular
fashion. We were thinking of that decisive effect upon morale.
Two hours later we were pitching pennies in one of the hangars, when
Talbott came across the field, followed solemnly by Whiskey and Soda,
the lion mascots of the Escadrille Lafayette.
"What's the date, anybody know?" he asked, very casually.
J. B. is an agile-minded youth.
"It isn't the umteenth by any chance?"
"Right the first time." He looked at his watch. "It is now ten past
ten. You have half an hour. Better get your rockets attached. How are
your motors--all right?"
This was one way of breaking the news, and the best one, I think. If
we had been told the night before, we should have slept badly.
The two patrols of protection left the field exactly on schedule time.
At 10.35, Irving, Drew, and I were strapped in our machines, waiting,
with our motors turning _ralenti_, for Talbott's signal to start.
He was romping with Whiskey. "Atta boy, Whiskey! Eat 'em up! Atta ole
lion!"
As a squadron leader Talbott has many virtues, but the most important
of them all is his casualness. And he is so sincere and natural in it.
He has no conception of the dramatic possibilities of a
situation--something to be profoundly thankful for in the commander of
an _escadrille de chasse_. Situations are dramatic enough, tense
enough, without one's taking thought of the fact. He might have stood
there, watch in hand, counting off the seconds. He might have said,
"Remember, we're all counting on you. Don't let us down. You've got to
get that balloon!" Instead of that, he glanced at his watch as if he
had just remembered us.
"All right; run along, you sausage-spearers. We're having lunch at
twelve. That will give you time to wash up after you get back."
Miller, of course, had to have a parting shot. He had been in hiding
somewhere until the last moment. Then he came rushing up with a
toothbrush and a safety-razor case. He stood waving them as I taxied
around into the wind. His purpose was to remind me of the possibility
of landing with a _panne de moteur_ in Germany, and the need I would
then have of my toilet articles.