.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 46299
   :PG.Title: With the French Flying Corps
   :PG.Released: 2014-07-16
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Carroll Dana Winslow
   :DC.Title: With the French Flying Corps
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1917
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

============================
WITH THE FRENCH FLYING CORPS
============================

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   .. _`Cover art`:

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      :alt: Cover art

      Cover art

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   .. _`A view of the French and German trenches`:

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      :alt: German trenches.  No man's land.  French trenches. A view of French and German trenches.

      German trenches.  No man's land.  French trenches. 
      A view of French and German trenches.

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      WITH THE FRENCH
      FLYING CORPS

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      BY

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      CARROLL DANA WINSLOW

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      OF THE FRENCH FLYING CORPS

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      ILLUSTRATED

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      NEW YORK
      CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
      1917 

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      COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY
      CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

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      Published January, 1917

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      TO
      MY FATHER

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   CONTENTS

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`My Enlistment`_
`First Principles`_
`Learning to Fly`_
`The School at Chartres`_
`Passing the Final Tests`_
`The Zeppelin Raid over Paris`_
`At the Ecole de Perfectionnement`_
`The Réserve Générale De l'Aviation`_
`Ordered to the Front`_
`In the Verdun Sector`_
`My First Flight over the Lines`_
`Co-operating with the Artillery`_
`All in the Day's Work`_
`July 14th, 1916`_
`The Finishing Touches`_

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   ILLUSTRATIONS

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`A view of the French and German trenches`_ . . . *Frontispiece*

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`A Voisin bombarding-machine`_

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`A Nieuport "avion de Chasse"`_

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`"Mechanics ran the machines out on the field in long lines"`_

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`The little café across the road`_

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`A Morane-Parasol`_

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`"I had received orders to make a flight during a snow-storm"`_

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`The author, together with his first mechanic, at the "mitrailleuse"`_

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`A Farman artillery-machine`_

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`An anti-aircraft .75`_

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`A bad landing`_

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`A heavy bombarding-machine`_

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`A German aeroplane brought down by a French aeroplane`_

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`A bi-motor Caudron`_

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`A captured Fokker`_

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`A view of the Mort-Homme taken from a height of 3,600 feet`_

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`"Everywhere little white puffs seemed to follow the machines about"`_

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`Reduced facsimile of the photographic report supplied to the Headquarters Staff of the fighting at Cumières`_

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`A Penguin`_





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.. _`MY ENLISTMENT`:

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   MY ENLISTMENT

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In the last two years aviation has
become an essential branch of the army
organization of every country.  Daily
hundreds of pilots are flying in Europe, in
Africa, in Asia Minor; flying, fighting,
and dying in a medium through which,
ten years ago, it was considered impossible
to travel.  But though the air has been
mastered, the science of aero-dynamics is
still in its infancy, and theory and
practice are unproved so often that even the
best aviators experience difficulty in
keeping abreast of the times.

My experience in the French Aviation
Service early taught me what a difficult
and scientific task it is to pilot an
aeroplane.  By piloting I mean flying
understandingly, skilfully; not merely riding
in a machine after a few weeks' training
in the hope that a safe landing may be
made.  In America many aviators holding
pilot's licenses are in reality only
conductors.  Some pilots have received their
brevets in the brief period of six weeks.
I can only say that I feel sorry for them.
My own training in France opened my
eyes.  It showed me how exhaustive is
the method adopted by the belligerents
of Europe for making experienced aviators
out of raw recruits.  Time and experience
are the two factors essential in the
training of the military pilot.  Even in France,
where the Aviation Service is constantly
working under the forced draught of war
conditions, no less than from four to six
months are devoted to the training of
finished pilots.

Although I have just come from France,
the progress of aviation is so rapid that
much of my own knowledge may be out
of date before I again return to the front.
But interest in flying is becoming so
general among Americans that the way the
aviators of France are trained, and what
they are accomplishing, should attract
more than passing attention.  Surely, what
France has done, and is doing, should be
an object-lesson to our own government.

Through a special channel only recently
open to Americans I enlisted in
the French Air Service.  As is usual in
governmental matters, there were many
formalities to be complied with, but in
my case a friendly official in the Foreign
Office came to the rescue and arranged
them for me.  After a few days I received
the necessary permit to report for duty.
Without delay I hurried to the recruiting
office, which is located in the Invalides,
that wonderfully inspiring monument of
martial France.  As I entered the bureau
I met a crowd of men who had been
declared unfit for the front, either on
account of their health, or because they had
been too seriously wounded.  But to a
man they were anxious to serve "la
patrie," and were seeking to be re-examined
for any service in which physical
requirements were not so stringent.  For
an "embusqué" (a shirker) is looked upon
as pariah in France.

When I had signed a contract to "obey
the military laws of France and be
governed and punished thereby," I received
permission to join the French Air Service.
With about thirty other men I marched
to the doctor's office, where I was put
through the eye, lung, and heart test.
I was then ordered to report to the
sergeant who had charge of the men who
had passed the examination.

Among those accepted I noticed a young
man of the working class.  He had been
particularly nervous while the roll was
called.  But the moment he heard his
own name he seemed overjoyed.  Outside,
on the sidewalk, his wife was waiting.
He dashed out to tell her the news.
Instead of bursting into tears, as I had rather
expected, she seized his hands and they
danced down the street as joyfully as two
children.  It was typical of the spirit of
the French women, willing to sacrifice
everything, to help bring victory to their
country.

I received my service-order to proceed
immediately to Dijon, the headquarters
of the Flying Corps.  I took the first train
and arrived there at about three in the
morning.  I discovered that the offices
did not open until seven, and, as I had
nothing to do and was hungry, I sought
the military buffet at the railway-station.
It was filled with men on leave and others
who had been discharged from the
hospitals, all waiting to return to the front.
Officers and men mingled in a spirit of
democracy and "camaraderie."  This made
a deep impression upon me, for, while
discipline in the French army is very
strict, there is an entire absence of that
snobbishness which the average civilian so
often associates with a military organization.

.. _`A Voisin bombarding-machine`:

.. _`A Nieuport "avion de Chasse"`:

.. figure:: images/img-008.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: A Voisin bombarding-machine.

   A Voisin bombarding-machine.
   A Nieuport "avion de Chasse."

About seven o'clock I made my way to
the camp.  A sentry challenged me, but
after I had proved my identity he sent me
to the adjutant, who took my papers and,
after reading them, addressed me in perfect
English.  I was surprised and asked him
how he happened to speak English so well.
It seems that he had lived in New York
for twelve years, but on the outbreak of
the war had returned at once to serve.  I
was then given in charge of a corporal.
After this I was put through another
"questionnaire."  One officer asked for my
pedigree; to another I gave the name and
address of my nearest relative, to be notified
in the event of my death.  After this came
the "vestiaire."  Each "dépôt," or
headquarters, has one of these, where every
soldier is completely outfitted by the
government.  I received a uniform, two pairs of
shoes, two pairs of socks, an overcoat, two
suits of underwear, two hats, a knapsack,
and a tin cup, bowl, and spoon.  The
recruit may buy his own outfit if he wishes,
but the government offers it to him gratis if
he is not too particular.  I was now a
full-fledged French soldier of the second class,
second because there was no third.  My
satisfaction was only exceeded by my
embarrassment.  I felt very self-conscious in
my uniform, but, as a matter of fact, I was
less conspicuous in this garb than I was
before I gave up my civilian clothing.

The adjutant now gave me three cents,
my first three days' pay as a soldier, and
warned me "not to spend it all in one
place."  Aviators receive extra pay, but I
was still only a simple "poilu."  He then
handed me a formal order to study
aviation—to be an "élève pilote," as they say
in France—and also a pass to proceed to Pau.

My time was now my own, so I decided
to take a look around the hangars, and
before long two "élèves pilotes" greeted me
and inquired whether I was entering the
Aviation Corps.  When they heard that I
was, and that I was an American they
told me that they also, and several of their
friends to whom they afterward introduced
me, had lived for some time in the
United States.  With all this welcome I
became conscious of the understood but
inexplicable freemasonry that binds all
aviators together.  I was greeted
everywhere as a comrade and shown everything.
I was amazed at the vastness of it all and
at the scale of the organization.  In one
corner of the establishment they were
teaching mechanics how to repair motors,
in another how to regulate aeroplanes.
Beyond were classes for chauffeurs, and
countless other courses.  There must have been
several thousand men, and all of them were
merely learning to serve the national heroes,
the "aviateurs."

In the evening we all went to Dijon
together.  We dined and went to the theatre.
The theatre was full of soldiers, and every
little while the provost marshal's guard,
composed of gendarmes, would enter and
make an arrest.  Any one who does not
produce papers explaining his absence from
the army is hustled off immediately.  There
are very few Frenchmen who attempt to
dodge their service, but this system of
supervision has been found necessary to keep
down their number and to discover any
German spies who may be about.

After the play I went to the station.
The road was clogged with troop-trains
carrying reinforcements to the Near-Eastern
front.  During the four hours I spent
in the station twelve trains of British
artillery passed by.  The entente between the
Tommies and the French was very
cordial.  As the trains came to a stop the
men would make a rush for the station
buffet, and the French would exchange
all sorts of pleasantries with them.  Right
here I had a lot of fun with the Tommies,
for they could not understand how a
Frenchman could speak English so fluently.

Then came my train, and I found myself
en route for Pau.  As there were
already several American "élèves pilotes"
at the aviation school, I had no difficulty
in learning the ropes.  It was all very
simple.  But it was well to know what
to expect, especially when it came to the
question of discipline, which was very strict
until one became a full-fledged aviator.  It
was just like going back to school and I
settled down for the long grind.





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.. _`FIRST PRINCIPLES`:

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   FIRST PRINCIPLES

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I have rarely been as much impressed
as when I first saw the flying school
at Pau.  It is situated eight miles beyond
the town on the hard meadow-lands
granted in the sixteenth century to the
villages of Osseau by Henri IV.  The
grant is still in effect, and the fields now
in use are only rented by the government.
They make a perfect aviation-ground.
Four separate camps and a repair-station
lie about a mile from one another and
are named—Centre, Blériot, etc.  At
Centre I saw the low, gray hangars
that house the aeroplanes, the tall
wireless mast over which the communiqués
from Paris are daily received, the
office-building for the captain and monitors of
the school, and the little café across the
road where every one goes when off duty.
Beyond were the Boche prisoners working
on the road, building fences, or cutting
wood, under direction of their
non-commissioned officers and decrepit old
territorials—grim reminders that this
flying business is not all play.  It was early
morning—the mists were slowly lifting—when
the "élèves pilotes" gathered for their
daily work.  Mechanics ran the machines
out on the field in long lines, and the
motors woke to motion with startling
roars.  One by one the pilots stepped in,
and one by one the little biplanes moved
swiftly across the field, rose, dipped
slightly, rose again, and then mounted
higher and higher into the gray sky.  In
the distance the snowy peaks of the
Pyrenees formed an impressive background.
At almost any time during training hours
one can see from ten to twenty machines
in the air.  There are over three hundred
men training.  The repair-shops are like
a large manufacturing plant.  Five
hundred mechanics are continually employed
there.  Among these are little Indo-Chinese,
or "Anamites," as the French call
them, who have come from distant Asia
to help France in her struggle for liberty.
As French citizens they are mobilized
and wear the military uniform, but their
tasks are usually of the monotonous, routine variety.

.. _`"Mechanics ran the machines out on the field in long lines"`:

.. figure:: images/img-018.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "Mechanics ran the machines out on the field in long lines."

   "Mechanics ran the machines out on the field in long lines."

The repair-shops are continually
working under pressure, as accidents occur
daily.

It is estimated that the average cost
to France of training each pilot is five
thousand dollars.  Most of the accidents,
however, are caused by carelessness,
stupidity, or overconfidence.  The day I
joined the school two of the members lost
their lives in a curious accident.  They
were flying at a great height, but
thoughtlessly allowed their machines to approach
too closely.  Before they could change
direction there was a crash, and both
came tumbling to earth.  When two
aeroplanes come too near to each other the
suction of their propellers pulls them
together and they become uncontrollable.
That is what happened to these two
unfortunate "élèves."  The officer in charge
of the school explained at length just how
this accident happened.  We were
cautioned against overlooking the fact that
the speed of an aeroplane is always spoken
of in reference to the body of the air in
which the machine is moving.  Thus an
aeroplane travelling eighty miles an hour
with a twenty-mile breeze is travelling at
a speed of a hundred miles an hour in
reference to the ground.  The two
machines at the time of the accident were
flying east and west, but, while both were
travelling at the same speed with
reference to the ground, the plane moving in
the direction of the wind was making
about ninety miles an hour, while the other
was covering barely fifty miles at the
same time.  The speed at which they
were approaching one another was, however,
approximately one hundred and forty
miles an hour, or more than two miles
a minute.  What, under ordinary
circumstances, would have been a safe
distance became a danger zone, and before
either pilot realized his mistake it was
too late to steer clear.

The scene of the accident lay over a
part of the field where Wright's Barn
stands.  This little red building was the
workshop of the Wright brothers when
they astonished the world by their first
aerial flights.  To-day that little red barn
stands as a monument to American stupidity,
for when we allowed the Wrights to
go abroad to perfect their ideas instead
of aiding them to carry on their work at
home, we lost a golden opportunity.  Now
the United States, which gave to the world
the first practical aeroplane, is the least
advanced in this all-important science.

Although I came to Pau with a little
preliminary experience, and had the "feel"
for engines and steering, I was obliged
to begin, with the others, at the bottom
of the primary class.  It was nearly two
months before I was allowed to make
my first flight.  The French idea is that
before a pupil commences his apprenticeship
as a pilot he must understand thoroughly
the machine he is going to handle
and know just what he is trying to do in
the air.  Together with twenty-five other
men, who began their studies at about the
same time, I was ordered to attend the
theoretical courses.  When not in the
classroom we were stationed on the aviation-field
where we could watch the more advanced
"élèves" fly, thus familiarizing
ourselves by observation with all the details of
our profession.  Class-room work and
field-practice go hand in hand.

At first I did not realize how important
these courses were, or how strict was the
discipline under which we lived.  One day,
when my thoughts were a little more
intent upon an expected week-end at Biarritz
than upon what was being explained on the
blackboard, the lecturer suddenly asked me
a question.  I could not answer and
forthwith my forty-eight-hour leave was
retracted.  My Sunday was spoiled, but I
considered myself lucky not to have
received a "consigne," which involves
sleeping in the guard-house every night for a
week.

The first subject we took up was mechanics.
We were made to mount and dismount
motors, and were familiarized with every
part of their construction.  Carburetors
and magnetos came next, and then we
learned what made a motor "go."  At the
front a pilot always has two "mecaniciens"
to take care of his machine, but if on
account of a breakdown he should have to
land in hostile territory he must be able to
make the necessary repairs himself, and
make them quickly, or else run the risk of
being taken prisoner.  When flying, the
pilot can usually tell by the sound of his
motor whether it is running perfectly or
not.  Many a life has been saved in this
way—the pilot knowing in time what was
out of order before being forced to land in
a forest, on a mountain peak, or in some
other equally impossible place.

When we had become "apt," we were
promoted to a course in aeroplane construction.
This is an extremely technical course,
and at first we were asked to know only
simple subjects, such as the incidence of
the wings, the angle of attack of the cellule,
the carrying force of the tail in reference
to the size of the propeller.  By the
incidence of the wings is meant their upward
slope.  This is an extremely important
matter, for the stability and climbing
propensities of the machine depend entirely
upon their model.  The angle of attack of
the cellule is the angle of the different wings
in reference to each other.  For instance,
the incidence of one side must be greater
than that of the other on account of the
rotary movement of the propeller.  There
are also certain fixed ratios between the
upper and lower planes.  Still more
important is the carrying power of the
tailplane, for if it has too much incidence it
lifts the rear end and makes the machine
dive, while if it has too little the reverse
happens.  If any part of the aeroplane is
not correctly regulated it becomes
dangerous and difficult for the pilot to control.
All this becomes more important as one
reaches the close of the apprenticeship.
One then appreciates this intimate
knowledge acquired at the school.  Often a pilot
is compelled to land in a field many miles
from his base.  If something is wrong with
his motor he must be able to find out
immediately what the trouble is, for if a part
is broken the camp must be called up on
the telephone, so that a new piece may be
sent to the spot by motor, with a mechanic
to adjust it.

When a pilot starts on a cross-country
trip he is always given blank requisitions,
signed by his commanding officer.  When
he is forced to land he therefore is able to
call upon authorities, whether military or
civilian, for any service or assistance he
may need, and this "scrap of paper" is
sufficient in every case to obtain food,
lodging, and even transportation to the nearest
aviation headquarters for both the pilot
and his machine.

