_Monday, June 25, 1917._
O great day! O wonderful world! O fortunate boy! Can it be I sail for
France—France, the beautiful—the romantic—the aesthetic, and France the
noble—the magnificent? Yes, it is true. It is all real. The babbling
crowd and gangplank and piled trunks and excited companions—the hissing,
roaring, thundering whistle, the cry of shrill voices, the moving of
mass, the joyous and sad faces, waving handkerchiefs, passing boats and
docks, the Battery, Liberty, the open sea—and New York fades behind with
the pilot boat taking back the last letters of frantically written
farewells. The noise is past now; there is a strange silence as the
gentle swell of a calm ocean comes to us; we become aware of the steady
throb of the engine. People wander about restlessly with hands dangling
at their sides. They know the past; they try to realize the present;
they are ignorant of the future. We are on the great Atlantic, we are
sailing to France!
_Tuesday._
Five-thirty found me wide awake, so I got up, and with great difficulty
succeeded in making the _steward de bains_ understand that I wanted a
bath. They all speak French very fluently—just as fluently as I speak
English. Well, I shall know how to take a French bath by tomorrow, or
know the reason why. There were only a few on deck, so I had a good
walk. Breakfast (_petit déjeuner_) was at six-thirty. Real breakfast
comes at ten-thirty, but one eats so often that it is too tiresome
talking about meals. The real topic of conversation is seasickness. It
is enough to make anybody sick. Everyone looks at everyone else and at
themselves in the mirror to see if they can find or create symptoms. The
ocean is as smooth as glass, and still they talk. If I am to be seasick,
it must come naturally. Darn if I’ll create my own atmosphere. The
boundless blue is the most beautiful and serene outlook imaginable. It
is great. Already I am at perfect rest. After breakfast I went right to
sleep on the deck. At nine there was a Y. M. C. A. French class on the
hatch cover, and we joined them. It is a “blab” school in which
everybody yells in unison with the leader. It is very funny while your
voice lasts, and remarkably instructive. It gives confidence in
pronunciation. There are a lot of people outside of our party whom I
know. Probably more will turn up. I have not met all our own men yet....
Well, there is time to burn. The day was mostly spent in lounging about.
I did not try to make any acquaintances. Dave Reed and I were lucky
enough to get chairs. He is the “salt of the earth.”
_Thursday, June 28._
We had a preliminary life-insurance drill today, which consisted in our
assembling in our proper positions on the deck, and then going to
dinner. Rumor has it that on the last trip this boat had its rudder shot
off and that our captain sank a submarine. Yesterday a freighter passed
and they kept our guns trained on it from the time it came in sight till
it sank away to the rear. The Germans are using such boats now to sink
transports. We are not allowed to open portholes, and the lighting of
matches and cigarettes is forbidden on deck at night. This sounds like
war. From the time when I first read _Treasure Island_ and _Via Crucis_
I have envied those who lived in the ages of pirates and crusaders and
Indians. I felt that they faced real hardships and fought real foes—in
short, lived life to its fullest—while we, raised on milk and honey,
were deprived of the right to face our dragon and bear our metal. But
behold! Here we are facing the greatest foe of civilization in the
greatest war of Christendom—a war not merely of steel and brawn—but a
war on and over and under the seas; on and around and through the
earth—a war in which plants and animals and all that is animate take
part—a war of physical energy, mental versatility, and worldly resource
taking equal part. Here the war god is taking the world at its prime—a
world thrilling with the vitality and enthusiasm of achievement. He is
taking this world which for thousands of years man has labored to
cultivate and promote, and is marring and crushing it and sending it
hurtling back through the ages to another hopeless, obscure beginning,
and we are insects upon its surface. Each one of us gambles with Fate,
putting ingenuity against the laws of chance, to see if he will be
crushed as the good old world rolls down the slope of progressive
civilization into the murky vale of barbarism. And we live in this age.
If we die, it is for the Cause. If we live, it is to see an era of
remodeling which will be unparalleled. Maps and boundaries, governments
and peoples, religion and science—all will be reconstructed. Terms such
as “international law,” “humane justice,” “survival of the fittest,”
“militarism,” “monarchy,” “culture,” and—who knows—perhaps even
“Christianity,” may be laid away on the shelf as no longer practicable.
