WAR CROSS WITH PALM, AWARDEDIN RECOGNITION OF WALCOTT’SSERVICES
November 10, 1917.Evening.
You know November in France. I’ve been here almost two weeks now and am stillà l’entrainement, that is, I haven’t started in to do any regular work yet. Only five times have I been able to fly in two weeks. But I’ve got my own machine, and mechanic, everything is in order and I’ve been assigned to a patrol the last two mornings when it rained. Tomorrow again at 8:50 with four others—patrol for one hour and fifty minutes at about 15,000 feet, back and forth over our sector, sometimes over our own lines, sometimes in Bochie. I’m getting very impatient to get started. In what few flights I’ve had, I’ve been working on acrobacy a bit and am gradually learning a few simple things; twice I stayed up a little too long and had to lie down a few hours afterward, almost seasick.
I like Spa 84 very much indeed. The Frenchmen there are much more regular fellahs than most of those I’ve been with in the schools.
Wertheimer, a sergeant, is a sort of informal and unadmitted chief of thesous-officiers. It is he that speaks English and has helped us a lot in getting settled, etc. Very much of a gentleman he is, and understands a bit Anglo-Saxon customs and eccentricities, always gay and an indefatigable worker. We have all been arranging the one big room of our barracks—dining room, reading room, and probably eventually American bar. The walls are covered with green cloth, green paper (of two different shades and neither quite the same as the cloth), red cloth (on top as a sort of frieze) and red paper. The ceiling is done in white cloth to keep in heat and lighten the room. A monumental task it has been, especially as materials are hard to get and expensive. Wertem (as Wertheimer is called) and Deborte have done most of the work. Deborte is alsochef de popote, which means housekeeper, and a very efficient man. For four francs per day we are fed amazingly well, especially when one realizes that we are near the front in a country which has had three years of war. Deborte hasn’t the pleasantest manner in the world at times, but usually is very agreeable, willing to tell me things about flying or theescadrille, always ready towork, and a dependable man in the air. And Verber who rooms with Wertem,—he speaks a little English, has a great deal of trouble understanding it, but is picking up. Wears a monocle all the time because he’s got a bum eye, carries a stick and has an extremely eccentric appearance, but withal is very agreeable and a very valuable man. He has the habit of taking long trips all alone far into Germany just to see what is going on. Pinot is the name of the little roly-poly chap everybody calls Bul-Bul, who used to be a mechanic and now is a very good, merry pilot. He has a greatpensiontoward Pinard, is violently but not at all objectionably non-aristocratic, is forever laughing or kidding some one, walks on his hands to amuse people, and is the delight of all themécanos. Demeuldre is a very quiet sort of school boy type who has been a pilot of biplanes and reconnaissance machines for a long time. He came to the escadrille recently with a record of two Boches as pilot of a biplane (that is, his machine gun man did the shooting and they both get credit), and a few days ago brought down a German in flames, his first aspilote de chasse. There are two others away on permission, whom I don’t know yet.
Somewhere in France,November 13, 1917.
Dear Father:
Campbell was in the Lafayette Escadrille and they are a member of the same group as Spa 84, so I have asked them about him. He was on a patrol with another chap, they attacked some Boches and when it was over the other chap was alone. Campbell was brought down in German territory and so reported missing. I believe that the chap he was with has seen and talked to Campbell’s father or some close relative since. Another chap named Bulkley was brought down in similar circumstances about the first of September. Ten days ago, word was received from the American Embassy that he had communicated with them, a prisoner in Germany. There are many similar cases, where men brought down with crippled machines or wounded escape destruction by a miracle. The only sure thing is when a machine goes down in flames or is seen to lose a wing or two.
For instance, there are two officers in the group who are in the best of health and daily working. Several months ago, they were on patrol together, collided in the air. One cut the tail rigging completely off the other and they separated, one without a tail and the other with various parts of a tail mixed among the cables and struts of one side of his machine. They both landed in France, one on his wheels followed by acapotageor somersault turnover, the other quite completely upside down. Then a term in the hospital and back they are again. Kenneth Marr, an American, had the commands of both his tail controls cut in a combat, the rudder and elevator, leaving him nothing but theaileron—the lateral balance control and the motor. He landed with only a skinned nose for casualties and got a decoration for it.