.. _`The little café across the road`:

.. figure:: images/img-026.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: The little café across the road

   The little café across the road

Map-reading and navigation were the
next subjects we studied.  First we were
taught how to read a map, how to judge
the height of hills and the size of towns, so
that when flying we would know at a
glance just where we were.  This, we later
appreciated, is a very important matter.
When passing through clouds or mist an
aviator may become momentarily lost, and
the instant he again sees the ground he
must locate on his map the country he
views or else land and ask where he is.
Aerial navigation may not be as complicated
as that employed by mariners upon
the high seas, but it is not easily mastered
by any means.  One must learn to calculate
the direction a straight line takes between
two points, and translate this direction into
degrees on the compass.  Secondly, and
more important, is the estimation of the
drift caused by the wind.  If the wind is
from the west and the pilot is attempting
to go north, the machine will go "en crabe"
(sideways like a crab).  The machine will
be pointing north by the compass, but in
reality it will be moving northeast.  After
the pilot has laid out his course on the map,
and is tearing through the air, he must
immediately take into consideration his drift.
By watching landmarks selected beforehand
the drift is calculated very quickly.
The course by the compass is altered, and,
though the machine is speeding due north,
the compass informs the pilot that he is
pointing northwest, a fact very confusing
for a beginner.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`LEARNING TO FLY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   LEARNING TO FLY

.. vspace:: 2

During the lecture course we always
spent several hours a day on the
aviation-field.  We were not allowed to
fly, but our presence was insisted upon.
We would observe the things to avoid, so
that when our turn came to go up we
should be familiar with all the dangers.
Every start, flight, and landing was made
a subject of special study.  Every time a
pupil made a mistake his fault was
explained to us, and we were usually
impressed with the fact that he had barely
escaped a bad smash and perhaps death.
The pupils who made the mistakes, were
immediately made examples.  If the fault
was corrected they escaped with a long
and loud lecture for the benefit of the
onlookers, but if, on the other hand, an
accident followed the mistake the
offenders were immediately punished with
a ten days' "consigne."  If a pupil
continued to make mistakes he was "vidé,"
and sent back to his former regiment.

Loss of speed—"perte de vitesse," the
French call it—is the most common and
probably the greatest danger an aviator
meets with—it is his "bête noire."  There
is a minimum speed capable of holding
an aeroplane in the air which varies
inversely with the spread of the wings.  While
in line of flight, the force of the motor will
maintain the speed, but when the motor
is shut off and the pilot commences to
volplane the force of gravity produces the
same result.  There are two ways of
knowing when you are approaching the
danger-point—by closely watching the
speed-indicator and by feeling your controls.  The
moment the controls become lifeless and
have no resistance you must act instinctively
and regain your momentum, or it
is all up with you.  While climbing you
may lose speed by forcing the motor and
climbing too rapidly.  When a "perte de
vitesse" is produced the aeroplane "goes
off on the wing," sliding down sideways
in such a manner and with such force that
the rudders cannot right you or that the
propeller cannot pick up your forward
speed.  This can happen also if, when
making a vertical turn, the speed is not
sufficiently increased to carry you around
the corner.  Occurring near the ground a
loss of speed is certain to result in a smash-up.
If high in the air a "vrille," or tail spin,
is generally the result.  By this is meant
coming down in a whirlpool, spinning like
a match in the waste of a basin.  The
machine takes as a pivot the corner of
one wing and revolves about it.  The first
turn is very slow, but the speed increases
with each revolution.  The only hope of
escape is to dive into the centre of the
whirlpool.  Even then, if the motor is
turned on, the planes will fold up like a
book.  Among the accidents to beginners
this, next to faulty landing, is the most
common.

.. _`A Morane-Parasol`:

.. figure:: images/img-034.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: A Morane-Parasol.

   A Morane-Parasol.

I witnessed one very sad example.  A
young lieutenant had just been brevetted
and was ready to leave the school.  Just
as he was saying good-by to his comrades,
a "Morane Parasol" was brought out on
the field.  These machines are very tricky
and dangerous.  He had never piloted
one, but wanted to show off.  The
monitors begged him not to take it up, but he
insisted on doing so.  When he had reached
an altitude of about five hundred metres
he shut off his motor to come down, not
realizing that monoplanes do not
volplane well.  He did not dive enough and
had a "perte de vitesse."  The machine
slipped off the wing.  We all held our
breaths and prayed that he would
recover control before he engaged in the
fatal corkscrew spiral.  Our hopes were of
no avail.  The machine started to turn,
and approached the earth spinning like a
chip caught in a whirlpool.  I turned my
back, but I could hear the machine
whistling through the air till it came to the
ground with a sickening crash.

Faulty landings are also very common
causes of accidents.  It takes a beginner
a long time to train his eye to make a
perfect landing, and even experienced men
now and then smash up on the
"atterrissage."  A few inches sometimes make a
great difference.  If the pilot does not
check his speed in time he will crash into
the ground and "capote," that is, turn
over.  If he pulls up too soon he will slip
off on the wing or land so hard that the
machine collapses.  Not only the manner
of landing but gaining the exact place of
landing is difficult.  If the pilot misjudges
his distance, and lands either beyond or
short of a given spot, he may collide
with some object that will wreck the
aeroplane.

Just before leaving the ground is another
critical moment.  If the tail is lifted too
high in an effort to gain speed the wheels
are liable to hit some small obstacle and
the machine turns a somersault.  Often
one is forced to lift the tail very high to
gain flying speed in a short distance, and
it always results in an uncomfortable few
seconds until the pilot knows he is clear.
Still another mishap against which aviators
are powerless may occur while rolling along
the ground.  The machine may be caught
by a cross wind, which will turn it
completely around, a "chevaux-de-bois," a
merry-go-round, the French call it.  If the
machine is going fast when this happens it
means touching the ground with a wing
and a first-class smash.

For two months I studied and watched,
and the result was a profound respect for
the air.  During this time it seems that I
also had been the object of study and
observation on the part of my teachers, for
one day I was told that I was to receive my
"baptême de l'air," my first flight as a
passenger.  Words cannot describe my joy
or my sensations.

I walked over to the double-seater.  The
pilot had already taken his seat, and
the propeller was turning.  I had hardly
climbed in and fastened my belt than we
were off.  I could hear the wheels
bounding along the ground.  Suddenly the noise
stopped—we were in the air.  I was sure
I would have vertigo, as I often had had
in high places.  I did not look out of the
machine until we were about five hundred
feet up.  Then, to my surprise, I
experienced not the slightest sensation of height.
The ground seemed to be merely moving
slowly under and away from me.  We kept
climbing.  I could see the country for
miles.  Never had I viewed the horizon
from so far.  The snow-clad Pyrenees were
literally at my feet.  Trees looked like
weeds and roads like white ribbons.  It
was a marvellous sight.  At about two
thousand feet we struck some wind and
"remous" (whirlpools).  Each time we
struck one we would drop about fifty
feet, and the sensation was like being in
a descending express elevator.  At the end
of the drop we would stop, the biplane
would shiver and roll like a ship in a
heavy sea, and then it would shoot up
until we struck the solid air again.  This
was real flying.

After a while my instructor cut off the
motor, and we started to come down.  We
were going fast enough on the level, but now
the wind just roared past my ears.  The
ground appeared to be rushing up to meet
us.  We were pointing down so straight
that my whole weight was on my feet, and
I was literally standing up.  I thought that
the pilot had forgotten to redress, and that
we would go head first into the ground,
but he finally pulled up, and before I knew
it we were rolling along the ground at a
speed of about forty miles an hour.

With this preliminary experience I was
ready to commence my final studies for a
pilot's brevet.

Some people seem to think that the two
months devoted merely to first principles
are time lost, but I now realize that this is
not so.  I seemed to have much more
confidence on account of this intelligent
understanding of every detail.  I felt that I
knew just what I was to avoid, and just
how to do the correct thing in case an
emergency arose.

Perhaps I might say here that military
aviators have four distinct duties to
perform at the front: they must fight,
reconnoitre the enemy's positions, control the
fire of their own batteries, or make distant
bombarding raids over the enemy's bases
of supplies.

The fighting pilots do nothing but
combat work.  Their machines are the very
small and fast Nieuports, designed especially
for quick manoeuvring.  They are called
the "appareils de chasse," on account of
their great speed—over one hundred miles
an hour.  Their armament consists of a
mitrailleuse, which is carried in a fixed
position.  In order to aim it, the pilot must
point his machine.  The principal task
assigned to the Nieuports is to do sentry
duty over our own lines, in order to
prevent the enemy aeroplanes from crossing
over for observation purposes.

Heavier and somewhat slower, and too
cumbersome for fighting, are the machines
used for reconnoissance duty.  They are
large bimotor Caudrons, very stable and
capable of carrying two men, an observer
and a pilot.  In addition they carry a
wireless apparatus, powerful photographing
instruments, and other equipment essential
to their work of observing, recording, and
reporting the enemy's movements and the
disposition of his batteries.  If attacked,
they can fight, being armed with a machine
gun mounted in front of the observer's seat;
but attacking the enemy is not the rôle
they are intended to play.

Next come the Farman artillery machines.
They are like the reconnoissance machines,
too cumbersome for fighting, but are best
equipped for the purpose of
"réglage"—controlling the fire of batteries.  While the
small Nieuports have a carrying capacity
of only two hundred and twenty pounds,
these unwieldy creatures are able to take
on over five hundred pounds, which includes
the weight of the two men, their clothes,
cameras, the wireless, and the gun and its
ammunition.  In this branch of aviation
the weight of the pilot does not matter so
very much, whereas in the case of the little
Nieuports, if the aviator exceeds the
prescribed weight, he has to choose between
not piloting the machine or starting on his
flight with a supply of gasolene reduced by
the amount of his excess weight.

Finally, there are the heavy-armored
bombardment machines, with a carrying
capacity of over one thousand pounds.
They are the slowest machines of all, and
their work is both tiring and tiresome, as
their flights are made mostly by night.
They are armed with mitrailleuses or small,
non-recoil cannon, but on account of their
low speed their daylight flights are attended
by "escadrilles de chasse."  They are also
detailed for guarding cities.

In the early months of the war each
aviator was usually assigned to any one
of these types of machines at hazard.
At the school which he attended the
instruction he received was specialized for
the work which that particular machine
could perform.  Since then, however, it
has been found more advisable to train
all beginners on one of the heavier
machines.  The reason is this: Fighting,
although the safest work, requires the
most experienced pilot.  It is the most
important work of all—or rather it calls
for greater attributes of skill, courage,
and knowledge.  The famous aviators of
whom we read in the daily communiqués,
like Navarre, Nungesser, Vialet, and
Guynemer, all gained their reputation with
the small, fighting Nieuports.  A pilot is
consequently promoted from a reconnoissance
machine to an "appareil de chasse"
after he has had two or three months'
experience at the front and his captain
has indorsed his application.

There are exceptions to this rule.  The
most notable is the American Escadrille,
which consists entirely of fighting
machines.  The volunteers from the United
States who applied for this duty were
considered such naturally good aviators
that they were accorded the exceptional
honor of being assigned immediately to
the fighting Nieuports.

When I first reported at the aviation
headquarters they offered to let me go
directly to the combat school because I
was an American.  I refused.  "When in
Rome, do as the Romans do," I thought,
and so expressed my preference for a
French escadrille.  I knew that by doing
so I would put in a longer apprenticeship,
but that in the end it would make a much
better fighting pilot of me.  Having chosen
this course, I was ordered to report to the
school at Chartres.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SCHOOL AT CHARTRES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   THE SCHOOL AT CHARTRES

.. vspace:: 2

Most Americans know Chartres only
for its beautiful Gothic cathedral,
which, since its construction in the eleventh
century, has been regarded as one of the
finest edifices of France.  Those of us who,
since the war began, have had occasion to
visit Chartres, have found there other
interests besides the little, straggling streets,
the historic old houses, and the beautiful
monuments and memorials to men, like
Pasteur and Marceau, who brought fame
to their native city in peace as well as
in war.  Not far from the centre of the
town lie the vast aviation-fields—close by
the little village of Bretigny, where the
treaty of peace which concluded the One
Hundred Years' War was signed over five
centuries ago.  Little did the soldiers who
met on that historic battle-field dream that
to-day their descendants would be training
for an even greater conflict, in which the
combatants not only clinch below ground
but also fight aerial battles high above the
clouds.

As Chartres was a great cavalry
headquarters of the French army before the
war, to-day many of the horses shipped
over from the western plains of North
America are sent there the moment they
are unloaded from the steamers at
Bordeaux.  Many a morning from my
window I have seen the square below filled
with a moving mass of animals on their
way to the near-by remount depots.  Twice
I saw whole regiments of cavalry leaving
for the front.  So steadily and so quietly
did those mounts move in ranks that it
seemed as if they had acquired some of
their riders' dogged determination and sense
of responsibility.

The aviation school at Chartres is as
large as the one I had recently left, and
its organization is the same.  In fact, it is
only one of a dozen equally large and
important schools located in various parts
of France—all of which is bound to make
a great impression upon Americans when
they appreciate the insufficiency of
aviation schools in our own country.  At
Chartres there are three fields.  Two of
these are reserved for the use of the
double-control machines, while the third, the
"Grande Piste," serves as a practice-field
for the élèves who are about to come
up for their pilots' examinations.  As soon
as I had reported my arrival to the officer
in charge, and had complied with the
usual formalities, I was assigned to an
"équipe," which in English means a
"team."  There were twelve of these
"équipes" under instruction at all times,
comprising a dozen pupils apiece, and
each having its own double-control
machine and an instructor.  Half of the
number are always making use of one of the
two smaller fields, while the remaining six
use the other.

The instruction in this way progresses
rapidly.  The "moniteur" first takes each
pupil for a few rides to see how the latter
takes to the air.  The élève must follow
every move of his pilot, until he appears
perfectly at home in the machine, and then
he is allowed to hold the controls alone.
Each flight lasts only about five minutes,
the French theory being that an aviator
must take his instruction in small doses.
In the interim, as in the preliminary
courses, he remains on the field, observing
and studying the mistakes of his comrades.
If the progress of the instruction is too
rapid, the pupil has not the time to grasp
each step that has been passed and cannot,
therefore, become an expert pilot.

The double control works in this way:
The controls and the pedals of the pupil
are a duplicate set of those of the
"moniteur," or instructor, and have the same
connections with the engine and steering
apparatus.  Either set will steer the
machine.  The pupil takes hold of the
controls and places his feet on the pedals.
Every motion of the instructor is
reproduced in the pupil's control and
pedals—their hands and feet move together.  In
this way the pupil develops a reflex action
and instinct for doing the right thing.
Each day, weather permitting, at least
half a dozen flights are made by a pupil.
Gradually the "moniteur" allows him to
control the machine.  Suddenly he finds
himself running the biplane alone, with his
instructor riding as a passenger behind him
and merely giving him a word of advice or
caution from time to time.

Landing is the most difficult part of
aviation to master.  A great many of the
accidents occur because the aviator has made
a poor contact with the ground.  In fact,
in the early days of aviation most of the
accidents occurred near the ground, and
this led people to speculate on the peculiar
action of the lower air currents.  These, in
reality, had little to do with it.  The cause
lay in the inability of the pilots to know
how to make proper contacts and to
appreciate the fact which we now know to be
a fundamental principle, that the engine
should be shut off before a machine catches
the air and volplanes down against the
wind.  There are exceptions to this rule,
but not for a beginner.  Sometimes it is
necessary for the pilot to descend against
a strong wind.  In order to maintain the
required speed the motor must be left
partially turned on.  Generally it is most
important to turn off the motor, because if
the landing is made with the wind, even in
the gentlest breeze, the aeroplane, on
account of the speed of the tail wind, is likely
to turn a somersault and be completely
smashed up.  Even then another manoeuvre
has to be mastered.  Just before
alighting the pilot must make a quick
upward turn, so that at the moment of
contact the machine may be travelling
parallel with the ground.  Formerly the
importance of this little upward turn
of the rudder was not fully appreciated
by aviators, and many a machine was
wrecked by a sudden hard compact with
the earth.

When the "moniteur" sees that his pupil
has acquired the knack of making a
landing he passes on to the all-important
manoeuvre of volplaning, and the dreaded
"perte de vitesse" is tackled.  Lastly, but
not least, comes the "virage"—turn, or
bank, as we say in English.  These
rudimentary principles are all that are required
of the élève before he may go up alone, or
be "lâché."

During this phase of my instruction it
was repeatedly impressed upon me that, if
anything ever happened to me when I was
in the air and I did not immediately
realize what to do, I was to let go of the
controls, turn off the motor, and let the
machine take charge of itself.  The
modern aeroplane is naturally so stable that, if
not interfered with, it will always attempt
to right itself before the dreaded "vrille"
occurs, and fall "en feuille morte."  Like a
leaf dropping in an autumn breeze is what
this means, and no other words explain the
meaning better.

A curious instance of this happened one
day as I was watching the flights and
waiting for my turn.  I was particularly
interested in a machine that had just risen from
the "Grande Piste."  It was acting very
peculiarly.  Suddenly its motor was heard
to stop.  Instead of diving it commenced
to wabble, indicating a "perte de vitesse."  It
slipped off on the wing and then dove.
I watched it intently, expecting it to turn
into the dreaded spiral.  Instead it began
to climb.  Then it went off on the wing,
righted itself, again slipped off on the wing,
volplaned, and went off once more.  This
extraordinary performance was repeated
several times, while each time the
machine approached nearer and nearer to the
ground.  I thought that the pilot would
surely be killed.  Luck was with him,
however, for his slip ceased just as he made
contact with the ground, and he settled in
a neighboring field.  It was a very bumpy
landing, but the aeroplane was undamaged.