And, oh, the outcome! Will the lucky ones be those who go or those who
stay? We are told that without doubt we go into transport driving. Me
for aeronautics. It’s no use, I cannot think of anything else. It’s what
I am best fitted for, and it is the way I was meant to live. Stake
all—spend all—lose all, or win all—and that is as it should be.
As per father’s advice, I am reading a history of France. On my own
hook, I am reading a _Reserve Officers’ Handbook_.
This morning we had setting up exercises on the foredeck. This
afternoon, a doctor of some kind or other gave a lengthy discourse on
the elements of philosophy. It was cloudy, but warm all day, and the
sunset was beautiful. We gain half an hour a day on the clock. At this
rate, we will be over in nine days if the weather continues.
Good night.
_Friday, June 29, 1917._
This is really Sunday afternoon, but I want to keep up the bluff of
seeming to write every day. As a matter of fact, I do not think that a
diary should be written every day just because the person has resolved
to do it. Anything so written is bound to be lifeless and uninteresting.
As a catalogue of events, a diary would be monotonous reading. As an
outlet to thoughts, it should be spontaneous. When events of importance
take place, they will be incentive enough to write. This day has really
been lacking in events—let it go at that.
_Saturday, June 30._
There are some sad French birds trying to sing. It sounds like the first
rehearsal of a ragtime opera, the cast being depressed by the
experiences of the night before. I cannot grant them much.
Well, today we had track meet on board. Good exercise, entertainment,
and time killer it was. First came the three-legged race; then the sack
race; then the Japanese sword fight; then the cock fight; then the bar
and jack fight; and finally the tug of war. Dave Reed and I had the
three-legged race cinched when I, like a poor simp, started to go on the
opposite side of a post from him and we fell in the final. I lost the
sack race and won the Jap sword fight. I also won the bar and jack
fight. They made me captain of the M. I. T. tug of war, and that is why
we lost, because I was the hoodoo right through. The thing I did was the
only one they forgot to award a box of candy for—that is my luck—but it
was great exercise, and I slept better than any time yet.
A pretty fair wind is coming up. They have put two men in irons I
understand; one for insulting a lady, the other for being drunk. There
is far too much drinking to please me. I had my porthole open last
night, and a wave slushed in and soaked my bed. This “rocked in the
cradle of the deep” must stop for the present.
_Sunday, July 1._
And the strange part about it is, that it seems like Sunday. The Lord
made the water so rough that we almost got seasick. I do not know
whether it made people more or less religious. I didn’t go in, because
the fresh air seemed better for seasickness than a sermon would be. The
waves were dashing over the prow and tossing buckets of water up on the
deck, so I got on my waterproof outfit. You know, there is a system to
the waves. The longer one watches them, the surer one gets, but it’s
with the waves as with human nature. The laws governing them are so
complex that one cannot discover them in a single short life. There was
a good singing festival in the evening.
Good night.
_Monday, July 2._
We have entered the danger zone. The life boats are swung out; the guns
are uncovered, and the men beside them ready. Passengers are requested
to sleep on deck with their clothes on and life preservers near at hand.
The day is clear and calm and excellent for submarine fishing. This
evening as the sun was setting, two whales spouted on the starboard sky
line—get that “starboard.” Some claimed it was a sea battle between two
submarines; others mentioned water spouts. A few of the _blasés_ who
were nearsighted, said it was imagination. Everybody was a trifle
nervous.
The people down in the steerage have great times. We sit up and watch
them play buzz and elephant, and when the idea of the game is grasped we
imitate them. Buzz is played by three men standing in a row. The middle
man wears a hat. He puts his hands up to his mouth and buzzes like a
hornets’ nest and then slaps the face of one of the other men. The man
who is hit tries to knock off the hat. If the buzzer ducks quickly, the
hat stays on. It is hard to describe, but fun to watch. The result is a
good complexion.
Today, I made a pencil sketch, assorted my letters of recommendation and
catalogued them, and read fifty pages of history. Never have I been
content to do so little. Each day I approach nearer to perfect idleness
by doing half as much as the day before, but at that, I am getting in
better condition all the time.