Another chap in an attack on captive balloons,drachens, dove for something like 10,000 feetverticallyand withfull motoron, thereby gaining considerable speed as you can imagine. He came right on top of the balloon, shot and to keep from hitting it, yanked as roughly as he could, flattening out his dive in the merest fraction of a second. Imagine the strain on the machine!When he got home, all the wires had several inches sag in them; the metal connections of the cables in the struts and wood of the wings had bit into the wood enough to give the sag.
Machines are built to stand immense pressure on the under side of the wings. In some acrobatic manoeuvres I was trying the other day, I made mistakes and caused the machine to stall and then fall in such a way that the full weight was supported by theupper surface—by the wires which in most machines are supposed merely to support the weight of the wings when the machine is on the ground. Yes, the Spad is a well built machine, the nearest thing to perfection in point of strength, speed and climbing power I’ve seen yet. Of course it’s heavy and that’s why they put 150-230 HP in them. The other school, that of a light machine with a light motor—depending for its success on lack of weight rather than excess of power, may supplant the heavier machine in time—I can’t tell. So, as anyone who knows has said right along, there is a long way to go in the development of the J N or even the little tri-plane, before American built planes get to the front. Of the bombing game, I don’t know anything at all.
Yesterday there was arevuehere in honor of Guynemer, and decorations for the pilots of the group who had won them. Three Americans received the Croix de Guerre—members of the Lafayette Escadrille. Lufberry, the American ace, carried the American flag presented to theescadrilleby Mrs. McAdoo and the employees of the Treasury Department—besides the two aviation emblems of France. He was called to receive his decoration “for having in the course of one day held seven combats, descended one German plane in flames, and forced five others to land behind their lines” (which means that he is officially credited with one, his thirteenth, and that the other five though probably brought down, do not count for him because there were not the necessary witnesses required by the French regulation). Being the bearer of the flag, he was a very worried man to know what to do with the flag when he should go up to get his medal, till one of the fellows in 124 (the Lafayette) came to his rescue.
For a militaryrevueit was decidedly amusing. Aviators are not very military. The chief of one of theescadrilleswas commissioned to command the mechanics who are plain soldiers with riflesand steel helmets for the occasion. He is a bit of a clown and amused the entire gathering, kidding with the officers. The pilots of each of the fiveescadrilleswere in more or less formation, most of them with hands in their pockets for it was chilly, and presenting a mixture of uniforms unparalleled in its heterogeneity. Every branch of the service represented and endless personal ideas in dress. Because of the occasion,reposhas been granted to the entire group for the afternoon, another group taking over our patrols. So that after therevue, everyone had the afternoon to waste—a sunny day which is quite unusual this month. Within a half hour, every machine that was in working order was in the air—forming into groups and then off for the lines, just looking for trouble—a voluntary patrol they call it. Which opened my eyes a bit to the spirit in the French service after three years of war.
Word from Paris that those Americans in the French service who have demanded their release to join the U. S. A. have obtained that release—which probably means that all we wait for now ... is the commissions.
This afternoon I took another trip with one of the old pilots to look over the sector. We stayedover France and didn’t get into trouble although there were lots of Boches around. Hope to get really started soon.... An amusing one this morning: two pilots from the group were on patrol and attacked a single German about two kilometres behind the German lines. They completely outmanoeuvred him, he got cold feet and started for the French lines, giving himself up. The funniest part about it is that the machine gun of one of the attackers was jammed and he couldn’t possibly have hurt the Boche—just had the nerve to stay and throw a bluff. They came back to camp just before dark this evening, one of them flying the German machine and the other guarding him in a Spad. The machine is an Albatross monoplane (biplane)—finished in silver with big black crosses on the wings and tail—a really beautiful thing. It flew around camp for several minutes before landing. It is the second machine that has been scared down since I’ve been out here.