The officers rushed to the spot to find
out what was the matter.  They found the
pilot unconscious but otherwise unhurt.
Later, in the hospital, he explained that
the altitude had affected his heart and that
he had fainted.  As he felt himself going
he remembered his instructions and
relinquished the controls, at the same moment
stopping his motor.  His presence of mind
and his luck had saved his life—his luck, I
say, for had the machine not righted itself
at the moment of touching the ground it
would have been inevitably wrecked.

This was a practical demonstration of
the expediency of the French method of
instruction, and before long it was to serve
me also in good stead.

One day, after I had flown for several
hours in the double-control machine, my
"moniteur" told me that he thought me
qualified to be "lâché," and that I was to
go up alone the following morning.  I felt
very proud and confided my feelings to
one of my friends who had been qualified
a few hours earlier.  While we were
talking he was called upon to make his first
independent flight.  We watched him leave
the ground, rise, and then make his turns.
He was doing remarkably well for a
beginner, but when he came down for his
landing he did not redress his machine in
time and it crushed him to the ground,
with fatal result.  This completely
unnerved me.  I lost all desire to fly the
following day, and prayed earnestly for rain.
The next morning, however, was beautifully
clear.  The captain was there to
watch my flight.  I was loath to go up,
but I had no alternative.  The mechanics
rolled out a single-control biplane for my
use and I climbed in.  The motor was
started.  With its crackling noise my nerve
almost deserted me again.  I should have
felt less frightened, probably, had no one
been looking on, but my "moniteur," my
captain, and all my comrades stood there,
interested to see how I would handle
myself.  I had to see the thing through, so I
opened the throttle.  The machine began
to roll along the ground, then to bounce,
and then, in response to a pull on the
control, to fly.  I was flying alone.  The
thought filled me with alarm.  I rose to
less than two hundred feet, but it seemed
prodigious.  Then I made a turn.  When I
found that I was flying smoothly and easily
I felt a little more confident.  As I turned
back toward the field I could see my
masters and comrades below looking up at me.
Another machine was about to leave the
field.  It seemed no larger than a huge
insect as it glided across the ground.  I
made up my mind that I was going to
make good.  If others could do it, I could.
I volplaned down, and made my landing
safely but somewhat bumpily.  The
captain told me that I would do, but he
would like me to make another turn.  I
went up again.  This time I made a faultless
landing.  I had passed my test satisfactorily.
I felt happy and confident.  I
was now qualified to "conduct" an
aeroplane alone, and in a few weeks I would
be allowed to try for a brevet as military
pilot.

There were several other pilots whose
turns to pass to the "Grande Piste" came
before mine.  I had, therefore, to wait for
several days, which I used to advantage in
taking up the old "double-control"
machine alone.  In this way I was able to
make several ascensions and landings every
morning and every night.  This was to be
of the greatest service to me later, for
during these practice flights I acquired perfect
confidence in myself.  At other times, both
before and after working hours, my
"moniteur" would take me up with him as a
passenger for a newly discovered sport.
We would rush along the ground, barely
two feet above it, and put up partridges,
which abounded in the greatest numbers.
Our speed would enable us to overtake and
hit them with the wires of the machine and
kill them.  Running along the ground in
this way is always attended with danger,
but it was real sport.  One morning in
twenty minutes we killed six partridges in
this novel manner.

Finally my turn came.  I graduated from
the beginners' class at "La Mare de
Grenouille" to the company of the more
finished pilots of the "Grande Piste."  The
beginners' field is called the "frog's
meadow," because the landings are so hoppy.  On
the "Grande Piste" we had newer and faster
machines, and we could fly alone and go
practically anywhere we wished.  Six pilots
were assigned to one aeroplane.  We had
to divide up the time equally between each
pilot, so as to give every one an opportunity
of making at least two flights both morning
and afternoon.  A maximum height was
imposed upon each "équipe," and this was
gradually increased from five hundred feet
to a thousand, and then to one thousand
five hundred, as we became more and more adept.

Most of our time was given to making
landings and to accustoming ourselves to
volplaning.  The motor had to be reduced
at a predetermined distance from the field,
and the rest of the descent made by
volplaning to a given spot.  Spirals were also
made during each flight.  We would select
our landing-places and prepare ourselves for
the "atterrissage" by reducing our motor,
making due allowance for the drive of the
wind.  At about two hundred feet from
the ground we would suddenly turn on the
motor again, tilt up the tail, and resume
our flights.  This was excellent practice
and gave us more and more confidence in
our own ability to come down wherever we
wished.  The average layman cannot
understand why aviators spend so much time
turning in spirals as they approach the
ground.  It is because they are
manoeuvring for position to hold their headway
and land against the wind, as does a
sailing ship when beating up a harbor against
wind and tide.

Every day I took my machine up higher
and higher until I had gradually increased
my altitude to two thousand feet.  Here,
one day, I had a narrow escape.  I had
received orders to make a flight during
a snow-storm.  I rose to the prescribed
height and then prepared to make my
descent.  A whirling squall caught me in
the act of making a spiral.  I felt the tail
of my machine go down and the nose
point up.  I had a classical "perte de
vitesse."  I looked out and saw that I
was less than eight hundred feet above the
ground, and approaching it at an alarming
rate of speed.  I had already shut off the
motor for the spiral, and turning it on,
I knew, would not help me in the least.
Suddenly I remembered the pilot who
fainted.  I let go of everything, and with
a sickening feeling I looked down at the
up-rushing ground.  At that instant I
felt the machine give a lurch and right
itself.  I grabbed the controls, turned on
the motor and resumed my line of flight
only two hundred feet in the air.  All this
happened in a few seconds, but my
helplessness seemed to have lasted for hours.
I had had a very close call—not as close
as the man who fainted, but sufficiently
so for me.

.. _`"I had received orders to make a flight during a snow-storm"`:

.. _`The author, together with his first mechanic, at the "mitrailleuse"`:

.. figure:: images/img-062.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "I had received orders to make a flight during a snow-storm."

   "I had received orders to make a flight during a snow-storm."
   The author, together with his first mechanic, at the "mitrailleuse." 
   The second mechanic is standing on the wing.

Since that day I have seen several other
pilots experience a loss of speed under
similar circumstances.  Thanks to the thorough
instruction which we had received previous
to our being allowed to fly alone, their
lives, as well as my own, were saved.
Later we learned how the very dangers
which we had experienced as new aviators
often become the safety of expert pilots.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`PASSING THE FINAL TESTS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   PASSING THE FINAL TESTS

.. vspace:: 2

My équipe was now making flights
at three thousand feet and was
remaining up for an hour at a time.  We
had all flown alone for thirty hours and
were ready for our "épreuves."

The weather was cloudy, however, and
as our first examination was to be a height
test, we had to wait until it cleared.  It
would have been extremely difficult—in
fact, almost impossible—for us to go up
under existing conditions.  The first two
tests which we were required to pass
involved ascensions of six thousand feet;
then an hour at ten thousand.  If we
passed these satisfactorily we would next
be required to take a triangular voyage
of one hundred and fifty miles, making a
landing at each corner of the triangle.
Lastly, there was the ordeal of going up
to an altitude of one thousand five
hundred feet, where the motor had to be cut
off and the descent made by spirals to a
previously determined spot.

The day on which we were required to
begin our altitude flights the captain
assigned three machines to our équipe—that
is, one aero-biplane for each pair.
My chum, a sous-lieutenant, and I were
assigned to the same machine.  We
matched to see which one of us should
use it first.  He won and I helped him
prepare for the test.  I fastened on his
recording barometer, which indicates the
altitude reached by a machine, and he
climbed in.  Waving us a cheery "Au
revoir," he started off.  His machine
climbed fast.  To us he seemed to be going
too steeply.  We felt like shouting to him
to be careful, but we knew it was useless.
Suddenly his machine slipped off on the
wing.  For some unknown reason he failed
to shut off his motor.  His biplane engaged
in the fatal spiral.  There was a loud
report, like a cannon-shot, and the machine
collapsed.  The strain had been too great.
The top plane fell one way, the lower
another, while my friend and the motor
dropped like stones.

I would have given anything to put off
my own test for a few days, but within
twenty-four hours I received orders that
my turn had come; and orders were orders.
I made up my mind to be very careful
and to take my time about the climb.

That first flight at six thousand feet
gave me a thrilling sensation.  I
remembered my first flight alone, when I had
barely reached two hundred feet.  It
seemed now as if I was going to mount to
an indescribable height.  Since that day
I have had to go up that high often, and
even higher; but it has all become
commonplace, for familiarity breeds contempt
in the air as well as on land.

I was so very cautious about mounting
that twenty minutes elapsed before the
needle on my registering barometer marked
six thousand feet.  It was very cold.  The
wind struck my face with icy blasts, but
I was so excited that I did not really mind
it.  After a while I shut off the motor
and started to volplane to earth.  I came
down a little too rapidly and made a
very bad landing.  In fact, for a moment
I thought that I had broken my machine.
I was wet all through from the sudden
rise in temperature and stone-deaf.  It was
ten minutes before I could hear again.
Then I received my call-down.  It seems
that when a pilot has been up to a very
great height, he loses his sense of
altitude—his "sens de profondeur," as the French
call it.  When approaching the ground he
cannot tell whether he is twenty-five or
fifty feet in the air.  He must take every
care, before making contact, to train his
eye for "depths" again by flying a few
minutes fairly close to the ground.  It is
only a question of a few moments, but it
is a necessary precaution.

My next climb to six thousand feet was
better.  In fact, I felt a certain degree of
confidence.  It took me somewhat longer
to mount to the required height, because
some clouds came up and I had to search
for a hole through which to pass.
Everywhere below me, as far as my eyes could
reach, was a sea of clouds.  The sun was
shining on their snowy-white crests.  It
looked for all the world as though I was
looking down upon an enormous bowl of froth.

The following morning was the day fixed
for my ten-thousand-foot ascension.  The
atmosphere was remarkably clear, and I
felt an extraordinary sense of freedom and
power as I rose from the ground.  The
earth below me was bright with color.  As
I climbed higher the shades became less
brilliant.  At ten thousand feet all color
had vanished.  The only hue visible was a
varying degree of shading, gray and black.
Below me I could make out the city of
Chartres.  Forty miles away lay Orléans.
To one side, the Loire wound its course in
a gray, ribbon-like band.  On all sides the
straight, white roads were merely blurred
streaks in the murky mass.

A few days later I started on my endurance
test, the triangle, in company with
five other machines.  In this flight of two
hundred and fifty kilometres I had to
make landings at two towns where there
were aviation-fields, and the third my own
field.  At each place I had to report to
the aviation officer in charge and have my
papers signed.  In case of a breakdown on
this flight I had forty-eight hours in which
to make the necessary repairs and complete
the test.

.. _`A Farman artillery-machine`:

.. figure:: images/img-072.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: A Farman artillery-machine.

   A Farman artillery-machine.

The day of my triangle was a poor one
for flying.  It was the first warm morning
of early spring and the sun was just
soaking the moisture out of the ground.  The
air was, in consequence, spotty and there
were many "remous," or whirlpools.  These
whirlpools often cause a sudden "perte de
vitesse" and are therefore very dangerous.
The machine is sailing along quietly
and smoothly, when suddenly the controls
become lifeless.  You glance at your
speed-indicator and at your engine-speed.  Both
show that the machine is travelling well
above the minimum safety speed.  This
is apt to puzzle the beginner, for without
warning there follows a sudden jolt.  Your
machine trembles like a frightened horse
and unexpectedly leaps forward again.  On a
day like this you have to fight the machine
all the time to maintain its equilibrium.

The first leg of the triangle was
accomplished without incident.  As I was
starting my motor for the second stage,
however, I noticed that the ignition was faulty.
A spark-plug had become fouled with oil,
and I had to change it before venturing
up again.  My companions started
without me, calling out that I could catch up
with them at Versailles, where they
intended to lunch.  I hurriedly screwed on a
new spark-plug and threw my tool-bag
back into the box under the extra seat,
but in my hurry to be off I neglected to
fasten it down.  I was later to regret my
carelessness.

I soon found that in trying to catch up
with the others I had no easy task before
me.  The day was well advanced, and the
"remous" which I encountered were countless.
I climbed and climbed.  To no avail.
The cloud ceiling was at eighteen hundred
metres, and I could not escape the
"remous" so low.  The country below me was
all wooded and interspersed with lakes both
large and small.  There was not a landing-place
in view.  Suddenly I felt a hard blow
on the back of my head and a weight
pushing against me.  "Ça y est," I thought;
"the machine can't stand the buffeting
and has given way."  I ventured a look
back.  To my surprise, everything seemed
intact—everything except the observer's
seat, which was leaning against my head!
It was the seat which I had forgotten to
hook down at Châteaudun!  I was greatly
relieved, and fastened it back into place.

Just then I came within sight of
Versailles.  I looked for the aviation-field
at which I was supposed to land.  Instead
of one I saw three, lying about two
miles apart.  This was indeed a puzzle.
From the height at which I was flying I
could not make out which was the school.
I picked out one which I thought should
probably be the haven of refuge for my
storm-tossed aeroplane and spiralled down.
I climbed out of my machine.  No one
seemed to be about.  No mechanics ran
out to assist me, as is usually the case at
the schools.  "It must be the luncheon-hour,"
I thought, "and all the mecaniciens
are at déjeuner."  I glanced over to where
the machines were ranged in line.  To my
surprise, they were not of the model I had
seen at Pau and Chartres, but the latest
and fastest "avions de chasse."  Somewhat
uncertain as to my whereabouts, I
walked over to the office.  I was not left
long in ignorance of my error.  I had
landed on a secret testing-field, access to
which was obtained only by special
permit.  The sergeant advised me to lose no
time in leaving, for if the captain saw me
I would be speedily punished in accordance
with the military regulations.  I
needed no second urging, and within five
minutes I was on the right field, explaining
to my comrades why I had been so long
rejoining them.  It seems that they had
experienced a very pleasant flight all the
way, for the hour's start they had had
over me had enabled them to escape most
of the "remous," which are always at
their worst in the middle of the day.

Late in the afternoon we returned to
Chartres.  This was the most enjoyable
part of the day's flying.  The aerial
conditions were perfect and we were able to
allow ourselves the pleasure of appreciating
all the interesting places we passed over.
First we saw the beautiful valley of the
Chevreuse; then Rambouillet, with its
wonderful hunting and fishing preserves.
Next I caught a glimpse of the imposing
palace and gardens of Maintenon.  The
time passed all too quickly; yet when we
reached home it was almost dark.  We
all felt quite tired, but before putting our
machines away, however, we asked
permission to make our spirals, so that we
might complete every requirement of the
brevet before night set in.  We were
anxious to do this, so that we might obtain
our "permissions" immediately.  We did
not wish to lose a moment.  A four days'
leave is always accorded each pilot the
moment he has satisfactorily fulfilled all
the requirements of the course.  Our
request was granted and the final test was
successfully passed.

I was now a full-fledged aviator, with
the rank of corporal, with the regular pay
of eight cents a day and an additional
indemnity of forty-five cents as a member
of the Flying Corps.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE ZEPPELIN RAID OVER PARIS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   THE ZEPPELIN RAID OVER PARIS

.. vspace:: 2

I decided to spend my four days'
"permission" in Paris, the rendezvous
of all aviators when not on active service.
From the first I felt conscious of unusual
attention.  People seemed to treat me
with deference and with more respect
than I had ever before experienced.  I
could not account for it.  Then, of a
sudden, I chuckled to myself.  The envied
stars and wings on my collar were the
cause.  I was a "pilote aviateur," a
full-fledged member of the aerial light cavalry
of France.

For most "permissionnaires" Paris
usually offers only the distractions of its
theatres and restaurants, its boulevards,
and its beautiful monuments.  These
pleasures I also had looked forward to, but in
the first thirty-six hours of my visit
occurred another, more startling diversion—two
Zeppelin raids.  It was my first
real experience of the war.

The first alarm occurred as we were
leaving a restaurant after dinner.  A motor
fire-engine rushed by, sounding the alert
for the approaching enemy.  Pandemonium
reigned in the streets.  I hastened
to find a way to reach the aviation-field
at Le Bourget, where I felt that duty
called me.  The concierge hailed a taxi.  I
jumped in and gave the address to the
chauffeur.  "Le Bourget!  Oh, mais non,"
exclaimed the man; "monsieur must think
me a fool."  He flatly refused me as a
fare.  He was the father of a family, and
he certainly would not go to the very
spot where all the bombs were certain to
be dropped; besides—he did not have
enough gasolene in his tank for so long a
run.  We talked and argued.  In desperation
I thrust my hand in my pocket and
handed him a generous retainer.  At the
sight of the money he wavered.  I
followed up my advantage and promised
him a handsome tip if he started at once.
He threw in his clutch.  I had won my
first "engagement."

The streets were pitch-dark and jammed
with people, all staring heavenward.  The
feeble oil-lights of the taxicab barely lit
up their faces as we wound our way in
and out.  At breakneck speed we swung
right and left, sounding the horn and
crying out warning "attentions."  Near
the outskirts of the city we could see
search-lights flashing against the heavy
mist.  There was so much fog, however,
that they could not pierce the veil which
hung over the city.  At one thousand five
hundred feet the sky was opaque.  The
anti-aircraft batteries were barking and
sending off deep-red flashes into the
impenetrable murkiness in answer to
wireless signals from the invisible air guards
above.  Now and then a military automobile
dashed by.

.. _`Newspaper dropped by German raiders within the French lines`:

.. figure:: images/img-084.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: Newspaper dropped by German raiders within the French lines.