Last evening at ten-thirty I strolled aft and looked down on the main
deck below. The moon was shining dreamily on the smooth, billowy ocean,
and there was a faint trickle of water at the prow. As our ship cut its
path in the gossamer, phantom couples glided about on the moonlit deck
to the soft, tinkling music of the ukuléle; gentle voices and soft
laughter made you know the phantoms were real, yet it was all so like
dream fairies dancing to a lullaby. It was one of those scenes which you
recognize on the instant as a treasure in the scrapbook of memory, and
you hold your breath to drink your fill at a single draught, that the
impression may be perfect.... After the dance we took some exercises on
the horizontal bar and then turned in on deck. Sleeping in the moonlight
is great if one has the strength of intellect or fatigue of body to keep
the mind off those who dwell in the moon. Each heart recalls a different
name, but all sang _Annie Laurie_.
_Tuesday, July 3, 1917._
Well, today was the day a submarine was sighted about a mile to port at
three in the afternoon. It submerged before any shots were fired, but
the passengers on deck saw it and the captain swung the boat sharply to
right and left. Everybody was pretty much excited. All day the calm
surface of the ocean has been bespecked with drifting boxes, kegs and
spars from ships, which have been sunk in the vicinity lately. Two dead
horses drifted by. We are in the Bay of Biscay, and due to arrive at
land in the mouth of the Garonne River at three tomorrow morning, and at
Bordeaux at six in the afternoon. Today I have written ten letters,
three days’ diary, have made a water-color sketch, and done twenty pages
of history. To think we are to be in France tomorrow! Why, we are so
close that we could row to shore now if the blooming Huns didn’t shoot
us in the life boats.
But I don’t believe they’ll get us.
_Wednesday, July 4, 1917._
We slept out on deck in a fast wind. We had a fight with the steward
because he wouldn’t let us bring our mattresses down on deck. We slept
fitfully during the night, for danger was imminent, and at three o’clock
we were awakened by hushed excitement. A little sail boat pulled
alongside and the pilot boarded us. We had come to the harbor mouth and
lights showed the promontories which marked the mouth of the Garonne
River. Slowly we wended our way through the mine fields as the dawn
broke through the haze; still we were not safe until the net gates of
the harbor were pulled behind us. When the day was really with us,
French soil was a welcome sight on either side. France, wonderful
France! I went down and bathed, dressed in khaki uniform, packed my
baggage, and then came out to enjoy the sights. They more than fulfilled
all my hopes. The harbor was fairly full of all manner of boats, of
which many were old, four-masted, square-rigged schooners. The shores
were beautiful. A little town, Royan, nestled on the shore, its stucco
tile-roof buildings ranging up from the water in picturesque terraces.
Spires and towers protruded above the sky line of trees. Along the beach
were beautifully colored bathing canopies. The bay itself was an
olive-green. We stayed arranging our baggage and then started up the
river. The countryside on either bank was as picturesque as an artist’s
dream. It is the claret land of the château country, home of the world’s
finest wines. Wonderful villas nestle up on the crest of wooded hills
and the long rows of vineyards sweep down the slope to the little
peasants’ farm houses on the river bank. These little farm houses with
their small windows, low doors, and red-tile roofs are the most
picturesque imaginable. The building material is a warm yellow stone or
stucco, mellow with age, and the tile of the roofs is stained,
weathered, and mossgrown, but most beautiful and wonderful of all is the
natural environment. It seems as though nature had absorbed an education
in art from the art-loving French. The trees in the manner of their
growth have caught the spirit of refined cultivation, and grown in a
limitless variety of oddly picturesque forms which want no training. A
long line of stilted poplars with bushy heads march up the roadside over
a hill. A few gnarled and hump-backed beeches squat about the little
ferry wharf, and to the side are well-rounded clumps of maples and
beautiful pointed boxwoods, while in the distance great bare-legged elms
stand close together, their great arms waving great masses of foliage
toward the sky. But it is all beyond description. It looks as if it had
been laid out to the master-plan of a great landscape gardener. As we go
up the river people run to the bank and wave and cheer from under the
trees. We pass neat, newly built factory towns which house German
prisoners in long barracks. Farther along, yellow chalk cliffs loom up
on the left. Along the ridge are wonderful châteaux—not an extravagant
show of wealth as in America, but substantial old country seats. At the
base of the cliffs are little villages and the cliffs themselves are
dotted with doors and windows where the peasants have cut cave
dwellings.
