You have probably heard more from me in the last ten days than you will
in the next ten. Please pardon me for not having written. Things have
moved fast, and all the world strains at attention.
What do we know of the great German offensive? The Boche has made great
gains with suicide tolls as a price. The English have made splendid
resistance with a retreat which will need explaining. And the turn of
the battle came when the French Army arrived. It is hoped that the
American Army can be of assistance in the world’s greatest battle, of
which the first phase has lasted twelve days already. German communics
say this offensive may last for months, but it is the final of the war.
The statement was made when they thought the allied line was broken.
When the German people discover that the great offensive failed to gain
its end, they may interpret it as defeat. If the German people cannot be
made to believe that the ground gained in this offensive is of more
value than a place to bury their dead, the German Government is whipped.
I went up in a balloon. Lieutenant Grant from Ohio, with whom I formed a
friendship, took me up one morning from five to six-thirty. The great
balloon made a curved outline against the sky above the tree tops. As we
approached in the morning dusk, the darkness and the night chill still
struggling to keep off the coming day, many figures hustled to muffled
commands. Then, at the order, the balloon moved out into the open and
upward until the men clinging to the wet side ropes formed a circle
about the basket on the ground. We were put into belts and fastened to
our parachutes before getting into the car. Then at the command to give
way, the car left the ground and mounted upwards. Soon we were at two
thousand feet, and the woods and machines and human forms were lost in
the ground haze which clung in the hollows.
With all the flying in the sky which I have done, this was the first
time I had hung in the air. I had never realized the air was so empty
and so still. The stillness of the mountains is broken by its echo.
There are splashes in the stillness of the sea, but the air doesn’t even
breathe. Only the desert could be so silent. My companion spoke into his
telephone in low tones, to test the wires. He showed me the map, and
then pointed out the direction of the enemy lines. Suddenly there was a
flicker of fire in the western horizon, like fire flies in the grass.
Some time after, there came the distant booms. Opposition firing
started, and for a time the duel lasted. But as the sun began to rise,
and the mist clear, the firing became intermittent, and finally ceased,
and the appalling silence seemed to bear us skyward with its pressure. I
shivered. I wonder if the soul shivers as it leaves the earth in search
of peace. I think I should prefer to have my soul stay down in the warm
earth with my body and the kindly reaching roots of flowers and all the
ants and friendly worms than to float up in that everlasting silence. It
seemed high, too—much higher than I had ever been in an aeroplane,
though it was only seven hundred meters. It was a wonderful
experience—but give me the aeroplane, or the submarine, and leave the
balloonist to listen for the heartbeat of the Sphinx.
We had just gotten our room nicely decorated with curtains, rug, table
cover, hanging lamps, and pictures when we were ordered to move; but
everyone was glad of the prospect to get into the fight. We had gone on
a patrol nearly to Metz that day and had tried but failed to catch two
enemy planes which were located by anti-aircraft shells. That evening we
ate our last meal in Toul, and the next morning were in Paris after an
all-night ride.
Paris is neither excited nor exciting. Refugees were coming in and going
through. Many had left the city while it was being bombarded. All my
friends had gone to various country places, and I could see the streets
were not so crowded.
I have been here for five days now. We came to a distributing station
just outside of Paris to get new machines and then go into the Amiens
sector. It took a few days for the machines to be prepared. I was to
have a new Spad. On the day we expected to depart, I reported to the
captain and he informed me that I was dismissed from the French Army and
had a second lieutenancy in the American Army. What could have been more
inopportune, just as I was going to the real Front? Well, I said
good-bye to the escadrille and hurried to Paris and from there to a
distant American Army center, and then back to Paris for more orders,
and by that time I was officially an officer. Meanwhile, my suit was
being made, and two days later, I was all dressed up in new clothes.
With the assistance of a letter from one captain, I had obtained a
promise from the lieutenant, the captain, major, colonel, and general of
the Paris office of the Aviation Section to have me returned to the
French escadrille as a detached American officer. As it was necessary to
receive written orders from another distant headquarters, I have been
waiting for them here in Paris. I went out yesterday to see the
escadrille leave; they had been detained by bad weather.
I expect to return to the French escadrille in two or three days. After
that, I shall be an American officer and probably not be able to obtain
further _permissions_ to Paris. At present, my one desire is to reach
the defensive Front. Right now, it is hard for the French mind to grasp
how much the Americans have wanted to help in this defensive during
their first year of preparation. No matter how great a thing the
American organization is to be, if we suppose there are 300,000
Americans actually fighting in this offensive (no one knows numbers) we
must keep things in scale by remembering that Germany alone has probably
had more than a million and a half put out of action in this battle
alone.
_And I want to say in closing, if anything should happen to me, let’s
have no mourning in spirit or in dress. Like a Liberty Bond, it is an
investment, not a loss, when a man dies for his_ _country. It is an
honor to a family, and is that the time for weeping? I would rather
leave my family rich in pleasant memories of my life than numbed in
sorrow at my death._
Your son,