   Newspaper dropped by German raiders within the French lines.

As we neared Le Bourget, there was
a deep detonation.  A bomb had been
dropped.  The Zeppelin had arrived.  My
chauffeur in panic jammed on the brakes.
I was literally thrown out of the taxi and
into the arms of a waiting sentinel who
flashed an electric torch into my face.
The sergeant of the guard rushed up and
escorted me to the guard-house, where an
officer proceeded to question me.  I
immediately realized that I was an object of
suspicion.  Who was I and what was I
doing here?  Here I was, a foreigner in
the French uniform, and unknown to
them.  Instead of being welcomed at the
post of danger I found to my amusement
that I was temporarily under arrest.

Several more explosions were heard.
Then a deathlike silence.  The cannon
ceased their angry roar, the search-lights
put out their blinding rays.  Through the
window I noticed a large fire in the middle
of the "piste," where several cans of
gasolene had been ignited.  It was the signal
for the searching aeroplanes to return.
The Zeppelin had left.

As soon as the electric current had been
switched on again the captain returned.
He seemed surprised at my "enthusiasm."  "Just
like you Americans," he said
smiling.  "A man en permission, however,
should never look for trouble."  He then
explained that this night guarding
required special training.  Even had he
needed my services, I would have been
helpless, as I had never before flown after
sundown.

One by one the defenders of Paris
returned.  At two thousand feet they were
invisible, though we could hear the
humming of their motors.  Then, as they
came nearer and nearer we saw little
indefinite lights moving in the mist above
us, and finally the machines, their dimmed
search-lights yet staring like two great eyes.

About fifty aeroplanes are in the air
around Paris all the time.  Each pilot
remains up three hours, when he is relieved
by another flier.  When the Zeppelins are
known to have crossed the front, some
eighty miles away, the whole defense
squadron of two hundred takes to the air.
The organization of the aerial defense of
Paris is admirable, and it is this, together
with the efficient anti-aircraft posts in the
environs, which prevents the "Boches"
from raiding Paris more often.

I was allowed to examine everything at
my leisure, and took advantage of this
opportunity to gain as much information
as I could about the lighting systems and
the new models of small cannon which
had recently been installed on the
aeroplanes.  Presently I was greeted by one
of the pilots who had just landed.  He
proved to be an old acquaintance.

It seems that the Zeppelin had profited
by the mist to slip by our watchers at the
front, and had reached the very outskirts
of the city before it was sighted by the
air guards of Paris.  The Boches dropped
several bombs near the Gare du Nord
and in the vicinity of Le Bourget.  Then
they had vanished into the mist.  "How
could they ever find the railway-station
in the dark?" I asked.  "That's easy," he
answered.  "The Zeppelins are equipped
with a small observation-car that hangs
down on a long cable.  It is built
something like an aeroplane and travels about
five thousand feet below the dirigible.
This evening the raider flew at an altitude
of seven thousand feet, while the car
moved along only two thousand feet from
the ground.  Its passenger could, therefore,
locate everything easily and telephone the
directions to the commander above."  "But,"
I insisted, "how did they ever
locate the freight-yards in the
dark?"  "Easily," replied my companion; "their
spies had arranged all that.  They simply
hung a series of blue lights in the chimneys
of houses and laid out a path directly to
the spot."  These spies in all probability
had been already caught, but I was angry,
very angry, to realize that their
"espionage" was still so efficient.

On the way home Paris seemed surprisingly
normal again.  The street-lamps
were glowing peaceably and the cafés
were crowded with talkative men and
women.  I could not help thinking how
wonderful those people were, how
fearless and forgetful of danger.

The actual damage done by the bombs
during that raid was insignificant.  The
photographs published in the daily press
bore witness to this.  A few civilians were
killed, but no military damage was done.
It was only an attempt at terrorism.  I
visited one of the "craters" the next
morning.  The bomb had landed directly
over the subway and had blown a huge
hole in the pavement.  The tracks below
lay open to view.  Gangs of laborers were
already at work, not repairing the damage
but enlarging the hole.  I asked them
what this was for.  "Why, monsieur, it is
this way.  The health authorities always
insisted that a ventilator was needed in
this part of the 'Metropolitain.'  The
Boches obligingly saved us the trouble and
expense.  We are now merely going to put
a fence around it."

.. _`An anti-aircraft .75`:

.. figure:: images/img-090.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: An anti-aircraft .75.

   An anti-aircraft .75.

That night there was another alarm.
We were spending the evening with friends
in the Latin Quarter when the pompiers
startled us with their wailing sirens.  From
every direction came the "Alerte! the
Zeppelins are coming.  Lights out!"  One
by one the street-lamps faded, apartments
were darkened, and the street-cars stopped
where they were, plunged into darkness.
It was thrilling.  In the velvety gloom the
outlines of people and motors could be
seen moving about.  The corner of the
rue d'Assas alone remained illuminated.
A "bec de gaz" was still burning brightly,
to the rage of an old infantry colonel who
was too short to reach it himself.  To our
amusement, a little girl clad in a red
kimono and bedroom slippers ran out into
the street and volunteered her aid.  The
old soldier blurted out a word or two, then
lifted her up in his arms while she
extinguished the light.  "Thanks, mademoiselle.
Now, quick!" he gasped; "run back to bed."

We saw some of the people climb down
into their cellars.  The majority, however,
gathered in the streets, looking up at the
search-light swept sky.  Tiny, starlike lights
moved about above us and we knew that
aeroplanes of the "Garde de Paris" were
searching for the venturesome raider.  "I
don't believe the sales Boches and their
sausage balloon are coming this evening
to beg food," remarked one man.  "Oh,
no," answered another, "it is clear and
they well know that a Zeppelin over Paris
to-night is a Zeppelin less for Germany."  Just
then we heard the firemen coming
back.  Their bugles were playing a
jubilant call.  The Zeppelins had been
frightened away.  Everywhere lights were again
lit.  The people laughed good-naturedly at
their neighbors' strange attire.  "Quelle
guerre!" yawned the old officer at my
elbow; "down in the ground, under the sea,
and over our homes!  Quelle guerre!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AT THE ECOLE DE PERFECTIONNEMENT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   AT THE ECOLE DE PERFECTIONNEMENT

.. vspace:: 2

From Chartres I was sent to Châteauroux
to continue my studies and
perfect myself in flying.  Châteauroux is a
small provincial town situated half-way
between the château country and the
beautiful valley of the river Creuse.  It was
originally founded by the Romans, and
before the war had a large "caserne."  All
this is forgotten to-day in the glory of the
stream of air pilots that pass through the
"Ecole deviation militaire."  Soldiers are
to be found everywhere, but not aviators,
and the residents of Châteauroux are very
conscious of the honor conferred upon their
town.

When a pilot has received his "brevet"
he has really only begun his professional
education.  This I soon found out at
Châteauroux.  The day after my arrival I was
set to work making daily flights and
attending the various courses and lectures on
artillery-fire, bomb-dropping, war aviation,
"liaison," and the design of enemy aircraft.
The daily flights were very short, lasting
only fifteen minutes each.  We made three
or four of them each day, and their purpose
was chiefly to give us greater confidence in
making our landings.  We were allowed to
take up passengers, and we often paired off
and took each other up.  In this connection
it was amusing to see how every one
avoided being taken up by certain pilots.
Some men cannot fly: their temperaments
prevent it, and try as they will they
cannot improve.  This is generally due to sheer
stupidity or to lack of nerve.  One thing is
certain, and that is that these men will kill
themselves sooner or later if they persist in
their efforts to fly.

An incident occurred shortly after my
arrival at the school.  About thirty pilots
were receiving practical instruction on the
aviation-field and were standing around
two aeroplanes.  About a hundred feet
away another machine was making ready
to start.  When the mechanic spun the
propeller at the word from the aviator the
motor started, not slowly as it should, but
with a roar.  The machine began to roll
toward the group of men.  Instead of
cutting off the ignition—we found out later
that the wire connecting the throttle and
the carburetor was broken and that the
throttle was therefore turned on full—the
pilot lost his head.  He tried to steer
around the group of men in front of him.
The ground was muddy and very slippery,
which made escape almost impossible.  In
their hurry to get away several men lost
their footing and fell down in the very
path of the onrushing biplane.  We thought
that at least a dozen would be crushed or
else decapitated by the rapidly revolving
propeller.  Fortunately no one was
seriously injured.  Even the stupid pilot
escaped unscathed.  The three machines,
however, were completely wrecked.  Needless
to say, the offender was immediately
dismissed from the aviation school and sent
back to his regiment.  His escapade had
cost the government about ten thousand
dollars.  Even had there been no damage
to the machines it is doubtful whether any
further chances would have been taken
with a man of such a temperament.

There is not much to tell of the daily
flights which we made.  The weekly trips,
however, proved extremely interesting.  We
usually covered at least a hundred miles
and flew at a height of over six thousand
feet.

.. _`A bad landing`:

.. figure:: images/img-098.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: A bad landing.

   A bad landing.

My first trip was to the aviation school
near Bourges, situated on the estates of the
Count d'Avord, who has lent the ground to
the government for the duration of the
war.  It is a much larger school than any
I had attended, and its instruction covers
every type of machine.  The most
important course given is that in night flying.
All the aviators who have been selected for
the bombarding-machines and for the work
of guarding cities are sent here.  Their life
is the exact opposite of that led by the
average pilot, for they sleep all day and
work all night.  All this was so new to me
that I found much of interest.  What
surprised me most was to learn that night
flying is really easier than day work.  The
reason given is that after sunset there are
no "remoux," and that, when it comes to
making landings, the aviation-fields are so
well lighted that the pilots have no more
difficulty making contact than in the
daytime.  It is another matter, of course, if an
aviator meets with a mishap and is forced
to alight elsewhere.  Under those
circumstances the story is usually a sad one.

One of the longest flights I made was to
Tours.  Since then I have often thought
how strange it was to be flying over this
historic region of France.  We took it as a
matter of course, but what would the
ancient heroes of France have thought had
they seen us?  One week we were over
Bourges, called the source of the French
nation, for it was from here that the
Duke de Berry sallied forth and conquered
the English hosts, bringing to a close the
struggle which had lasted for a century.
The next week we were over Lorraine and
the châteaux of the Bourbon kings, who
did many great deeds, but had surely never
thought of flying.

The lectures which we attended every
day were extremely important.  The first
subject covered had reference to artillery-fire
and the theory of trajectories.  It is
essential that aviators be familiar with
the parabola described by the shells fired
by cannon of various calibers.  If they
are not, some day they may unconsciously
fly in the very path of shells sent by their
own guns and be killed by projectiles not
meant for them.  The "seventy-five"
field-guns, when firing at long ranges, have to
elevate their muzzles so much that their
shells describe a high parabola before they
explode over the enemy's trenches.  The
very heavy shells, on the other hand, like
those of the 420-centimetre French pieces
and the famous German "Big-Berthas,"
rise to a point almost over their target and
then drop suddenly.  Aviators must
become familiar with this and with a
hundred other peculiarities of artillery-fire.
When flying over the front it is too late
to acquire this knowledge.  Information
has to be gained beforehand or you stand
the chance of being annihilated with your
machine.  An aviator I know involuntarily
got into the path of a seventy-seven or
seventy-five caliber shell.  He is alive
to-day, but he lost his left foot in the
"collision."  He just managed to come down
within our lines before he had bled too
much to recover.

Our next subject for study was "liaison,"
which means the science of maintaining
communication between the several
branches of an army.  During an attack
upon the enemy's position each arm of
the service has its own part to play.  The
artillery has to prepare the way for the
infantry, and at a given signal the infantry
must be ready to rush forward to the
attack.  As the infantry carry the positions
before them and move forward the
artillery-fire must be correspondingly
lengthened; the supply-trains have to keep the
necessary amount of ammunition and shells
and other material supplied to the infantry
and artillery; while the cavalry must be
ready to charge the moment a favorable
opening presents itself.  For all this
co-ordination there are various "agents de
liaison."  There are messengers on foot,
and despatch-bearers on horseback, and
motor-cycles; there are visual signals, such
as the signal-flags, the semaphore, and the
colored fires and star shells; and there are
the telephone and the telegraph.  None of
these are depended upon by the army
headquarters as much as the aviation corps, the
"agent de liaison par excellence."  It is
one of the most important rôles that
aviators are called upon to play at the front,
and we were being prepared for this work
by very special instruction.

Under the subject of "war aviation"
we studied the designs of the various enemy
aircraft, and the pitfalls which are
encountered at the front.  Then followed a course
in bomb-dropping.  This was a practical
course, and our method of learning was as
peculiar as it was ingenious.  A complete
bomb-dropping apparatus was mounted
on stakes about twenty-five feet above the
ground.  Under this there was a miniature
landscape painted to scale on canvas.  It
was a regular piece of theatrical scenery
mounted on rollers so that it could be
revolved to represent the passage of the
earth under your machine.  We would
climb into the seat on the stilts and
consider ourselves flying at some arbitrary
height.  Through our range-finder we would
gaze down at the "land," and as a town
appeared we would make allowances
through the system of mirrors arranged
by the range-finder for our speed and
height and for an imaginary wind.  At
the calculated moment the property bombs
would be loosed.

When I came to Châteauroux I thought
that I knew something about aviation
because I had obtained my "brevet."  I soon
realized how very little of the ground I had
actually covered.  In fact, after four weeks
of this advanced work I felt as if I would
never acquire all the knowledge required
for work at the front.  Just then about
twenty of us were selected to go into the
reserve near the front, to fill vacancies
caused by casualties.  At last!  We were
off for the front!

I left Châteauroux for the reserve at
Plessis-le-Belleville with a certain feeling
of uneasiness, yet with the certainty that
in case of emergency I knew almost
instinctively what to do.  In addition, I had
become thoroughly familiar with the perils
of the air which pilots are called upon to
meet most often.  These dangers are the
same as those encountered on the high
seas by sailors: fog, fire, and a lee shore.
Take fog, for example.  The most difficult
operation in flying is the "atterrissage"
(landing).  Now, in a fog you must land
almost by chance.  You cannot see the
ground until it is too late for your eyesight
to be of any use.  Your altimetre is
supposed to register your height above the
ground, but no altimetre is delicate enough
to keep up with the rapid descent of an
aeroplane.  It is always from fifteen to
twenty yards behind your real height.
Nor is this all.  The altimetre "begins at
the ground"; it registers your height above
the altitude from which you started.  Now,
since all ground is more or less irregular,
you may be coming down on a spot lower—or,
much worse, higher—than that from
which you started.  Besides, when a fog
comes up the atmospheric pressure changes
and, as the altimetre is a barometer, it
becomes from that moment unregulated.
Then, of course, on landing you may strike
bad ground—houses or shrubbery or
fences, all of which adds to the
uncertainty and risk.

The danger from fire has never been
entirely eliminated, although it is not
to-day as great as it was before aeroplane
engines reached their present perfection.
The greatest danger lies in the propeller.
The slightest obstacle will break it, and if
the motor cannot be stopped instantly
the increased revolutions are certain to
force the flame back into the carburetor
and you are "grillé" before you can land.
Aviators are from the first instructed to
leave nothing loose about the machine or
their clothing.  Many pilots have been
killed because their caps blew off, caught
in the propeller, and broke it.  So fast and
powerful is the motion of the propeller
that I have seen machines come out of a
hail-storm with the blades all splintered
from striking the hailstones.  There have
been experiments made with fire-proof
machines, but none have yet proved
successful.  Fireproofing is apt to make a
machine too heavy and cumbersome.

The last peril of the air we were warned
against was that of the lee shore.  In
landing you should always do so against the
wind.  This is the first principle drummed
into the beginners at the schools.  If you
make an "atterrissage" with the wind
behind you, you roll along the ground so
fast and so far that you are apt to meet
an obstacle which will either wreck your
machine or else cause it to turn a
somersault.  Yet, when making a landing against
the wind, the force of the breeze blowing
toward you will sometimes prevent you
from coming down where you had planned.
On many occasions I have seen aeroplanes
remain practically stationary in the air,
while descending, and sometimes even move
backward in reference to the ground.
This has to be considered by the pilot
and grasped on the instant, or else he will
surely come to grief by hooking some
object in his descent.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE RÉSERVE GÉNÉRALE DE L'AVIATION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   THE RÉSERVE GÉNÉRALE DE L'AVIATION

.. vspace:: 2

The "Réserve Générale de l'Aviation,"
"R.G.A.," or, as it is more
commonly known, the "Groupe d'Entrainement,"
is situated northeast of Paris, on
the plains of Valois.  It was there that
General Maunoury, in September, 1914,
launched his turning movement against
the German right flank under General von
Kluck, and helped save France in the
great battle of the Marne.  The country
in this section is ideal for aviation, for
the hills are low and rolling, and there
are very few "obstacles."  In a large
forest—an "obstacle"—the village of
Ermenonville lies.  Here we were billeted, while
the commanding officer of the reserve
made his headquarters in the château of
the Prince Radzivill, the "patron" of the
neighborhood.

The organization of the reserve is
stupendous.  There are four separate camps,
one for each branch of aviation, and there
are over one hundred machines in each
camp.  We were practically our own
masters, and could make flights whenever and
wherever we wished.  The idea is that the
pilots here have an opportunity of
perfecting themselves and that, if they do not
fly, why, then it is their own loss.
Acrobatics and all sorts of feats are encouraged.
Accidents occur every day, but we were
here on "active service" and our time was
far too taken up with our work for any one
to pay much attention to the unlucky
ones.  That, at the front, is a duty
reserved for the medical corps.