At the Front,Somewhere in France,November 17, 1917.
At present things are hopelessly slow on account of bad weather, so I have a good deal of time to write and naught to write of. I still am waiting for my baptism of active service which is assigned for each day and held up on account of fog, low clouds or rain. In the afternoon it usually lifts a little, not enough to fly over the lines, but sufficient to permit a littlevol d’entrainement, a practice flight around the field. I’ve been taking every chance to learn to fly, practicing reversements, vertically banked turns, 90° nose dives, etc. Two day ago, we had a very interesting mimic combat in the air. The Boche machine, which has been captured, and a Spad, both driven by very clever pilots, manoeuvred for position during fifteen or twenty minutes at 1,000 feet or less, back and forth over the field, doing almost every possible thing in the air—changingdirection with incredible rapidity, diving, climbing, wing slipping, upside down dives—everything under the sun.
Two of them were at it again today in two Spads, just manoeuvring. What a lot there is to learn! When I got through acrobacy at Pau, I had the impression that that kind of stuff was relatively easy—now I know different. For the present I’m working on the system of try one thing at a time—get that fairly well and then commence another. And small doses—ten or fifteen minutes for an acrobatic flight, not more, because one can easily get dangerously sick in a very short time. Not that there is any particular peril in getting ill in the air, only it’s beastly uncomfortable!
At the Front—Somewhere in France.November 30, 1917.
The rumor at the Lafayette Escadrille this evening is that they have been at last transferred. Of course they had similar rumors many times before. For myself I am becoming rather indifferent, very well satisfied here except for weather, and getting what I came over here for.
Father mentioned something about a monitor’s job (after I had had experience at the front). My present inclination is decidedly against the idea. There is no job in the world I like less to think of and there are plenty of people who want to get comfortably settled in the rear, so let them, say I, and may they enjoy it. It is not a very pleasant job. As a retirement after a period of service at the front it is another matter. Of all people I can think of I have the smallest right to anembusquéjob at present—so here I hope to stay. Whether I fly with an American or French uniform I don’t care very much at the presentmoment. I had rather get a Boche than any commission in the army, but one cannot always tell about the future; perhaps after a few good scares I’ll be ready to jump at a monitor’s job.
At the Front,December 1, 1917.
I tried to give you all some idea of the strength of a Spad in a letter a while ago. At home people speak of a factor of safety, meaning the number of times stronger the machine is than is necessary for plain flying. The Spad is made so that a man can’t bust it no matter what he does in the air—dive as far and as fast as he can and stop as brutally as he can—it stands the racket. Of course, motors do stop and if it happens over a mountain range—well, that’s just hard luck.
Have had a few patrols since last I wrote. One at a high height, 4,000-4,500 metres, considerably above the clouds which almost shut out the ground below, wonderfully beautiful sight but beastly cold, and a couple when the clouds were low and solid. The patrol stays at just the height of the clouds, hiding in them and slipping out again to look around. If it gets below, the enemy anti-aircraft guns pepper it whenevernear the lines and at a low altitude that is rather awkward—so the patrol shows itself as little as possible.
It’s lots of sport to try to keep with the patrol: be behind the chief of patrol, see him disappear and then bump into a fog bank, a low-hanging cloud and not see a darn thing. Then dive down out of the cloud wondering whether the other guy is right underneath or not; shoot out of the cloud and see him maybe 500 yards away going at right angles. Then bank up and turn around fast and give her the gear—full speed to catch up and so on. See a Boche regulating artillery fire, start to manoeuvre into range and zip! he’s out of sight in the clouds and the next you see he is beating it far back of his lines. Not very dangerous this weather, but lots of fun.
December 3rd, 1917.
Dear ——[F]:
Thanks for the merry, merry wishes for the gay Xmas season and I’ll try to remember them when the day comes along. Sundays and holidays are not very much noticed here at the front, except that on Sunday the mechanics all get full ofpinardand song and devilment—thepinard(meaning cheap red ink used by the French in place of drinking water) is of course responsible for the two latter. In the villages, the entire male population likewise drinks much wine and everyone—man, woman, child, dog, and domestic animal, parades the streets—dressed up all like a picture book (applying mostly to women and children). Occasionally they cross the sidewalk, but the middle of the street istheplace to walk.