But here we approach Bordeaux. Considerable manufacturing is done in the
suburbs, but there seems to be little smoke. Every factory has an
orchard and garden in its back yard, and rows of poplars hide its dump
heaps. The river is lined with docks and as we come to where the large
boats are anchored a burst of color in the form of flags of all nations
greets us, and what a pleasant surprise—the Stars and Stripes float on
the top of every mast. France celebrates the Fourth of July, and from
the ferries that hurry about us cheer after cheer came up, “_Vive
l’Amérique_.” The sailors of our ship formed a snake dance and went all
over the decks behind a silk flag singing _The Star-Spangled Banner_ and
then the passengers joined in answer with the _Marseillaise_, whistles
shriek and fog horns bellow as the gangplank shoots out. Then down the
gangplank, behind the gorgeous silk banner, march two hundred and fifty
khaki-clad Americans and draw up four abreast on the platform.
Crowds lined the streets that lead to the railroad station. American
flags waved from windows and people cheered and clapped as we sang our
marching song, _Smile, Smile, Smile_. In the hour before train time we
raided the eating houses in a riot, as sailors are supposed to do when
they first reach land. Then we piled into our special train and with
little delay were off in a cloud of conversation. First attempts at
sleep were not very successful, though we were not crowded on the train,
and everything was very comfortable. At twelve we opened our prize
package luncheons, and each contained a can of sardines, a can of horse
meat, a roll, a package of raisins, nuts, prunes and figs, mixed, and a
bottle of lemon pop. After lunch I stood for two hours looking at the
landscape. The moon was shining, and it was almost as bright as day.
Everything looked so clean and orderly. Neat little villages, all white
and mystic in the moonlight whizzed by. Then I went to sleep on the coat
rack, and woke up in Paris.
_Thursday, July 5, 1917._
“So this is Paris!” It was the general exclamation as we stepped off the
train. In a few moments the crowd had dispersed, and Reed and I found
ourselves lost. By patient endeavor, however, we succeeded in reaching
21 Rue Raynouard. It is a fine old residence, its grounds covering
several blocks, situated in the very heart of Paris. It is older than
the United States, and its artificial terraces are covered with aged
trees. The lawn is now covered with tents and barracks, and it is a
delightful home for the ambulance men. There they come to spend their
leave and to rest. We spent the day in arranging and adjusting
ourselves, and lack of sleep for the last few nights sent most of us
early to bed.
_Friday, July 6, 1917._
And now things begin to move. At seven this morning we were told that we
leave in the transport division for the training camp at seven tomorrow.
We must pack, buy the necessary incidentals, and see Paris in
twenty-four hours. Well, I did all my packing in two hours and had the
rest of the day to carry out my other plans.
Yesterday I was talking to another fellow interested in aviation. He has
been here some time. He said Dr. Gros, who is head of the Ambulance
Medical Advisory, is vice-president of the LaFayette Flying Corps, and
is the man to see. He gave us our physical examination this morning, and
I made a date to see him at one-thirty this afternoon. He gave me an
examination for the aero corps at two, and I passed it with ease. At
three I was released from the service of the American Ambulance Corps by
the help of a letter from Dr. Gros. At four I made out my application
for the LaFayette corps, and so in a day was accomplished what I had
allowed six months for. My plans go like clockwork. Fortune runs ahead
of me, and everything turns out better and quicker, but just as I
surmised it would. Dr. Gros is a personal adviser to the flying corps,
and he is a wonderful man. He talks to you with the interest of a father
and the intimacy of a friend. In asking his advice as to the
advisability of my making the immediate change, he, a member of both
organizations, said that every American’s duty was the place of highest
efficiency, and that if I were fitted for aviation it would be wrong to
waste my time in the field service, and he also said it was for me to
know if I were fitted for the higher service. Well, I have known that
for some time, and the American ambulance officials were very cordial in
their releasing me. They said that aviation was undoubtedly a higher
service, and that they would be glad to take back into their service
anybody with my spirit. (This was not a compliment.) It is what I have
wanted to do, but it keeps me from being stranded in case of some
unforeseen failure in aviation.
I still cannot believe the extent of my good fortune. While in Dr.