Now that we were all gathered in one
great camp, I had the opportunity of
noticing more than before the different types
of men that are to be found in the French
Flying Corps.  Unlike the conscript
"poilu" of the army, every aviator is a
volunteer.  Aviation is far more dangerous
than fighting in the trenches, yet there
are many who have preferred the extra
risk of being in the Aviation Corps to the
tedium of remaining in the narrow-walled
trenches.  I believe there is at present a
waiting list of over six thousand men who
have applied for service in the Flying
Corps, but for whom there are still no
vacancies.  A pilot may resign his
commission at any time and return to his regiment
at the front, but the majority of the
"vacancies" are caused by casualties.
Curiously enough, there are many men who
have been rendered unfit by wounds for
service in the infantry, who have
volunteered for the air service.  A people with
such patriots surely can never be defeated.

The French army understands that flying
calls for the most intense kind of
concentration, mental as well as physical.
Every effort is therefore made to absolve
the aviators from all work except that of
running the machines and seeing that they
are well cared for.  My old football trainer
in college used to say that his principle
was to wrap the men in cotton-wool when
they were off the field and drive them for
all they were worth when they were in the
field.  The French seem to have the same
theory about aviation.  No one who has
not tried it can appreciate the tremendous
strain of flying.  After a few hours in the
air I find that I am more exhausted than
I used to be after a hard football match.

While the matter of personal habits is
left to the aviator's judgment, he is
usually cautioned about drinking, smoking,
and even overeating.  You need all the
strength there is in you when in the air.
The French, as every one knows, drink
wine as we drink tea and coffee.  Yet I
have noticed that French aviators, when
they are at work at the front, merely color
their water with the wine.  Many of them
smoke cigarettes only in moderation.

The democracy existing in the French
army since the outbreak of hostilities
has aroused the enthusiasm of every
observer and has caused much surprise to
incredulous pacifists.  The Aviation Corps
I found even more democratic among
themselves than the other branches of the
service.  I suppose one of the reasons for
this total absence of distinction between
officers and men is because they all have
passed through the same schools, through
the same courses of training, and have run
the same risks.  Among the pilots,
however, one may notice three classes.  The
first and predominating class is that
composed of "gentlemen."  By gentlemen I
mean gentlemen in the English sense—men
who in private life have the leisure
time to be sportsmen, and who in war
have chosen aviation because it is a more
sporting proposition than fighting in the
trenches.  The second class comprises those
who before the war were professional pilots
or aviation mechanics.  In the third class
one finds men who were mechanics or
chauffeurs by trade and who were accepted
because their knowledge of machinery
would ultimately help them to become pilots.

The best pilots are obtained from men
between the ages of twenty and thirty.
Under twenty a boy is too impetuous, and
over thirty a man is apt to be too cautious.
Of course, there are exceptions, but these
limits express the preferences of the
instructors at the schools.

At the "R.G.A." there is also a course
for the training of young artillery officers
who have volunteered as observers for the
aviation.  Our duty as pilots was to take
one of these officers up with us every time
we made a flight, so as to give him "air
sense."  We would make imaginary
reconnoissances all over the country, regulate
supposed batteries, and go on photographic
missions.  The observer would send off his
reports by wireless and direct us by his
maps, while we would do our best to throw
him off his guard and make him lose his
bearings.  In this way observer and pilot
work together and help each other with
observations and advice.  During my stay
at the "R.G.A." my partner was a young
artillery officer who had just been promoted
from the ranks.  He was very clever and
full of enthusiasm for his work, and we
derived much pleasure from our association.

"Réglage," or fire-control, was a course
that involved practice, constant practice,
and still more practice, in developing a
faculty for reading distances.  We would
go up and try to estimate just where the
puffs of smoke, representing the explosion
of shells, went off.  The corrections then
had to be wirelessed to the battery, so that
the next shots might get "home."  In real
observation work the observer does all this.
The pilot merely flies the machine.  It is
thought best, however, for the pilot to
have the same training and technic as
the observer, so that he may help the
latter.

While stationed at the Réserve I made
some most interesting trips around the
country, up and down the valley of the
Marne, over the forest of Compiègne, and
even over Paris.  In fact, I was at liberty
to go anywhere, except in a northeasterly
direction, for there there was always a
danger of getting across the lines.  Two or
three machines disappeared in the course
of a year, and it is thought that the pilots
must have committed an "indiscretion"
and fallen into the hands of the Germans
for their pains.

Once I was sent to Bar-le-Duc to bring
an old machine back to Plessis.  The
distance, as the crow flies, was one hundred
and fifty miles, over Châlons, across
Champagne, and down the valley of the Marne.
I enjoyed this flight immensely, though it
nearly ended disastrously.  The aeroplane I
brought back was regulated for the weight
of two men, so that when I flew in it
alone I had to fight it all the way to
keep it from climbing too far.  Every
moment I had to keep pushing against
the control and it almost exhausted me.
There was a low ceiling of clouds and I
simply could not let the machine have its
own way.  To add to my aggravation, the
motor stopped as I was passing over a
forest.  There was nothing to do but
volplane down, though I did not see how I
could ever avoid the trees.  Unexpectedly
a clear landing-place loomed up ahead of
me, but before reaching it I felt that I
would be in the tree-tops.  Worst of all, I
had a lee shore.  Across my path I
suddenly noticed a canal lined with poplars.  I
could not possibly pass over them, so I
pressed desperately against my rudder
controls.  Being near the ground, it was a
frightfully short and sharp turn.  I thought
that the tip of one of my wings would
touch the branches of the trees while the
other would scrape the ground; then I
would be crushed under the motor.  At
that moment the machine straightened
itself out and came to a stop in a ploughed
field.  It was a very close call.

I shall never forget one of my flights
over Paris.  The day was beautiful.  The
atmosphere was so clear that one could
see for miles and miles.  As I approached
the city it looked like a toy model.  Every
street, almost every house, stood out in
perfect detail.  The white church on the hill
of Montmartre glistened like ivory.
Beyond it I could see the Arc de Triomphe
and the Tour Eiffel.

I stayed up so long that my supply of
gasolene was almost exhausted, and I was
obliged to land to refill the tank.  I chose
the aviation-field at Le Bourget, the scene
of my first war experience on the night of
the Zeppelin raid.  As it happened, I again
selected an unusual occasion for my visit.
This time, however, the extraordinary
activity was not due to an unwelcome visit
by the Germans.  It was rather to
celebrate the perfection of an unpleasant
surprise for the hated Boches.

Great crowds lined the field on every
side.  In the centre stood a small group of
prominent officials.  Among them I
recognized President Poincaré.  They were
examining a new weapon with which French
aeroplanes would henceforth go
"sausage-hunting" over the German lines.

Even the casual visitor to the front is
struck by the great number of observation
balloons which both sides use in their
efforts to keep informed of the preparations
being made by the enemy.  Every few
miles a captive balloon or "sausage" wafts
lazily over the German lines, fairly far
behind the lines, but at an altitude sufficient
for observation purposes.  Against these
"monsters" aeroplanes heretofore had been
powerless.  Their machine guns fired
bullets which, even if incendiary, were too
small to set on fire the gas-containing
envelope.  The aircraft cannon carried by
some of the French machines also proved
useless.  The holes their projectiles made
in the balloons were too small to allow a
sufficient quantity of air to enter and cause
an inflammable mixture.

The rockets, which were being examined
as I landed at Le Bourget, solved the
problem.  Four are mounted on each side of an
aeroplane.  At the head of each rocket is
a large dart, resembling a salmon-gaff.
The tails of the rockets are wound into
spiral springs, which are held in sockets.
All eight rockets are fired at once.  They
are ignited as they leave their sockets, and
travel with lightning speed.

Swinging lazily above the field was a
captive balloon.  At one end of Le Bourget
was a line of waiting aeroplanes.  "This
is the second.  They have already brought
down one balloon," remarked the man at
my elbow.  The hum of a motor caused
me to look up.  A wide-winged
double-motor Caudron had left the ground and
was mounting gracefully above us.  Up
and up it went, describing a great circle,
until it faced the balloon.  Every one
caught his breath.  The Caudron was
rushing straight at the balloon, diving for
the attack.

"Now!" cried the crowd.  There was a
a loud crack, a flash, and eight long rockets
darted forth, leaving behind a fiery trail.
The aviator's aim, however, was wide, and,
to the disappointment of every one, the
darts fell harmlessly to the ground.

Another motor roared far down the
field, and a tiny "appareil de chasse" shot
upward like a swallow.  "A Nieuport,"
shouted the crowd with one voice.  Eager
to atone for his "copain's" failure, and
impatient at his delay in getting out of
the way, the tiny biplane tossed and
tumbled about in the air like a clown in
the circus-ring.

"Look!  He's looping!  He falls!  He
slips!  No, he rights again!" cried a
hundred voices as the skilful pilot kept our
nerves on edge.

.. _`A heavy bombarding-machine`:

.. figure:: images/img-124.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: A heavy bombarding-machine.

   A heavy bombarding-machine.

Suddenly he darted into position and
for a second hovered uncertainly.  Then,
with a dive like that of a dragon-fly, he
rushed down to the attack.  Again a sheet
of flame and a shower of sparks.  This
time the balloon sagged.  The flames
crept slowly around its silken envelope.
"Touché!" cried the multitude.  Then
the balloon burst and fell to the ground,
a mass of flames.  High above, the little
Nieuport saucily continued its pranks, as
though contemptuous of such easy prey.

To the north a group of tiny specks in
the sky seemed to grow in size and number.
Nearer and nearer they came.  I knew
they must be a bombarding escadrille,
returning from a raid across the enemy's
lines.  One, two, three, I counted them,
up to twelve.  Slowly they floated along
as if tired by their long flight, and then
gently they began to drop down.

They rolled smoothly across the field
and stopped before their hangars.  Cannon
protruded menacingly from their armored,
boat-shaped bodies as the pilots climbed
down and stretched themselves.

"At the front this morning, to-night
they can dine in Paris," jealously sighed
an infantry officer.  "But," replied an
aviator from our group, "there are two
of them who will probably never dine in
Paris again.  Fourteen started out this
morning.  Now they number only twelve."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ORDERED TO THE FRONT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   ORDERED TO THE FRONT

.. vspace:: 2

After three weeks at Plessis-le-Belleville
I became "disponible," that is
to say, I was listed among the first twenty
aviators who were considered ready for
duty at the front.  From that moment
orders directing my future movements
might be received any minute, and I was
under restriction not to stray too far away.
I must say that I experienced a curious
sensation, waiting around in this way,
not knowing where I would be in a week.
You never know to what sector of the
front you are going until your orders are
handed to you.  Three days after my
name had been posted on the bulletin-board
an order came detaching five pilots
for duty with the "Armée de l'Orient" at
Salonica.  My name was sixth on the list,
so I missed by one being among them.
That evening, however, my turn came.
This time the direction was Toul.

When men leave the Réserve for the
front there are no sad leave-takings.  Every
pilot seems to be glad that his turn has
come to do his share in the defense of his
country, and instead of being downcast he
is light-hearted.  Yet the part which he is
to play in the air involves chances which
are four to one against his coming through alive.

It is customary for a pilot to spend two
days in Paris before starting for his
ordered destination.  Officially my leave was
due to begin only on the following
morning.  I decided, however, to take time by
the forelock and to be off that night.  In
this way I would gain twelve hours
additional leave.  All the "paperasserie"—red
tape—was first disposed of, and then
I proceeded to pack my effects.  These I
had drawn from the aviation quartermaster's
depot.  There was my fur-lined
union suit, a fur overcoat, fur boots, gloves,
and cap.  I also received an automatic
pistol with a holster, a special aeroplane
compass, an "altimetre," a special
aviation clock mounted on wire springs, and
a speed-indicator.  These were furnished
to me by the government, and became
my property.  I had the privilege of
providing myself with anything else I wished,
but the government outfit always had to
be at hand for inspection.

Fortunately I had just time to make
the evening train for Paris.  According
to my pass, I was on "service
recommandé" and on my way to the front,
where in a few days I would be flying over
the German lines.  The moment I had
looked forward to for so many months
had at last come.  I could hardly believe
it myself.

My two days in Paris passed like magic.
There was so much to attend to, so much
to do, that before I knew it the moment
to leave had come.  I took a taxi to the
Gare de l'Est, my wife and my little girl
accompanying me.  My luggage consisted
of my black army canteen, across the front
of which was painted in white letters
"Carroll Winslow—Pilote Aviateur," and
my long canvas duffel-bag, which
contained my fur-lined clothes and all my
flying paraphernalia.  There are usually
so many formalities to be complied with
that I allowed more than enough time for
the visa of my papers.  It was well that
I did.  The station was crowded with
grimy, blue-coated "poilus," walking up
and down the waiting-rooms and lounging
on the stone steps; outside others were
saying good-by to their families, while
across the street large numbers crowded
about the free "buffets," where patriotic
women of Paris daily minister to the
wants of the departing "permissionnaires."  All
the men wore their steel helmets,
and had their knapsacks strapped to their
shoulders.  They were not as smart-looking
as the khaki-clad British "Tommies," but
despite their muddy boots and faded
uniforms there was something in their faces,
a look in their eyes, that seemed to say:
"No sacrifice is too great—for France."  I
felt proud to think that I was one of
them, and their quiet salutes showed me
that I had their respect.  The regard of
those grave, war-worn men meant much
to me.  My wife and I silently watched
what was going on about us, while our
little girl chattered at our side.  Many
women accompanied their "braves" to
the station.  Most of them carried baskets
of food and delicacies, but some, too poor
even to buy a present for their "poilus,"
came empty-handed.  The moments of
leave-taking seemed almost tragic.  Many
a man went up those steps whistling and
with head erect, while others laughed as
they tossed their little ones high in the air
for a last good-by.  These were fine
examples, and when the porter touched me
on the arm and said: "The train for Toul,
m'sieu'," I too was able to bear it calmly.

The cars were already crowded with
"poilus."  Not a seat was to be had in the
compartments.  Standing-room in the
corridors was at a premium.  We were all
bound in the same general direction, toward
Verdun, Nancy, and Toul.

The train came to a stop at last.  We
were at Bar-le-Duc, the terminus for
Verdun.  What an air of mystery there was
about the station at "Bar."  We could
hear the distant roar of the cannon
defending the banks of the Meuse.
Everywhere men moved about with a sort of
suppressed excitement.  "Camions" rumbled
by in hundreds.  In the freight-yard
troops filled every available space not
already taken up by the newly arrived
artillery.  Nearly all my travelling companions
left me here.  For a moment I wished that
I too had been ordered to the Verdun
sector.  It was after sundown when the train
drew into the station at Toul.  The town
was in darkness, and I felt very doubtful
as to whether I would be able to join my
escadrille that night.  To my surprise, an
officer, noticing my indecision, came up
to me and asked if he could help me.  I
told him where I wanted to go and
inquired if he could direct me.  "Why, it is
too late to do this to-day," he remarked;
"better wait until the morning."  With
that he motioned me to step into his
automobile and directed the chauffeur to drive
us to the Etat-Major.

As we rolled through the streets of the
silent city I had a moment to reflect upon
what all this meant.  I began to realize
that a change had taken place in my
position.  I was no longer a mere soldier, but
an aviator and as such entitled to
courtesies usually extended only to officers in
the other branches of the army.  There
is no mention of this custom in the
regulations.  It was merely an unwritten
paragraph of military etiquette.  Here was an
officer, my superior in rank, treating me
with a consideration I had rarely
experienced.  I noticed by the insignia on his
overcoat that he was a captain in the
Aviation Corps.  He was therefore a pilot.  I
thought for a few moments.  Suddenly an
idea occurred to me.  I was also a pilot,
and in the eyes of traditional convention
we were comrades, for we were both
aviators.  At the Etat-Major the colonel
like-wise extended a warm welcome and shook
me heartily by the hand.  I suppose that
my being an American had something to
do with it, but I could not help thinking
that I was still only a corporal.  He
immediately gave orders to requisition a large
room for me at the hotel, and bade me
hurry or I would be late for dinner.  No
wonder aviators are inspired to do such
splendid work at the front when their
efforts meet with so much appreciation.

The next morning I started out soon
after sunrise to walk out to the aviation-field.
Everywhere, above the streets of
Toul, there were posters which read "Cave
Voutée," and with the number of
persons, varying from fifteen to sixty, who
could be accommodated.  These cellars
were protected with sand-bags and were
located at convenient intervals, so that
the people might find shelter quickly
whenever the German aeroplanes made
their appearance.  Only a few days
previous to my arrival there had been a raid,
yet everything seemed normal and the
housewives went about their marketing
and shopping as if they had nothing else
to think about.

An hour's walk brought me to my
escadrille, F-44.  I was barely in time.
Orders had just been received transferring
it to the Verdun sector and preparations
to move camp were already under way.
Every one went to work with a will,
laughing and jumping around in a sort of
war-dance.  No wonder they were happy.
They—we, I should say, for I was now
one of them—were about to become
participants in the world's greatest defensive
battle.