One Sunday, I went to church, the first time since last Easter, I think, to attend the mass given for the departed brethren of theescadrille.The chapel is in a little town a few miles from our camp. Along in the Middle Ages or anyway a long time ago, there was a beautiful cathedral there—now the town is insignificantly small. The front of the cathedral is standing almost in its entirety and the walls for a little way back, dwindling down into glorious ruins and finally tumbled masses of rock and stray pillars. Where the back wall once stood, there now runs a little brook (I almost called it bubbling, but it happens to be an unusually dead and not over-clean little stream). The chapel is a place about as big as a minute, snuggling in beside the big front wall of the ancient cathedral. The service was meaningless to me—what wasn’t Latin was French. I followed the fellow in front of me and didn’t miss it once on the getting up and down (fortunately,militairesdon’t have to kneel, I suppose because they appreciate the fact that most of them wear breeches made by French tailors).
But they fooled me once. What must have been the village belle (what a village!) passed a little button bag affair in baby blue ribbon, and gathered up the shekels. I dropped mine in and horror—here comes the young sister withan identical bag and asks for more and I was unprepared and had to turn her down amidst my blushes. I thought she was working on the other side of the house as we used to do at evening service and to this day I don’t know why they took up two collections though it has been explained to me three times in French.
Have had some very pleasant trips over the German border (present, not 1914), have watched a few Archies bursting at a safe distance away and seen some specks which were Boche planes, but am not ready to write a book yet. Yesterday morning we had the first sortie at 6:45 daylight. A solid bank of clouds over the camp here at 2,000 metres. The lines are parallel to a river and a few kilometres north. The edge of the cloud bank was over the river, sharp as if cut by a knife and all Germany cloudless. We slipped out from under it and back on top just in time to see the sun get over the horizon—almost as far away as Rheims, which we just cannot see. The river and canal were just silver ribbons on a black cloth stretching for miles due east. Under us we could make out the ground on one side and the clouds on the other, and tothe west the cloud bank continued to follow the lines, a gloriously beautiful panorama. The cloud bank stayed nearly the same the two hours we were up. From a distance above or below, a cloud is just a big, soft, quiet cushion of cotton fluff, but near to it is a seething, irregular, tossing, furious jumble of mist.
We saw a few Boches, far behind their lines. An hour after we were back, they said that Lufbery had just brought down another machine, his 15th, in flames. He was using a new machine and the gun was not properly regulated—seven balls were in each blade of the propeller, yet it held together and brought him home. I was down at the Lafayette hangars talking to Bill Thaw, and here comes the mighty man in a hurry from reporting his flight. With fire in his eye he got in his old machine and off again for the lines. At noon he had brought down another, which hasn’t yet been officiallyhomologué, but is none the less sure for that. Thaw brought down one this morning. They are doing well, these men of the American Escadrille—still French, however, though shortly to be transferred, we hear.
May your Xmas be a happy one, and the new year and those to follow bring you ever better fortune than the last one.
Stuart.
Châlons-sur-Marne.December 8, 1917.
Dear ——[G]:
I got the SundayStara few days ago and there was that same old picture and —— staring me in the face! A very nice write-up, I thought it. What a bunch of big-wigs they did gather together! We packed up bag and baggage yesterday and flew off to a new place, and here we are waiting for the baggage to catch up. I have grave fears that there may be some fighting one of these days, and if so, I think it will be about time for me to get out of this war. Cheery oh!
Stuart.
Châlons-sur-Marne.December 8, 1917.
Yesterday we were awakened at 6 and told that we were going to move out, bag and baggage at 2. So now as new barracks were not ready we came down here last night and have been seeing the sights of the town since. It is full of Americans, ambulances, doctors, Y. M. C. A. workers, everything but fighting men which I trust we’ll see before long.
Stuart.