Gros’s office I talked with a man who came over on the _Chicago_ which
arrived four days before the _Rochambeau_. He said Al Winslow and his
friend had come over on that boat, and that they were staying at the
Hôtel Cécilia. As I could not stay at 21 Rue Raynouard, I immediately
went over and signed up for a room at fourteen francs a day—a room and
meals, for two dollars and eighty cents. I did not see Al, but I found
he was there. That evening the “Tech” Unit took dinner with Mr.
Lansingh, who came over to establish Technology Headquarters in France.
After dinner we went down to some _Folies_, and took in some speedy
Paris life.
_Saturday, July 7, 1917._
I stayed last night with the bunch and saw them off this morning. They
congratulated me on my nerve, and said they wished they could do the
same. There was much picture taking, and good-byes. I hated to part from
the bunch, for they were a fine set of fellows, but there are good
friends everywhere. After attending to several things, which they were
forced to leave undone, I took my things to the hotel. The Cécilia is a
clean little family hotel occupied by Americans. It is in a nice
neighborhood, within half a block of the Etoile. The Arc de Triomphe of
Napoleon is in the Etoile and forms the hub of a wheel from which
radiate many beautiful boulevards and avenues. I will send a circular of
the hotel. It seems that it will take a week or ten days to hear from my
application. What could be better? Had I remained in the A. A. C. I
should have left the city immediately. As it is, I am forced to remain
ten days and get an introductory insight into the wonders of Paris—and
it has its wonders. To further my luck, I find that the LaFayette Fund
pays twelve francs (two dollars and forty cents) on our keep while we
are waiting acceptance. That makes food and lodging cost me forty cents
a day. As soon as we are accepted, we receive a commission of two
hundred francs a month (forty dollars) and all expenses.
Maybe all things come around to those who wait, but that does not prove
that those who seek shall not find.
_Sunday._
I slept late and then took a walk in the Bois de Boulogne. It is
beautiful—a park which resembles a forest in the density of its
foliage—a wondrous, natural feeling retained in spite of the finish of
it all. I made a sketch of the Arc de Triomphe, and a woman came along
and charged me two cents to use a park bench.
In the evening I met a French gentleman who walked about six blocks
helping me look for a store to buy a map of the city. Most obliging! His
name was Crothers. He told me of an English club that I would probably
enjoy, and said if I needed help to call on him at his office. I invited
him around to my hotel without smiling. The movies were all right. _The
Hunchback of Notre Dame_ was playing.
_Monday._
This morning I did some shopping. A shirt, a pair of garters and another
sketchbook. Then I walked all over town.... I walked some twenty miles
or more in a vain endeavor to understand the plan of Paris and to see
Notre Dame. I found the cathedral about four-thirty, and went in. I
cannot describe it, but it was surely wonderful. The exterior was a
trifle disappointing, but the interior—mammoth piers, soaring arches,
gorgeous stained-glass windows—all gloomy and magnificent—all solemn and
religious. The hollow echo of footsteps, the distant passing of
flickering candles and the low chant of monks—no wonder the Catholic
faith is with us yet. With such monuments and such mystery, there will
always be those to sign the cross and bend the knee in reverence.
_Tuesday, July 10._
It was my plan, to go to Versailles today, but Mr. Lansingh called up
and asked me to send a package to one of the boys. By the time I had
attended to that the morning was half gone, so I returned to the hotel
for lunch. In the afternoon exercise was wanted, so I went out to the
Bois de Boulogne and after walking round the pond, hired a boat. In
coming up to the dock, I had noticed a young lady, very American
looking, gazing at me with a twinkle in her eye. When I looked again she
smiled, as one glad to see a friend. I said, “What’s the matter? Do you
speak English? Come on for a ride.” She said, “Oh, the children will
talk about it.” She was very refined and pretty and very English, and it
seems she was a governess for these French children. She would not come
until I had taken a turn around the pond. Then she did come and was very
entertaining. She told me what she thought of French, English, and
American men and women; how the different societies seemed to differ. It
is the most sensible bit of conversation I have had since the voyage. I
am going to take advantage of being away from home to meet all the
various kinds of people. Such incidents are the punctuation marks of
travel.
