[image]"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.PASSING THE FINAL TESTSMy 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.[image]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.THE ZEPPELIN RAID OVER PARISI 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.[image]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."[image]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!"AT THE ECOLE DE PERFECTIONNEMENTFrom 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.[image]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.THE RÉSERVE GÉNÉRALE DE L'AVIATIONThe "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.
[image]"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.
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"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.
PASSING THE FINAL TESTS
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.
[image]A Farman artillery-machine.
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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.
THE ZEPPELIN RAID OVER PARIS
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.
[image]Newspaper dropped by German raiders within the French lines.
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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."
[image]An anti-aircraft .75.
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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!"
AT THE ECOLE DE PERFECTIONNEMENT
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.
[image]A bad landing.
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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.
THE RÉSERVE GÉNÉRALE DE L'AVIATION
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.