.. _`A German aeroplane brought down by a French aeroplane`:

.. figure:: images/img-138.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: A German aeroplane brought down by a French aeroplane. The smoke is from the German machine, which the aviator has set fire to upon being brought down.  The French machine can be seen to the right, its wing broken by a bad landing.  The small dots in the center are French soldiers.  The white lines are the French third-line trenches. The French pilot with his German prisoner (insert).

   A German aeroplane brought down by a French aeroplane.
   The smoke is from the German machine, which the aviator has
   set fire to upon being brought down.  The French machine can 
   be seen to the right, its wing broken by a bad landing.  The
   small dots in the center are French soldiers.  The white
   lines are the French third-line trenches. 
   The French pilot with his German prisoner (insert).

The aeroplanes started for Bar-le-Duc
"by air" shortly after noon.  One pilot
and myself, however, had to make the
journey by rail.  My own machine had
not yet arrived, and his had been smashed
up the day before.  When the German
raiders came over Toul he had gone up
with the defending aeroplanes, and had
brought down an aviatik which he had
engaged.  It is customary for a pilot, when
driven down in the enemy's territory to
set fire to his machine to prevent it from
falling into the hands of his adversaries.
This the German proceeded to do the
moment he touched ground.  My friend was
frantic to prevent this and tried to make
a quick landing in order to get to him in
time.  He was too excited, however, and
smashed one of the wings of his own
machine during the landing.  This occurred
just behind the French third-line trenches.
The soldiers rushed out and made the
German pilot a prisoner, but not until after
he had applied the match to his gasolene-tank.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN THE VERDUN SECTOR`:

.. class:: center large bold

   IN THE VERDUN SECTOR

.. vspace:: 2

At Bar-le-Duc I felt again the
suppressed excitement of the near-front.
Everywhere were "Cave Voutée" signs,
troops were in motion on all sides, sentries
were posted at every street-corner, every
one seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere.

Our escadrille was camped in a field
adjoining that occupied by the American
Escadrille.  Our "train" consisted of a
dozen light, covered trucks with their
tent-like trailers, and three automobiles for the
use of the officers and pilots.  Our camp
was pitched by the time I had made the
trip from Toul by rail, and the array of
tents and the park of tractors had every
outward appearance of a country circus.  It
was my first impression of an air-squadron
camp at the front, and I must admit that
my previous conception of the amount of
equipment required by each of these units
was far below what I now beheld.  The
personnel of my escadrille alone looked
like an expeditionary force for service in
Mexico.  There were a dozen artillery-observers,
seven pilots, countless mechanics,
chauffeurs, orderlies, servants, wireless
operators, photographers, and other
"attachés," over a hundred and twenty-five
men in all.  Each of these hundred-odd
men were essential to the work of the
nineteen pilots and observers.

It was a pleasant surprise to find the
American pilots here.  I had not heard
that they had been ordered to the Verdun
sector.  This honor had been thrust upon
them unexpectedly.  They were now here,
among the best fighting units of the French
Army, to protect the photography,
fire-control, and bombarding-machines of this
sector.  Their camp was thirty miles
behind the lines, but with their fast little
Nieuports it took them less than fifteen
minutes to be in the thick of the fray.
The government had given them a large,
comfortable villa to live in.  I must say
I felt a bit envious when I compared their
feather-beds and baths with my little tent
and canvas-covered cot.

That evening I had dinner with my
compatriots.  It was a meal I will never
forget.  As visiting pilot I was seated on
the right of their commander, Captain
Thenault.  Across the table, opposite me,
sat Victor Chapman, Norman Prince, and
Kiffen Rockwell—all three since fallen on
the "champ d'honneur."  At the other end
of the table were Elliot Cowdin, Jim
McConnell, and "Red" Rumsey, together with
Clyde Balsley, Chouteau Johnston, and
Dudley Hill.  Bill Thaw was not with us,
as he was in the hospital, having been
wounded in a recent combat with a Boche.
The places of the three pilots killed have
since been taken by other volunteers, but
in the minds and memories of the
Americans dining at the camp that night their
places can never be filled.  We know that
they did not die in vain, and that what
they did will live in history.  Their spirit
was one of sincere patriotism to the cause
they had made their own, and among the
Allies the sympathy and the belief they
expressed has been amply proved.

The escadrille was to make its first
sortie as a unit in the morning.  Captain
Thenault had much to say to his men, and
after dinner the conversation continued
along the same general lines.  There seemed
to be so much detail to attend to and
signals to arrange that I was almost tempted
to ask them how escadrilles ever managed
to co-operate so well in the presence
of the enemy air squadrons.

.. _`A bi-motor Caudron`:

.. _`A captured Fokker`:

.. figure:: images/img-146.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: A bi-motor Caudron.

   A bi-motor Caudron.
   A captured Fokker.

When I awoke next morning it was
raining.  The clouds hung low, too low for
flying over the lines, so the Americans
remained in their beds.  Our escadrille,
however, was obliged to move on, as the
station to which it had been assigned was
directly behind the lines.  The planes had
to proceed "par la voie de l'air," but the
ground was so soft and muddy that it was
difficult to get the machines to leave the
earth.  The pilots all seemed nervous, yet
all rose in good form except one, who was
a little late in getting off.  He did not
know the way, and was afraid of losing his
companions in the mist.  In his haste he
took too short a run, so that when he came
to the end of the field he was not high
enough to clear the line of hangars in his
path.  To make matters worse the unlucky
man lost his head.  He tried to make a
sharp turn, but it was too late.  The tip
of his wing caught the canvas of the tent,
and the machine fell with a crash to the
ground, killing the pilot and pinning his
mechanic beneath the wreckage.

We felt much depressed by this accident.
Our departure for the new camp seemed to
emphasize our sadness, for, as we moved
off in our long line of motors our
procession had an appearance almost funereal.
First came the automobiles; then, following
them, the twelve tractors and
trailers—twenty-seven vehicles in all—moving
slowly toward the front.

As we turned into the main road to
Verdun the traffic was so heavy that we had
to move at a snail's pace.  Ahead of us
rumbled a steady stream of "camions"
with ammunition and supplies.  Alongside
of the road were the columns of troops
going to the trenches.  Their heavy coats
were already soaked, and the probability
was that they would remain so for a week,
but nothing daunted them.  They just
plodded along gayly, singing their marching
songs, utterly unmindful of the rain-drops
that were hourly weighting down their
equipment more and more.

From the opposite direction came the
empty supply-trains.  Sandwiched in with
these were ambulances and motor-buses,
bearing the men returning from their
"stage" in the trenches.  The poor fellows
looked hardly human, for they were brown
with mud from head to foot.  Their faces
were caked with dirt, and a week's growth
of beard gave them a still more uninviting
appearance.  They seemed to gaze at us
with a far-away, half-conscious expression,
so utterly stupefied were they by the
terrible bombardment to which they had been
subjected.

The farther we went the more numerous
were the evidences of war.  The roar of
the cannonade became louder.  On both
sides of the roads the villages were in ruins.
Not a farmhouse was inhabited, and the
fields were dotted everywhere with soldiers'
graves; on each cross hung the "képi" of
the dead hero.  In some of the military
cemeteries there were graves without little
wooden crosses—only a small fence marked
them off from the rest.  These, I was told,
were the graves of the Mohammedan
African troops, whose comrades claimed for
them a plot apart from the "unsacred
ground" used by their Christian allies.

It was almost dark by the time we
reached our new camping-site.  The fields
were soaked with the heavy rain, and we
splashed about in the mud for hours before
the task of pitching camp was completed.
By nine o'clock, however, all was ready
and we sat down to a good, warm supper.
Then we turned in.  It was so cold and
chilly that I went to bed in my fur-lined
clothes.  But tired as I was I could not
get to sleep.  The roar of the artillery was
frightful.  On every side of us it crashed
and thundered, unceasingly, uninterruptedly.
An attack was in process at the
Mort-Homme, and every little while there
would be a "tir de barrage," or curtain
fire as we call it.  The small 75's would
sound like the rat-tat of a snare-drum
accompanying the louder beats of the
deep-bass drums.

I got out of bed and gazed toward the
battle-field.  The earth was brilliantly
illuminated by the rockets and flares that
were being sent up everywhere.  The sky
seemed full of fire-flies—in reality
exploding shells.  On all sides the guns flashed
angrily.  Search-lights played about in
every direction.  It was a most superb
spectacle, but it was terrible.  It was hell.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MY FIRST FLIGHT OVER THE LINES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   MY FIRST FLIGHT OVER THE LINES

.. vspace:: 2

Unfavorable weather conditions
kept us inactive for several days,
but as soon as the skies cleared our
escadrille immediately went to work again.
For some reason my own machine was
delayed "en route," and did not arrive for
a week.  This was time I could ill afford
to lose, so the "chef pilote" took me as a
passenger in his biplane to familiarize me
with the ground in our sector.

We started late one afternoon.  The
atmosphere was extraordinarily clear.
Every detail in the landscape stood out
boldly, and as we rose the dozens of camps
in the immediate vicinity spread out
below us like models set in a painted scenery.
The valleys, the tents, the guns, the troops,
all were visible to the naked eye.  On
all sides were aviation-camps, which were
easily distinguished from the others—there
must have been at least twenty of
them within a radius of five miles.

As soon as we reached a height of three
thousand feet my pilot headed the
machine toward the lines.  At our feet lay
the terrain of the "Verdun sector."  From
the forest of the Argonne on our left to
the plains of the Woëvre on our right
stretched one of the bloodiest battle-fields
of history.  At regular intervals along the
front the French captive balloons—there
were eighteen in sight at this moment—swung
lazily in the breeze.  They looked
for all the world like the "saucisses" they
are named after.  Day and night they are
kept aloft, maintaining ceaseless vigil over
the movements of the enemy.

Passing the balloons, we could see the
various important points of the defense at
closer range.  The city of Verdun nestled
close to the banks of the Meuse, which
wound like a silver band through that now
desolate land.  Far off to the right were
the forts of Vaux and Douaumont.  A
trifle nearer was Fleury.  To the left, in
the distance, I could make out the
"Mort-Homme" and Hill 304, while directly
before us lay Cumières and Chattancourt.
The entire Verdun sector was spread out
like a relief-map.

The German attacks upon the French
position on the Mort-Homme were still in
progress.  I had never before seen a
battle, and to see such an important conflict
from "the gallery" seemed most strange.
It looked more like a pan of boiling water,
with the steam hanging in a pall over it,
than anything else I can think of.  In fact,
a yellow mist rose to a great height and
almost obscured the view.  Tiny flashes
showed where the guns were concealed,
but to us the battle was a silent one.  The
noise of our motor drowned the whistling
of the shells and the roar of the
bombardment.  I could not help thinking how
much some of those poor fellows below us
would appreciate a little of this silence.

We could plainly see the network of
the trenches, broken and half-obliterated
in the mud.  In some places they were so
close together that it was difficult to make
out where the French lines ended and the
German earthworks began.  The ground
was speckled with "pock-marks" caused
by shell explosions, and altogether it was
a weird scene of desolation.  All signs of
nature which had once beautified this
region had vanished.  The forests and the
green fields had disappeared.  Ruined
villages lay like piles of disused stone among
the circular "entonnoirs," or shell-holes.
In color it was all a dirty brown.

.. _`A view of the Mort-Homme taken from a height of 3,600 feet`:

.. figure:: images/img-158.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: A view of the Mort-Homme taken from a height of 3,600 feet. These are two photographs pasted together. Exact maps of the front are made in this manner daily by the photographic sections.

   A view of the Mort-Homme taken from a height of 3,600 feet. 
   These are two photographs pasted together. 
   Exact maps of the front are made in this manner daily 
   by the photographic sections.

On every side of us were the French
artillery biplanes.  They were hovering
over the German lines like gulls, continually
wirelessing back the ranges to their
batteries.  High above us circled the little
Nieuports on guard, to protect us and to
prevent the Fokkers and aviatiks from
crossing over our lines.  Everywhere were
little white puffs, which seemed to follow the
machines about.  I watched them, strangely
fascinated and amused, until my pilot
informed me that these were caused by
exploding shrapnel from the enemy's
anti-aircraft guns.  Then I noticed with
uneasiness that the same puffs were also
following us.  My interest in the little white
puffs from that moment assumed quite
another character.  I listened for the
sharp crack of their explosions, but all I
could hear was a dull "whung."  The
thought that very few machines are really
brought down by shrapnel was a bit
reassuring, but I must admit that when the
enemy is sending them on all sides of you,
you do not feel like giving much credence
to what others may have told you.

Presently my attention was called to the
lines of German captive balloons, which are
moored some miles behind their first-line
trenches.  Several aeroplanes stood guard
over them, and as we knew that they were
armed and that we on this occasion were
not we decided to turn back.

I made several of these trips over the
different positions on our immediate front.
By the time my own machine arrived I
was thoroughly familiar with the sector
and also with the main dangers to be
encountered by aviators over the battle lines.
The first precaution I learned was—always,
when landing, to unhook the belt that
held me in my seat.  This is one of the
most important things to remember at
the front.  The fields are not always in
the best condition, and the slightest
obstruction may cause an unexpected crash.
If you are in an artillery pusher-machine
when this happens you are invariably
crushed under the motor, unless your belt
is unfastened, when you are usually thrown
clear.

.. _`"Everywhere little white puffs seemed to follow the machines about"`:

.. figure:: images/img-160.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "Everywhere little white puffs seemed to follow the machines about."

   "Everywhere little white puffs seemed to follow the machines about."

Another danger, which I would never
have thought of if an experienced pilot
had not pointed it out, lies in the cables
mooring the captive balloons.  These are
invisible to an approaching aviator and
to collide with one means a fatal smash.
When flying low enough to pass under the
"saucisses," aviators must watch out for
these "tethers."  Nevertheless, you can
always take advantage of one of their
peculiarities.  The cable always stretches to
windward, and in a good breeze it stretches
far.  By keeping well to leeward you can
always rest reasonably assured that you
are on the safe side.  Many aviators,
however, have met with fatal accidents, through
fouling these cables.  I know of only one
instance where the pilot did escape unhurt
after striking the wire.  It seems that the
moment he saw what was going to happen
he put his machine into a vertical bank, so
that when the impact came he was turning
about the cable.  Then, strangely enough,
by continuing his spiral he was able finally
to disengage himself and escape.

Telephone and telegraph wires also are a
certain menace to aviators.  They form a
regular network behind the lines, while on
every aviation-field there are in addition
wireless aerials to avoid.  Many a returning
pilot has forgotten them in his haste
to get back to camp, and fouled them, to
his regret.  One pilot I knew met his fate
in this way.  He had been wounded by a
shrapnel-ball over the German lines, and
had managed to return to his own field.
He was so weak from the loss of blood that
in his anxiety to land quickly he forgot the
aerials.  His machine caught the wires and
fell to the ground.  Both the pilot's legs
were broken in the fall and he died, not so
much from his wound as from this unfortunate
accident.

Still another risk is encountered when
flying in the clouds.  A cloud is dangerous
at any time because there may be an enemy—or,
in fact, any machine—in it.  If
you enter the mist you may be going head
on into another aeroplane without having
the slightest warning of its presence.  Your
own motor makes so much noise that you
never under any circumstances hear that
of another machine until too late.  You
are in consequence deprived of both your
eyesight and your hearing.  At the front
the risk of meeting an enemy aeroplane
under such circumstances can never be
overlooked, for often fighting machines use
the mist to cover their presence.

Shells also have to be carefully avoided,
for, though destined for some far-away
target below you, they sometimes in their
flight destroy aeroplanes unintentionally.
As I have already explained, we devoted
much time to this subject at Châteauroux,
learning the trajectories of the different
calibers.  Still, at the front, the theory is
not so easily put into practice.  It seems
almost impossible to keep track of all the
artillery massed by your own side,
especially in such a sector as Verdun, where
the guns often were placed so close
together that their wheels almost touched.
On more than one occasion when flying
quietly through the air my machine has
given a sudden lurch, and I have heard the
dull "tung" of a passing shell.  There is
none of the whistling we are accustomed
to on the earth; merely the dulled sound
caused by the sudden displacement of the air.

My own machine finally arrived, after
delays that seemed interminable, and my
two mechanics immediately set to work
installing the various instruments, and
painting it.  These two men were personally
responsible to me for the condition of
the motor and planes, but, as pilot, I was
the master of the machine, which was
reserved for my own use.  In fact, each
aeroplane has painted on its body and
rudder the name and distinguishing marks
of its pilot and escadrille.

After a few short flights I became aware
of the fact that my biplane, in spite of all
my efforts to correct it, showed a strong
tendency to lean to the right.  At times I
could hardly make a turn to the left.  This
was a serious matter at the front, as an
enemy might at any moment appear on
my "weak" side and I would be placed in
a serious position.  I therefore mentioned
the matter to my captain.  To my
surprise, he immediately ordered a new
machine for me and gave directions that the
one I was using should be sent back to the
factory.  The defect in this particular case
was one mechanics could not remedy, and
it seems that it was nothing out of the
ordinary to send a machine back to the
shops.  At the front a pilot must have a
perfect machine to work with or none at
all.  The life of a good aeroplane seldom
is more than fifty hours of actual flying.

During this time the organization of
the escadrille was perfected.  The pilots
were divided into two "watches," one-half
being on duty while the other was
"standing by" ready for service in case of
emergency.  All the pilots except myself were
"disponibles."  I was exempt because I
had no machine, and was therefore for the
time being my own master, even when it
came to rising in the morning.  When the
others on duty were awakened, at early
dawn, I would be awakened with the rest.
My turn had not yet come, however, and
I could just turn over and sleep to my
heart's content.