_Wednesday, July 11._
The morning was spent in writing my diary. At lunch a couple of the men
asked if I were going to Versailles, so I joined them. We went direct to
the Tower, where a guide was waiting, who had made arrangements to visit
an aeroplane depot. We took a hurried view of the grounds, and then by
taxi went to the Buc Farman Depot, where aeroplanes are made and turned
over to the government. The guide introduced us to three aeronauts, who
showed us about and ended up by asking if we wouldn’t fly across to
another depot in some new machines. Did we refuse? Well, it was
wonderful. Sitting in the long, dragon-fly body, there was a moment to
think. Then the pilot gave the signal for the blocks to be taken away,
and like some animal the machine snorted and quivered as if unable to
realize it was released. Then there was a bound; a crashing roar of wind
passed my helmet; a blurr of ground as we sped along the turf; and then
suddenly all vibration stopped. The ground flew away beneath, and we
mounted. I had thought to see things diminish gradually, but the earth
_fell_ away. We skimmed a grove of trees. I glanced up at the pilot to
see how he controlled, and when I looked down again I noticed a team of
white flies drawing a match head along a crayon mark. It was a team of
horses on a country road. Then the sense of speed was lost and we seemed
to be drifting along like a cloud. That rush of air had been caused only
by the motor. Then I saw our shadow cross a large field in three
seconds, and I decided we were still moving. A design in the map below
proved to be the gardens of the palace.
The great lagoon looked like a veined setting of lapis lazuli. Still we
were going up, but there was no fear, no doubt, nor distrust. It was all
wonderful sport. How could anyone think of it but as a sport? I was so
elated that I almost missed the city of Paris as it passed beneath.
Then we came into some light clouds. Up there the sky line, the horizon,
was made of clouds that seemed to encircle us at the edge of a crater,
with the multicolored molten lava beneath. Then the plane began to rock,
as on a choppy sea, and we encountered what they call “bumps.” All of a
sudden the engine seemed to stop. There was a queer sensation of having
left something behind, and before I realized it, we were almost on the
ground, having dropped two thousand feet in less than a minute. The
landing was like passing from asphalt to cobblestone pavement in an
automobile. We had been in the air twenty minutes, and had gone
thirty-two miles. When I found that out, I felt like a wireless
telegram. And then what did those cordial French aeronauts do but take
us home in a taxicab and invite us to lunch with them at their homes
next day. At supper we were the heroes, the envy of the table, and it
was just luck that I was included in the party.
_Thursday._
We landed at Versailles at 11 A.M. and were met by the aviators. My
host’s name is Louis Gaubert. He is a splendid, unassuming man. He took
me out to a little country home, a few miles from Buc, where his wife
and little three year old girl met us a hundred yards from the gate.
Both were pretty and affectionate and thoroughly French. Gaubert himself
speaks poor, broken English, which he learned in the States some years
ago. He is the oldest living French aviator, and his wife was probably
the first French woman in an aeroplane. They had a garden and arbors and
chickens and dogs and rabbits and birds and a player piano and a Ford
and trellis roses—in fact, everything that a man could desire. To be
taken into such a home is to me the greatest favor. They were so free
and hospitable and so entertaining. On our way to the aviation field
Gaubert took his wife and mother-in-law and baby to the station to go to
Paris. They let me hold the little girl going into the station, and
twice she reached up and kissed me on the cheek. It was surely a happy
day. Again we went high over Paris on the cloud path, and again rode
home in a taxi.
_Saturday, July 14._
Up at six to get down to see the great parade. A boy by the name of
Bosworth went down with me. The crowds were twenty deep about the
streets, so we went up to the sixth story of a flat and asked if they
had room. They said their windows were full, but the man below had a
large balcony. He took us in on hearing the words “American aviator” and
treated us with the utmost cordiality. The parade was good, and
enthusiasm ran high. As the soldiers passed along, the crowds threw them
trinkets, fruit, and money. When it was over, we were unable to find a
means of conveyance, and as it was too far to walk, we asked the man who
was just getting into a Red Cross automobile with his wife, and an
American flag, if he would take us up to the Etoile. He said “Yes” and
again “American aviator” was the key. By the time we had reached our
destination we had offered the lady flowers to pay for the ride. He had
offered to take us out to Versailles as an afternoon ride. We had
accepted on condition that he take dinner with us. We had dinner at a
regular Parisian restaurant. As he talked fluently with his hands, I
could follow his French, and then a strange thing occurred. A young
lieutenant in French uniform with a more distinguished than strong face,
came in with a rather doubtful-looking girl and sat down next to me. I
could see the man’s face. He seemed of good blood. He watched our new
friend closely. While we were eating dessert our new friend was talking
to Bosworth, the officer winked at me a warning, and leaning over said,
in poor English, “Do not go with that man, he is a bad man.” As we left
the dining room I remained behind and talked with the officer. He said
to come and see him, and we made a date for Monday. From then on I was
on my guard. We had a very pleasant day, but our friend was so
strenuously entertaining as to be tiresome, so I declined further
engagements with him.
