September 9, 1917.
Since my last to Father, I have had some very interesting times. First,
I finished my _brevet_ with very little excitement, made all my voyages
and only got lost a little bit once. Then I saw two machines on the
ground in a field, made a rather dramatic spiral and steeply banked
descent amidst a crowd of villagers and got away with it; then found
that the machines belonged to two monitors who were bringing them
from Paris and had effected a _panne de château_. Being asked what I
was doing, I fortunately found a spark plug on the burn and got that
repaired. The rest of it was very easy, a bit of flying in the rain
which stings the face a bit, but is not bad otherwise.
Since I have been on the Nieuport. There are three sizes of machines on
which one is trained, starting with the larger double command and going
to the smallest. At Pau, we get another even smaller, about as big as
half-a-minute. Four times I went out without a ride--bad weather,
crowded class and busted machines, the same old story. Then last night
I had my first rides with a monitor who is rather oldish, crabbed and
new at his job, a brand new aviator. As you know, when an airplane
takes a turn, it does not remain horizontal but banks up: _comme ça_
(if you can interpret that illustration--it shows signs of remarkable
imaginative power)--_alors_, one banks to take a turn and uses the
rudder only a very little because the machine turns along when banked.
There is a sort of falling-out feeling the first few times until one
becomes a part of the machine.
To get back to the story, this monitor does not like to bank his
machine and sort of sidles round the corners, keeping it quite flat
and almost slipping out to the outside of the turn. I have done many
fool things in a machine and made many mistakes, but never have I been
so scared in anything in my life as when riding with this monitor. A
monitor is supposed to let the pupil drive as much as he is able, but
this bird never let me make a move, and when we got through told me I
was too brutal. I was never madder in my life and cursed nice American
cuss words all the way home. There’s a fifteen kilo ride in a seatless
tractor back to camp to improve a bad humor.
Well, this morning I saw some more rides impending and didn’t like it,
so asked the _chef de piste_ to put me with another monitor. He had
to know why and I registered my kick, which practically said that the
first monitor didn’t know his business and couldn’t drive, that I was
scared to ride with him. The _chef_ was a bit sarcastic and told me
to take two rides with another monitor to show how _I_ could make a
_virage_. I did it the way I’ve been accustomed to, made a fairly short
turn; when we got down, the monitor said “_Epatant_” (Am. “stunning”)
or something like that to the _chef_. The _chef_ had meanwhile
communicated my complaint to the first monitor and he was the maddest
man I ever saw. Demanded what “_Ce type là_” (indicating me) wanted,
said the _virages_ I had just made were dangerously banked (the monitor
I was with didn’t mind, though) and then all three started arguing
at once at me and I spelled all the French I knew. About that time I
thought of what you had just told me in a letter about trusting in
Latin, which advice and remarks I have come to agree with very much (my
admiration for the French has waxed less daily), and here I realized
that I had very successfully made a fool out of a man who was supposed
to be my teacher, and he fully resented it.
Then, of all things, the lieutenant, without further remarks, said I
was to continue with my first monitor. My heart sank into my feet.
I had visions of staying in that class without rides or with only
rides and fights for months; I rode no more this morning and what was
my delight to find this evening that my bewhiskered pal had left on
permission. I got another monitor, a fine one who put his hands on the
side of the machine and let me do everything with a bit of assistance
on the landing, which is different from what I’ve been doing on the
Caudron. Seven rides and a finish--the twenty-three-metre tomorrow
morning. I wasn’t very good, but got by.
X
September 14, 1917.
Things for me are going all right. Have made progress on the Nieuport
since last I wrote and will fly alone soon. As regards the U. S. Army,
things are at a standstill until I get to Paris which will be a week
or so. I hope to go to the front in a French _escadrille_ and in an
American uniform. Some say it can be done; some that it cannot. It
sounds so sensible that I am afraid there must be some regulation
against it.