September 4, 1917.
At last the two weeks of wind and rain has ceased and now it is
perfect weather--a bit of a breeze and lots of sun for the last two
days. Yesterday morning there weren’t enough machines to go around so
I did not work, making the eighth consecutive day I hadn’t stepped
in a machine. Last evening I at last and with much rejoicing started
out on my “maiden voyage” to another school about 60 kilometres away
(37.5 miles). It was delightfully easy--nothing to do but climb two or
three thousand feet and just sit there and watch the country unfold,
comparing the maplike surface of the earth spread out below with the
map in the machine. In good weather it is very easy to follow, spot
roads, towns, woods, rivers and bridges. Railroad tracks get lost at
high altitudes and are harder to find anyway. One has to keep an eye
open for a place to land within gliding distance in case of a _panne_
always, but the country is so flat and so much cultivated around
here that it is absurdly simple. I endeavored always to keep some
pleasant looking house or château in range in case of trouble, for the
French are proverbially hospitable to aviators _en panne_ (lying to,
descending).
Coming back yesterday evening, the sun was pretty low and the air
absolutely calm, nothing but the drone of the motor and the wind; the
only movements necessary an occasional slight pressure on the joy
stick to one side or the other to keep the proper direction. I came
very nearly going to sleep, it was so peaceful up there; several times
closed my eyes and swayed a bit. As a matter of fact one is perfectly
safe at that altitude--anything over a thousand feet--because the
machine, at least this particular type, won’t get into any position
from which one cannot get it out within 200 metres at most. But
nevertheless I haven’t tried any impromptu falls as yet.
This morning I repeated the same identical performance, because for
some reason we have to do two _petits voyages_, and had much the same
kind of a time as yesterday. On the way home one cylinder quit its job
and threw oil instead, covering me from head to foot and clouding up my
goggles so I had to wipe them off about every minute. When I got back
the mechanics decided that that motor had died of old age and would
have to be repaired, so I am again without a machine. Have watched a
beautiful afternoon pass by from the barracks when without my luck I’d
be working. But with a machine and weather, I can be finished tomorrow;
two triangles to do about 200 kilometres (125 miles) each and I can do
one in the morning and the other in the evening and then I’m breveted.
Perhaps by day after tomorrow I’ll start _perfectionné_ on Nieuport. I
hope so.