The gardens and buildings are very wonderful, and I am going out there
more. I took a number of pictures and developed them in the evening.
Both of my cameras are giving extraordinary results, and I am delighted.
I shall not try to send my pictures or films home for the present until
I make sure that my letters carry safely. I shall await with interest
the outcome of my interview with the French lieutenant.
_Sunday._
This morning I went over and helped Mr. Lansingh get settled in the new
“Tech” apartment. It is a Technology Club at Paris, and a very
gorgeously furnished apartment it is.
This afternoon I walked ten miles around that wonderful park.[1] They
have great groves of Norway pine as large and straight and thickly
distributed as the grove from which our cabin logs were cut, and right
near by are oaks and beech and locust and bay trees, and under the pine
trees is wonderful turf, natural and unspoiled by the needles.
Good night.
Footnote 1:
Bois de Boulogne.
_Monday, July 16._
In the morning I did a little shopping, and then met my friend, Sergeant
Escarvage. He spent two hours and a half showing me through the National
Museum of Arts and Sciences. There were experimenting offices and
laboratories for testing material. He showed me the gas-mask
construction. He speaks a trifle more English than I do French, so it is
very interesting each trying to make the other understand. I asked him
up to the hotel for Wednesday supper. He accepted.
I like him very much. His superpolish seems natural. His friendship is
sincere; his sympathy unusual.
_Tuesday, July 17._
It rained, and I read _The Dark Flower_ by Galsworthy. His style is
clean-cut and masterful. The story weighed on me. I walked ten miles and
could not sleep. What this war does to people’s lives!
My papers came today.
_Wednesday, July 18._
I spent the morning in getting some more papers signed in final
preparation for going to Avord. We are to leave Saturday. In the
afternoon I went down and saw the buildings about Napoleon’s tomb. The
tomb itself was not open. There were several Boche planes down there.
They do not look any better to me in point of construction and
workmanship than do those of the Allies. I think that rumor was bull.
Escarvage and I went for a walk and ended at the hotel. After supper he
took me to the _Femina Revue_. He is interested in music and
photography. He wants to help teach me French and insisted that I write
to him in French and he would correct my letters and return them. He
also said that when I come to Paris on my first leave I should stay with
him at his apartment and we would go to the theater and to visit some
places of historical interest.
_Thursday._
Again the morning was spent in getting clearance papers, the afternoon,
in packing, and the evening in a good walk. The pictures I developed
make the results of both my cameras very good and satisfying.
_Friday._
The day went slowly. I just waited around, read a little, wrote a
little, sent a box of candy to the aviator Gaubert and his family, and
slept.
_Saturday._
And we are off to the Front. We took off on the 8.12 from the Gare de
Lyon. The trip was good and the country beautiful as ever. We stopped at
a garlic hotel at Bourges and then proceeded to Avord where a truck met
us and took us to the camp—and it is a wonderful camp. After
registration we had a few hours before dinner to look around. The
buildings are well built, the grounds are clean, and, outside of a few
insignificant lice, the barracks are very comfortable and the grounds so
extensive that it would take a week to explore them. They stretch away
for miles on every side. Well-made roads lead to the various camps and
here and there hangars form small towns. Motor cars and trucks carry the
officers about and the troops of aviators are marching on and off
duty—but most wonderful are the machines themselves. Imagine a machine
leaving the ground every fifteen seconds! Do you get that? Four a
minute! The air is so full of machines that it seems unsafe to be on the
ground. The environment is lovely; the weather pleasant; the fields are
covered with clover, buttercups, and red poppies. To those who can find
pleasure in nature this cannot become monotonous, but all bids fair to
be very pleasant. The first meal was very good, thanks to the numerous
pessimists who had prepared me for indigestible food. From the first
night I had been assigned to a barracks with a delightful bunch of men.
The prospects are of nothing but the brightest.