Our camp looked like a little tented city;
there were seven enormous canvas
hangars, and grouped about these six other
tents, each serving a particular purpose:
captain's office, wireless plant, telephone
central, repair-shop, photographic
division, and kitchen.  At one end of the field
were the living-quarters of the captain and
the observers, while at the other were
parked the thirty automobiles of our two
escadrilles.  On the opposite sides of the
field were the quarters of the pilots of the
two escadrilles.  The mechanics slept in
the hangars with their machines.

Considering everything, we were fairly
comfortable.  The pilots of each escadrille
shared two large tents, and in addition
each group had a large mess-tent.  Inside
each sleeping-tent each one of us had a
little alcove.  Our cots were raised on
wooden platforms.  At one end we fitted
up a shower-bath, for which purpose a
gasolene tank punctured with holes proved
ideal.  Of course, every time you wanted a
bath some one had to empty pails of water
into the "tank" above you.  Our mess—"popotte"
they call it in the French army—was
very good.  We had a regular daily
allowance from the government, but this
was not always enough to buy all the
supplies we needed.  We therefore instituted
a system of fines, and our treasurer provided
our table with a small tin box in lieu
of a centrepiece.

Bad language or talking "shop" before
coffee involved a ten-centime fine, which
had to be dropped into the bank at once.
This regulation proved a godsend to the
mess—and to our conversation.

As I was not "disponible," I was sent
on several trips with the staff automobile.
Its most frequent runs were to the artillery
headquarters to deliver photographs of
the enemy's positions.  These were
situated in a near-by village, within sight of
the German trenches.  All the roads
approaching this place were masked, and
the town itself was in ruins.  Everywhere
sand-bags reinforced the stone walls.  The
telephone central was a veritable fortress,
and continually within the zone of the
German artillery "strafes."  The life of the
officers of the Etat-Major was certainly
not an enviable or an easy one.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CO-OPERATING WITH THE ARTILLERY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CO-OPERATING WITH THE ARTILLERY

.. vspace:: 2

By the time my second machine arrived
I had been at the front long
enough to appreciate the rôle played by
each of the different types of aeroplanes
used in this great conflict.  Camped near
us was a bombarding unit.  Every night
when the heavens were clear these
machines would go up, turning great circles
over our heads until they reached the
desired altitude.  They would then vanish
with their destructive bombs in the
direction of the enemy.  We could always tell
when they passed over the lines, for the
German search-lights would become very
active, and the sky would become dotted
with sparks, which in reality were exploding
shrapnel.  Then, in the early hours of
the morning, they would return, having
flown far into the enemy's country to drop
their bombs.  This is tiresome and
disagreeable duty, but not by any means as
dangerous a one as the other branches of
aviation, for bombers are practically free
from interruption by enemy aeroplanes in
the dark.

Camped with us was the famous N-64,
the crack fighting unit of the French
Aviation Corps.  Among its pilots were such
famous aviators as Navarre, Nungesser,
and Vialet, known familiarly as the
"aces."  Every evening just before sunset these men
would take their machines up in the
twilight and do "stunts" for the benefit of
hundreds of admiring "poilus" gathered
from neighboring camps.  These were the
self-same "stunts" which on many
occasions had enabled them to escape from sure
death at the hands of some superior enemy
force.  As I have said before, the fighting
work, although in reality the safest,
requires the most experienced and
accomplished pilots.  The chief duty of the
Nieuports is "barrage," or sentry duty.  There
are always several of them flying over
the lines, on the lookout for some "Boche."  It
is their task to swoop down like a hawk
upon them and destroy or else drive them
away.  Of course, our own "avions de
chasse" are as liable to be attacked by the
enemy, and they must in consequence be
continually on the "qui vive."

When one of the larger reconnoissance
machines is compelled to go far into the
German lines on special-mission work, it
is usually accompanied by a body-guard of
several Nieuports.  Spies, on the other
hand, are carried only in the fast-flying
Nieuports, which in this case are
double-seated.  It seems that it is comparatively
easy to take a man over and leave him far
in the rear of the German trenches, but
going back for him is another matter.  After
several days the pilot returns to a
prearranged place, but, as sometimes happens,
his compatriot may have been caught.  In
this case a like fate usually awaits him at
the hands of the watchful enemy.

For reconnoissance work the large
bi-motor Caudrons are generally used.  They
are fitted with a small wireless apparatus;
but this means of communication cannot
be used very often.  The machines, on
many occasions, have to go beyond the
effective radius of their radio, and at other
times its use is inadvisable, as its
messages might become known, or else blocked
by the enemy.  Resort has been had,
therefore, to carrier-pigeons.  These are
released the moment any important
information has to be conveyed to headquarters,
and these swift little messengers have
proved extremely useful and reliable.  Their
use has, in consequence, become general.

The bimotor Caudrons are employed
also by the photography section of the
army, though much of this work is actually
done by artillery machines detailed for
this service.  Photography is a dangerous
duty, because the flights have to be made
at low altitudes to obtain the best results.
On the other hand, it is not at all tedious.
The mission upon which the machine has
been sent is usually accomplished in a brief
space of time, and the machine often stays
out less than an hour.  In comparison
with the amount of flying required of the
aviators in the other branches of the
service, which varies in length from three to
five hours a day, photography is easy work.

"Réglage," or fire-control, on the other
hand, is the most difficult and the most
dangerous work to be performed by the
Flying Corps at the front.  The machines
used are large and unwieldy, built to carry
the weight of two men and all sorts of
equipment.  They are fairly fast, but their
spread of wing is so large that it is almost
impossible for them to make a turn quickly
when attacked.  They are armed with a
machine gun, it is true, but they are always
at a great disadvantage in the presence of
an enemy fighting-machine which can
out-manoeuvre them at every turn.

The first duty to which I was assigned
was "réglage," and this, I found, involves
many complications.  The chief source of
trouble usually is the wireless apparatus,
which has to be maintained in perfect
working order.  Before leaving the home
field you usually circle over it, while your
observer tests his sending apparatus.  The
receiving operator then answers by visual
signals.  Usually these are large white
sheets laid on the ground in different
formations, which have a prearranged
meaning.  When the radio is found to be in
perfect order you are off to the battery you
have been ordered to co-operate with.  By
wireless your observer then reports to the
battery commander, and receives his orders
by means of the same visual signals.  You
then head in the direction indicated to you
before leaving, and, hovering over the
position to be bombarded, the observer
signals back "fire."  The moment the shells
have landed you turn quickly about and
inform the artillery just how many metres
their fire was long, short, or to the right or
left.  Your message is once more answered
with the sheets.  Again you fly back
toward the enemy's position, circling in this
way backward and forward between the
battery and the target until the réglage is
completed.  Naturally every care must be
taken not to disclose the position of your
own guns to the enemy, or retaliation—"strafe,"
the English call it—summarily
follows.  Sometimes it is the battery which
interrupts the work with the signal, "Avion
ennemi," when the fire instantly ceases
until the German aeroplane has
disappeared or been driven off.

With such occasional interruptions the
work continues until your observer can
send back the signal "fire correct," which
is generally answered by the "sheet
signal" with the information that you may
return home.  Until this dismissal occurs,
however, the ground below wholly
engrosses the attention of your observer.
You yourself are forced to keep a close
watch for Boche fighting-machines so as
not to be caught unawares by one of them.
This is often a very trying task, as the
models of some of the French and German
aeroplanes are so very much alike that
they cannot be distinguished until they are
within range.  The tricolor cockade and
the black iron cross painted on the top and
bottom of each wing serve to identify the
fliers of the two belligerents, but these
colors cannot be seen very far.  You
consequently have little warning as to whether
the approaching planes are friends or foes.

Sometimes the enemy's anti-aircraft
batteries become a bit too familiar.  On such
occasions the observer tries to signal to his
batteries to drop a shell or two where these
pieces are mounted.  Often quiet is not
restored until the machine has been more or
less riddled with shrapnel bullets.

One réglage is very much like another,
and when you have read the description of
one you become familiar with them all.  It
is only in the results accomplished that
the details vary.

It is a curious fact that in the first
months of the war many artillery officers
refused to follow the directions of their
aerial observers.  A colonel of artillery
who has been firing big guns all his life
cannot be blamed for not thinking that a
young observation officer and a mere
aviator know enough about the work of
batteries to tell him where his shells are
falling.  Orders, consequently, had to be issued
placing the artillery absolutely under the
direction of the observers and calling upon
the pilots to report any case where a
battery refused to be guided by the signals
it received.  That put an end to the
trouble.

At first I felt a strong aversion to flying
over batteries in action.  You are bound
to get in close proximity to the trajectory
of the shells, and the constant sensation
and sound of the passing projectiles is
none too pleasant.  You get them both
coming and going, and, no matter which
you are trying to avoid, you are always
taking a chance with the other.  It is a
question of choosing between the devil
and the deep sea, with the devil constantly
stepping into your path.

.. _`Reduced facsimile of the photographic report supplied to the Headquarters Staff of the fighting at Cumières`:

.. figure:: images/img-182.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: Reduced facsimile of the photographic report supplied to the Headquarters Stall of the fighting at Cumières.

   Reduced facsimile of the photographic report supplied
   to the Headquarters Stall of the fighting at Cumières.

When you are observing for the artillery
you must stay and die, if necessary, in the
performance of your assigned duty.  It is
another matter with reconnoissance or
photographic work.  Here the main thing is
to get back to headquarters with the
information you have gained.  If you are
attacked and you see no chance of successfully
fighting off the enemy, it is your
business to run.

After some weeks of service with the
fire-control detail I was ordered to serve as a
photography pilot.  This I found a most
interesting duty.  Whenever we received
orders to photograph a position we would start
out immediately, flying very low—say,
from one thousand eight hundred to three
thousand feet.  As we reached the part of
the enemy's positions to be photographed I
would fly in parallel lines, while my
observer took the photographs with a
specially constructed telephoto camera.  We
would then hasten back to camp and
immediately hand the plates over to the
sergeant in charge of the dark room.  This
taciturn non-com would waste no time
with words.  In a few moments the
photographs would be ready and on their way to
headquarters.  On several occasions I have
seen photographs placed in the hands of
the Etat-Major within an hour and a half
after the order had been issued by the
commanding officer there—examples of
celerity and efficiency of service which
have placed the photographic branch of
aviation "hors concours."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ALL IN THE DAY'S WORK`:

.. class:: center large bold

   ALL IN THE DAY'S WORK

.. vspace:: 2

It is strange how easily you become
accustomed to being at the front.  At
first you sense your proximity to the vast
military operations that are in progress,
but after a while the newness wears off.
One day passes like another without special
notice, although daily something out of the
ordinary is occurring somewhere along the
western front.  These experiences, however,
generally fall to the lot of the
fighting-machines.  We of the artillery and
photography sections share only the dangers.
It is all in the day's work.

I remember one curious incident that
occurred while I was in the Verdun sector.
Victor Chapman, who was doing combat
work with the American Escadrille after a
brush with four German aeroplanes, was
forced to descend to our field.  Not only
had he received a bad scalp-wound from a
bullet but his machine had been riddled
and nearly wrecked.  One bullet had even
severed a metal stability control.  By all
the rules of aviation he should have lost
control of his aeroplane and met with a
fatal accident.  But Chapman was an
expert pilot.  He simply held on to the
broken rod with one hand, while with the
other he steered his machine.  This needed
all the strength at his command, but he
had the power and the skill necessary to
bring him safely to earth.  A surgeon
immediately dressed his wound, our
mechanics repaired his machine.  The
repairs completed, he was off and up again
in pursuit of some more Boches.  I must
say that every one considered him a
remarkable pilot.  He was absolutely
fearless, and always willing and able to fly
more than was ever required of him.  His
machine was a sieve of patched-up
bullet-holes.  A few days later came his last
fight.  He was carrying two bags of oranges
to Clyde Balsley, who lay wounded in a
hospital not far away.  There was an aerial
combat against odds within the German
lines, and Chapman lost no time in going
to the aid of his hard-pressed comrades.
He brought down one of the enemy
airmen, but the others were still too
numerous, and the fight then was only a matter
of seconds.  He was last seen falling
behind the German lines.

Balsley had been wounded in an
encounter with several Germans.  He was
doing well, when he was struck in the
thigh by an explosive bullet which burst
in his stomach.  He immediately lost all
consciousness.  His machine began to
tumble straight toward the lines.  Just before
reaching the ground, however, Balsley
regained his senses sufficiently to realize
what was happening.  By a superhuman
effort he managed to right his machine
and make a landing in a neighboring
meadow.  He was carried to a near-by
hospital, where for days he wavered between
life and death.  Two fragments of the
explosive bullet were removed from his
intestines.  These he kept wrapped up in a
handkerchief as proof that the enemy,
despite their denials, do violate the rules
of civilized warfare.  For a long time the
only nourishment he could take was the
juice of oranges, and that was why
Chapman was on this mission on that
unfortunate day.

A sad accident occurred on a neighboring
aviation-field while I was at the front.
The captain of one of the escadrilles had
visiting him his younger brother, a bright
lad of nineteen.  The boy was unusually
well-informed about aeronautical matters,
but he had never made a flight.  His
request to go up was acceded to, but the
captain did not want to take him, so he asked
one of his officers, the best pilot in the
escadrille, to take him as a passenger.
I suppose that the lieutenant was on his
mettle, for before his machine was three
hundred feet from the ground he began
to do stunts.  He was a past master in
his art, but a bit too bold.  Suddenly his
machine slipped off on the wing, and
crashed to the ground.  Even the best
pilot was not immune against fate.

Our escadrille also met with a heart-breaking
tragedy.  One of our pilots, who
had only recently joined us, was making
his first flight over the lines with a young
artillery officer, who was also inexperienced.
Unluckily they flew too low and
were brought down by rifle-fire.  No one
yet knows whether the pilot was mortally
wounded or if it was the machine that was
disabled.  At any rate, the aeroplane came
down in no man's land, between the French
and German lines.  The poilus immediately
made a sally to rescue the two men and
save their maps and important papers.
The Germans had like intentions and
opened a murderous fire upon them with
their machine guns, trying themselves to
reach the aeroplane.  The result was a
hand-to-hand struggle, and then a
deadlock.  Each feared that the other would
reach the goal under cover of darkness.
For a while there was a lull on both sides.
Then an inferno burst loose.  Machine
guns and field-pieces showered the
unfortunate aviators with shell and shrapnel.
In a short while the machine and its
occupants were completely annihilated.  The
men, I believe, were alive when they
landed, but it was impossible to save them.
If the pilot could have steered fifty yards
to the right or left, they would have been
inside either line and their lives would
have been spared.  As it was, there never
will be a monument to mark the spot
where they perished at the hands of both
friend and foe.

Occasionally the bombarding escadrilles
have thrilling experiences to narrate.  I
remember one case in particular.  The
raiders were returning from a long flight
into the enemy's territory when they were
attacked by a group of German fighting-planes.
An incendiary bullet pierced the
gasolene-tank of one of the French
machines and ignited it.  The pilot knew
that he was sure to be "grillé" and that
he did not have time even to reach
the ground.  His minutes were numbered.
Without a moment's hesitation he turned
his machine sharply about and headed
straight for one of his pursuers.  The
German tried to avoid the head-on collision,
but he was too late.  There was a sickening
crash and both machines fell to earth.

.. _`Handbill dropped in Germany by French aviators`:

.. figure:: images/img-194.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: Handbill dropped in Germany by French aviators.

   Handbill dropped in Germany by French aviators.

Another case of desperate courage that
attracted wide-spread comment occurred
about the same time.  This also related to
a bomber who had been over the German
trenches.  The pilot was about to spiral
down for the landing, when his passenger
looked out to see if everything was in good
order.  To his horror, he noticed that two
of the bombs were still unreleased,
having become caught on the chassis or
running-gear of the machine.  If they landed
in this condition, there was every
likelihood that there would be nothing to mark
their landing-place but a deep crater in
the ground.  The two men were desperate.
To climb down and unhook the bombs
seemed impossible.  No one had ever been
known to do it.  It was like clambering up
to the main truck of a sailing vessel in the
teeth of a hurricane.  It was the only
alternative left to them.  The passenger
mustered up his courage and climbed out
on the wing and then down on the
running-gear.  Holding on with only one
hand, he leaned down and carefully loosed
the bombs with the other.  It was a
splendid exhibition of nerve and courage, and
it saved the lives of both men.

Now and then you meet a pilot who has
had a real adventure, but this is
something only the most venturesome have to
their credit.  Not long ago, during an
extensive reconnoissance behind the German
lines, one of the pilots found himself flying
parallel with an important railroad line.
Presently he overtook a troop-train going
in the same direction.  Flying very low,
he raked the cars with his machine gun
until his magazine was empty.  He then
caught up with the engine and shot the
engineer and fireman with his revolver.  A
little farther there was a sharp turn in the
road, which the train took at full speed.
Every car left the rails, and hundreds of
soldiers perished when the train crashed
down into the ravine below.  The pilot
confessed that he was sickened by the sight
of the disaster, but it was war and he
simply had to do it.

As far as my own experience at the
front is concerned, it was unusually
uneventful.  My machine was never once
hit by shrapnel nor was it attacked by the
enemy.  In fact, the work was very
monotonous, one day being exactly like
another.  After six weeks I applied to my
captain for permission to pass into a fighting
escadrille, where the experience I had
gained on the slower machines would be
very useful and the work more agreeable.
To my delight, my request was granted,
and forty-eight hours later I received my
orders to proceed without delay to the
Ecole de Combat at Pau for further training.

It seemed rather strange, after weeks of
actual service, to be leaving the front to go
again to school.  I had become so used to
the life that the muddy fields and the
little tents began to seem like home to me.
Now that it was over, the "popotte" served
to us in the mess-tent was most palatable,
and I knew that I would miss the restraining
influence of our system of fines.

The captain took me to Bar-le-Duc in
his own automobile.  As we left the field
of our activities I looked back at our little
camp.  The mechanics were busy in the
great canvas hangars, cleaning and
repairing the aeroplanes and motors.  Others
loitered outside waiting for the return of
their "patron" or for their pilot to go up.
No one complained of the work or of the
danger.  It was indeed a privilege to be
with such men.  I felt a pang of regret at
leaving them.  Though they called out a
cheery "Au revoir!" and "Bonne chance!"
I knew that the parting was not so light-hearted.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`JULY 14TH, 1916`:

.. class:: center large bold

   JULY 14TH, 1916

.. vspace:: 2

My trip back to Paris was very much
like the one I had made in the opposite
direction about six weeks before.
Bar-le-Duc seemed unchanged as far as the
outward signs were concerned.  The
movement of troops was just as great as during
the previous weeks, only this time the
regiments were leaving Verdun.  The German
efforts to take the fortress had failed
signally and the offensive had passed to the
French in the region of the Somme.

My train was very late in starting.
Although scheduled for five in the afternoon,
it did not actually get off until after
midnight.  It was filled to overflowing with
permissionnaires and the crowded cars
reminded me of a New York City rush hour
in the subway.  Fortunately there was a
dining-car attached to the train.  As this
was kept open all night, we did not have
to go hungry, and every one kept in the
best of humor.  It was interesting to see
how quickly the men forgot what they
had been through at the front.  Within a
few hours the permissionnaires were
thinking only of the holiday which they were
going to enjoy, of the good times they were
going to have on the boulevards, and of
home.  The horror of battle was entirely
left behind.

When we arrived at the Gare de l'Est it
was barely five o'clock.  The quais,
however, were crowded with women who had
apparently waited all night to greet their
loved ones.  Every one seemed so happy.
The men made no attempt to control their
feelings.  Tears veiled many a pair of eyes.
How strange the contrast between this
return and the departure for the front that I
had witnessed not very long before!

Before leaving the station I had to have
my papers stamped by the military
authorities.  This done, I hurried to a hotel.  I
was so tired after the journey that I could
hardly keep my eyes open.  It was not long
before I was fast asleep.

When I awoke it was already late.  I
dressed and went out on the streets.  To
my surprise, large crowds lined the
sidewalks.  All seemed so gay.  This was
almost too sudden a transition from the type
of crowds I was used to seeing in the
Verdun sector.  Then I remembered.  It was
the fourteenth of July, the "Fête
nationale," always a great day for the French
people, but especially so this year.  Some
one soon informed me that there was to be
a great review of the Allied troops, and that
every one was in consequence "en fête."  At
the front, however, I had heard little of this.

At the Place de la Concorde the throng
was immense.  The more enterprising had
provided themselves with boxes and
ladders to stand and sit on.  Others
good-naturedly climbed up on the lamp-posts.
The rest craned their necks in an effort to
miss nothing of what was going on.

Earlier in the day the statues of the cities
of Strasbourg and Lille had been bedecked
with flowers.  At the Petit Palais the
President of the Republic had decorated, as is
now the custom, the wives and children of
those who had fallen on the "champ d'honneur"
before their gallantry and patriotism
could be rewarded.

As I reached the place the head of the
parade swung out from the Champs-Elysées.
It was the most impressive spectacle
I have ever witnessed.  Every one
in the crowd showed his emotion.  The
women could not conceal their tears, and
the men only with difficulty restrained
their feelings.  First came the Dragoons,
followed by the Belgian Bicycle Corps.
Then the khaki-clad French African troops,
with only their red fezes to remind one
of their once showy uniforms.  Their
mitrailleuses came next, brought back from
the front to accompany the gallant
regiment on this occasion.  The crowd then
commenced to roar.  A battery of 75's
then came into view, the "soixante-quinzes,"
which to the Frenchman symbolize
victory.  Suddenly the crowd became
attentive and quiet.  The Russians were
singing their deep battle-hymn as they
marched.  They were fierce-looking giants,
and as they swung by to the wild, measured
beats of their chants, the people were silent
with admiration.

After the "barbarians," as the Germans
call them, followed the Anglo-Saxons, clad
in their khaki uniforms, the perfection of
utility and smartness.  There were the
English, the Australians, and the
Canadians, and, following them, a regiment of
Indian cavalry.  Then came the Scotch,
headed by their pipers.  They marched
perfectly, swinging their legs in unison.
Each time their right feet came forward a
hundred white tartans rose together and
exposed to the view of the astonished
populace a hundred kilts and a hundred bare
knees.

After the Allies came the French.  The
first regiment was from the Twentieth
Corps.  These were the men who had
saved Verdun.  There were many other
units represented, many other regiments
and brigades, but none received the
welcome and the enthusiasm caused by the
appearance of "Pétain's Iron Brigade" as
they marched by in their quick, business-like
step, with bayonets fixed to their rifles.

There have been many parades in Paris
during the past decade, but there never
was one like this.  It was not a review—it
was a war.  Yesterday all these men were
at the front.  To-morrow they would be
back there again.  For them this was only
a momentary drop of the curtain on the
tragedy in which they had been called
upon to be participants.  I could not help
thinking of these poor fellows, some of
whom I had very likely seen before,
passing me in ambulances and motor-buses,
muddy from head to foot and benumbed
by the shock of battle.  How many of
these that I was seeing to-day would be
in the ranks at the next review?  I doubt
whether these thoughts were in their minds.
To-morrow they would be on their way to
take part in the battle of the Somme, but
with refreshed spirits and light hearts.

There was very little gayety or color in
the parade.  All the troops were in their
service uniforms.  This was an hour of
heroism and suffering, an hour of fixed
determination which impressed upon one
the feeling that the Germans could never
win the war.

After the troops had filed by I joined
some friends on the boulevards.  It seemed
difficult to believe that only a few miles
away the hostile lines were linked in a
death-grapple.  Paris seemed normal.  Of
course there was not the animation that we
formerly associated with the French
capital, but there was little to remind one of
the great conflict—only the aeroplanes
patrolling overhead and the hundreds of
permissionnaires wandering about the streets
in their weather-stained and battle-stained
uniforms.

That night I had to leave Paris for
Dijon, to report at headquarters before
going to Pau.  By a strange coincidence I
arrived at the same hour as on my first
appearance to enlist.  Now I viewed everything
with different eyes.  Instead of being
a mere "petit bleu," as they call the young
soldier, I was now a "pilote" who had
been at the front.  I felt privileged
therefore to walk right up to the buffet, and
before long I was sharing a bottle of wine
with a captain, a sergeant, and a second-class
poilu.  Such is the democracy of war.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE FINISHING TOUCHES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   THE FINISHING TOUCHES

.. vspace:: 2

Great changes had taken place at
Pau since my first visit six months
before.  The school had been improved
and enlarged.  Permanent sheds had
replaced the canvas hangars, and the
German prisoners had built a narrow-gauge
railway from the town out to the field.
The trains ran out to the aviation school
every morning and afternoon, and
returned before luncheon and again in the
evening.  This was a great convenience
for many of us and in bad weather saved
us many a long, weary walk.  When the
days were clear, however, we often made
the journey on foot, as in this way we had
sufficient exercise to keep us in good
physical condition.

Only men who had already qualified as
pilots or who had had previous experience
at the front were allowed at the Ecole de
Combat.  We enjoyed practically the same
liberties as at the front.  We were free to
go where we pleased, except during the
working hours, when strict attendance and
discipline were enforced.

I thought that my previous experience
with the heavier machines would enable
me to omit some of the more elementary
courses, but this was not the case.  I had
to start at the very bottom.  The
management of a monoplane or of a small
Nieuport is more delicate than anything I
had ever tried, and the pilots have,
therefore, to acquire a new "sense of touch"
which is not required when flying in the
larger biplanes.

.. _`A Penguin`:

.. figure:: images/img-214.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: A Penguin.

   A Penguin.

My first assignment was to a Penguin,
so called because it is nothing more than
a Blériot monoplane with its wings cut
down so that it cannot fly.  The Penguins,
however, are just as difficult to manage
as a full-fledged flying-machine, for on the
ground your movements have to be more
rough than when flying in the air.  There
are so many irregularities and air currents
to affect your course that you have to be
very quick with the controls.  The
Penguin, besides, does not answer the rudder
as easily as the other types.  I found that
it was very difficult to keep a straight
course when tearing across a field at the
rate of about forty miles an hour.  It was
comical to see how the clumsy contraption
behaved, turning circles, making "chevaux
de bois," rolling over on its wing, and
behaving in every way like a drunken sailor
trying to walk on a chalk line.  You have
to keep your head all the time, because
the slightest misjudgment may result in
an accident.  When engaging a "chevaux
de bois," you must turn off your motor
instantly, for neglect to do so will
probably cause your machine to fall over
sideways on its wing.  When moving you must
constantly keep the tail of the Penguin in
the air in an imaginary line of flight, and
if the tail is lifted too high you run the
risk of sticking the nose of the machine
into the ground and turning an unpleasant
somersault.  It was really interesting to
discover how much skill it takes to manage
a Penguin.  It was several days before I
could make the six straight lines required
before you are allowed to pass into the
next higher class.

In the second course a thirty-horse-power
Blériot is used.  I was made to fly
in straight lines at very feeble altitudes,
varying from twenty-five to fifty feet.
The object of this instruction, it seems, is
to teach the aviator how to take small,
fast machines off the ground and bring
them down properly.  These smaller
machines are able to climb much faster than
the larger artillery types.  This
advantage is counterbalanced by the fact that
they volplane much less, and are much
more prone to slip off the wing.  You have
to handle them with the utmost care and
gentleness.  This point is very much
emphasized in the instruction which you
receive when flying in the 30-Blériots.
Their motors are so small that you have
to be very careful with them.  You have
to go about everything very gradually,
except when making a landing.  Then you
must dive, and dive quickly, in order to
retain your momentum.

As soon as I had been pronounced "apt"
on the "ligne droite," I was assigned to
the 50-Blériot.  This, to my joy, included
real flying.  The difference between this
machine and the ones I had flown in at the
front was astonishing.  There was practically
no effort required of the pilot.  The
slightest move on the controls produced an
instant response in the aeroplane.  As in
the case of the 30-Blériot, I found that
the moment the motor was shut off, on
account of the lack of volplaning qualities,
to descend I had to point the machine
straight at the ground.  With the Farman
I used to glide from unbelievable distances,
but now I had to change my tactics completely
and learn everything over again.

This course completed, I was granted
leave of absence to return to America.
Needless to say, I did not lose a moment
in gathering my effects and engaging my
passage.  Next month, upon my return to
Pau, however, I will have to take up my
work where I left off.  The first test
required is a series of figure eights in a
50-Blériot and a number of difficult landings
after this performance.  Then follows a
course in a Morane-Parasol.  This machine,
as I stated in an earlier chapter, is
by far the most tricky machine in use
to-day.  After you have learned to handle a
Parasol, everything else is child's play.
That is the reason why every pilot of a
fighting escadrille is made to master them.
It is the best experience to give you a
sense of balance yet discovered.

Before you are allowed to fly in a
Nieuport and attend the School Aerial Acrobatics
there is another requirement.  This is a
brief period of instruction at the Mitrailleuses
School at Casso, where, on the shores
of the long lake, the French army has
established an ideal range for the training of
its pointers.  It is less than an hour by
rail from Bordeaux and well within the
reach of every military depot in the
south-western part of France.  Each branch of
the service has its own course.  For the
Flying Corps the range consists of a
number of captive balloons and of a series of
moving targets on the lake.  The pupil is
taken up as a passenger in a double-seated
aeroplane and operates the mitrailleuse.
After two or three weeks of this practice
he becomes quite used to shooting from an
aeroplane and finds that he can score hits
almost as easily as if he were on terra firma.
In the beginning, however, one experiences
great difficulty in adjusting himself to the
changes of perspective found in the air.

After this the pilot is sent back to Pau,
where he has to perfect himself sufficiently
in his art to master the various stunts
essential in combat-work.  Until then he
may not go to the front for service in an
"appareil de chasse."

The first test is looping the loop.  The
machine is made to dive very fast for a
short distance.  Then the pilot gives a
sharp pull on his controls, which makes it
climb very abruptly, at the same time
shutting off the motor.  The little Nieuport
climbs until it loses its speed, and then
falls over backward.  At the instant of
reaching the line of diving the spark is then
turned on again and the flight is resumed.

The next requirement involves cork-screw
looping, or, as they say in French,
"le renversement sur l'aile."  This requires
still greater skill than the previous test.
It is not an easy manoeuvre to explain and,
besides, I have not yet attempted it
myself.  The theory, however, is as follows:
If you tip your machine enough to fly in a
vertical position, your controls become
reversed; in other words, the control for
climbing and diving becomes the rudder
and the rudder becomes the climbing
control.  To do the "renversement" the
machine is put in a vertical position and the
spark is shut off.  The machine then loses
its momentum and starts to fall.  At that
moment you must give a pull on your
control and push the rudder "hard a-port," as
a sailor would say.  This forces the
machine to complete the turn and dive from
the normal horizontal position.

The final examination for the second
brevet involves the dreaded "vrille," or
tail-spin.  For many years any aviator
who engaged in a vrille was given up for
lost.  Even to-day many aviators are killed
attempting to master this most important
trick.  Yet it has to be learned, for in
modern aerial warfare it may sometime be
the one manoeuvre which will enable you
to escape from an assailant or make a
sudden attack.  The modern aeroplane is so
stable that when it is made to dive it
always attempts to rise and resume its flight.
In the "vrille," on the other hand, this
resistance is overcome, and the machine
spins down with incredible rapidity.  The
beginner usually commences by making
one turn.  He allows his machine to lose
its speed and slip off on the wing.  After
engaging in a spiral, instead of continuing
he then resumes his flight.  The second
time two turns have to be made.  More
and more are made until the pilot feels
that he has mastered the trick to his
satisfaction.  The first turn is usually made
very slowly, but after that the speed
increases with each succeeding turn until
the machine is spinning on the corner of
one wing as an axis.  I have seen the more
brilliant pilots at the front make as many
as seven or eight turns, while they fell as
far as five thousand feet.  Every time I
have seen any one doing a "vrille" I have
thought of the young lieutenant who was
killed at Pau when I attended the school
for the first time.  What are dangers for
the beginner, in the hands of the expert
become weapons.

On completing this final course the pilot
has learned everything that his instructors
can teach him.  It remains only for him
to prove that in action he can avail
himself of all the tricks that he has mastered.
He has a machine that can manoeuvre to
the best advantage, and he will enjoy a
superiority which he never possessed with
the heavier Farman biplane.  Often I
thought of this when flying over Verdun in
the artillery machines.  The little
Nieuports seemed to circle about with such
ease, doing whatever they pleased, while
we lumbered about in constant danger of
being attacked by some fast-flying
"Fritzie" from the enemy's lines.

The principal task assigned to our
"avions de chasse" is to keep the German
airmen away from the French lines, and
of attacking them when the opportunity
offers.  From an altitude of about thirteen
thousand feet the Nieuports maintain a
constant vigil.  Although so small they are
in fact the protectors of the larger artillery
and reconnoissance machines.  Far within
the German lines several of the enemy's
artillery biplanes are flying low.  Farther up
their fighting planes are waiting for an
opportunity of coming over to attack the
French.  The shrapnel-puffs from our own
guns reveal that some one is crossing our
lines.  A German artillery machine is
coming to make a "réglage."  One of the
Fokkers is flying high above it, but the
Nieuports are doing "ceiling work" and will
look out for the intruders.

Different models of aeroplanes have a
different position for their mitrailleuses.
The attacking pilot always tries to find out
from where he can make his attack without
being riddled by his opponent.  The proper
position being obtained, the Nieuport is
quickly turned toward its prey and at fifty
yards the machine gun begins its staccato
bark.  To simplify the pilot's task the
guns are always mounted in a fixed
position and aimed dead ahead.  Thus the
pilot has only to think about pointing his
own machine at the enemy.  If he had to
fly one way and shoot another he would be
placed in a most disadvantageous position.

Combatants pass each other at terrific
speed.  There is time only for a few shots.
If a hit is not scored during the first
encounter, the attacking pilot goes through
the same manoeuvre a second time.  In
the meanwhile the German airman is also
doing his best to catch his opponent
unawares.  If the enemy succeeds in getting
the Nieuport into a trap, then is the
moment when he can put himself "en vrille"
and escape.

Such is the course of training imposed
upon every airman in France.  It is the
system which has been perfected under
war conditions from the lessons learned
during two years of the most desperate air
conflicts.

.. vspace:: 6

.. pgfooter::