_Sunday, July 22, 1917._
The day was spent in resting and becoming settled. I went to the station
at Avord to get my bed, only to find that it would not arrive for
several days. When I got home the bunch had gone out to the Penguin
field to make their first sorties. I hurried out and got there just in
time to answer roll call, but we failed to get a chance, so we came back
disappointed. We ate bread and soup at the _ordinaire_ and turned in.
_Monday._
There was a lecture this morning on various types of aeroplanes. In the
afternoon we went out and I had my first sortie in the Penguin. Well, it
was rare sport. A Penguin is a yearling aeroplane, with its wings
clipped. It has a three-cylinder motor and a maximum speed of
thirty-five miles an hour. A person gets into the darned thing and it
goes bumping along the ground, swinging in circles and all kinds of
curlicues. It was thrilling and fascinating, but the conclusion derived
is that flying is not one of the primal heritages, but a science with a
technique which demands schooling and drill. It is a thing to be learned
as one learns to walk or swim. It is necessary to develop a whole new
set of muscles and brain cells.
_Tuesday._
I am reading a book on aeroplanes, which is of benefit in my technology
training.
My second sortie today was not so good as the first, but I understand
that that is usual. I saw a Nieuport fall and had all the thrills of
witnessing a bad smash-up. We saw it coming for the ground at an angle
of thirty degrees. It happened in just three seconds. In the first
second, the machine struck the ground and sprang fifteen feet into the
air; in the second it lit again and plunged its nose down; and in the
third it turned a straight-forward somersault and landed on its back. It
was over a block away, and as I was nearest, I reached it first. A
two-inch stream of gasoline was pouring from the tank. When I was
twenty-five feet from the plane the man crawled out from under it. Well,
I had expected to drag out a mangled form, and it was some joyous thrill
to see him alive. And he was cool—he took out a bent cigarette and
lighted it and his hand did not shake a bit. The strap and his helmet
had saved him. Everybody was happy just to know that he was not hurt.
The machine had its tail, one wing, the propeller, and running gear all
smashed.
_Wednesday._
And this morning when the men came in from the morning classes they
reported five Blériots and one Penguin smashed. One Blériot dove and
turned turtle. Another lit in a tree. The other smashed running gears;
and the Penguin ran through a hangar. Not long ago a Blériot dove
through the roof of a bakery at seventy miles per hour. In all these
accidents not a man was scratched—absolutely miraculous, but the
conclusion is encouraging and reassuring, for it shows how much better
the chances are than we figure on. I didn’t get a sortie today.
_Thursday._
No sortie today either. Went over to see the construction of the Lewis
machine gun. Just before going to bed a machine flew over camp. A big
white light and its red and green side lights—then suddenly, as we
watched, a rocket shot out and downward in a graceful curve and burst
three times in colored lights—truly a pretty sight, and as wonderful as
the stars themselves.
_Friday._
We have a regular program now. We rise at twenty-five minutes to seven
and have drill for ten minutes. It is just a form to get the men out of
bed. Then I come back, bathe, eat a crust of war bread and read or write
until ten o’clock, when the first heavy meal is served. Another form
drill, lasting fifteen minutes, comes at a quarter past eleven. There is
often a lecture at twelve o’clock, and the men are supposed to sleep
from one till three. At three they may have another class of
instructions. At five supper is served. At five-thirty the troop leaves
for the Penguin field. We are there till nine-fifteen and return for
soup and bread and jam at ten o’clock.
This afternoon I had my third sortie in the Penguin and I begin to feel
at home in it. We have been smashing one a day lately—running gears or
something.
I received my first letter from home since leaving New York. It was from
father, written on June 28—just one month. I hope my letters home have
not been so delayed.
Some of the boys answered an advertisement for _les marraines_, girls
living in France who would correspond with boys in the army, so I made
application. It will be interesting to watch the outcome.
Tomorrow I shall print my pictures and send some home. I have not taken
many since coming here, because I figure that there will be so many more
interesting aeroplane pictures offer themselves.
The French Government pays us twenty-five cents a day and I spend that
on candy. I am getting an awful appetite for candy. I can hardly wait
till the meal is over to eat some, though it isn’t very good candy at
that. It is because there is no sugar in the food, I guess.
_Ecole d’Aviation, Avord (Cher)._