[image]A heavy bombarding-machine.Suddenly he darted into position and for a second hovered uncertainly. Then, with a dive like that of a dragon-fly, he rushed down to the attack. Again a sheet of flame and a shower of sparks. This time the balloon sagged. The flames crept slowly around its silken envelope. "Touché!" cried the multitude. Then the balloon burst and fell to the ground, a mass of flames. High above, the little Nieuport saucily continued its pranks, as though contemptuous of such easy prey.To the north a group of tiny specks in the sky seemed to grow in size and number. Nearer and nearer they came. I knew they must be a bombarding escadrille, returning from a raid across the enemy's lines. One, two, three, I counted them, up to twelve. Slowly they floated along as if tired by their long flight, and then gently they began to drop down.They rolled smoothly across the field and stopped before their hangars. Cannon protruded menacingly from their armored, boat-shaped bodies as the pilots climbed down and stretched themselves."At the front this morning, to-night they can dine in Paris," jealously sighed an infantry officer. "But," replied an aviator from our group, "there are two of them who will probably never dine in Paris again. Fourteen started out this morning. Now they number only twelve."ORDERED TO THE FRONTAfter three weeks at Plessis-le-Belleville I became "disponible," that is to say, I was listed among the first twenty aviators who were considered ready for duty at the front. From that moment orders directing my future movements might be received any minute, and I was under restriction not to stray too far away. I must say that I experienced a curious sensation, waiting around in this way, not knowing where I would be in a week. You never know to what sector of the front you are going until your orders are handed to you. Three days after my name had been posted on the bulletin-board an order came detaching five pilots for duty with the "Armée de l'Orient" at Salonica. My name was sixth on the list, so I missed by one being among them. That evening, however, my turn came. This time the direction was Toul.When men leave the Réserve for the front there are no sad leave-takings. Every pilot seems to be glad that his turn has come to do his share in the defense of his country, and instead of being downcast he is light-hearted. Yet the part which he is to play in the air involves chances which are four to one against his coming through alive.It is customary for a pilot to spend two days in Paris before starting for his ordered destination. Officially my leave was due to begin only on the following morning. I decided, however, to take time by the forelock and to be off that night. In this way I would gain twelve hours additional leave. All the "paperasserie"—red tape—was first disposed of, and then I proceeded to pack my effects. These I had drawn from the aviation quartermaster's depot. There was my fur-lined union suit, a fur overcoat, fur boots, gloves, and cap. I also received an automatic pistol with a holster, a special aeroplane compass, an "altimetre," a special aviation clock mounted on wire springs, and a speed-indicator. These were furnished to me by the government, and became my property. I had the privilege of providing myself with anything else I wished, but the government outfit always had to be at hand for inspection.Fortunately I had just time to make the evening train for Paris. According to my pass, I was on "service recommandé" and on my way to the front, where in a few days I would be flying over the German lines. The moment I had looked forward to for so many months had at last come. I could hardly believe it myself.My two days in Paris passed like magic. There was so much to attend to, so much to do, that before I knew it the moment to leave had come. I took a taxi to the Gare de l'Est, my wife and my little girl accompanying me. My luggage consisted of my black army canteen, across the front of which was painted in white letters "Carroll Winslow—Pilote Aviateur," and my long canvas duffel-bag, which contained my fur-lined clothes and all my flying paraphernalia. There are usually so many formalities to be complied with that I allowed more than enough time for the visa of my papers. It was well that I did. The station was crowded with grimy, blue-coated "poilus," walking up and down the waiting-rooms and lounging on the stone steps; outside others were saying good-by to their families, while across the street large numbers crowded about the free "buffets," where patriotic women of Paris daily minister to the wants of the departing "permissionnaires." All the men wore their steel helmets, and had their knapsacks strapped to their shoulders. They were not as smart-looking as the khaki-clad British "Tommies," but despite their muddy boots and faded uniforms there was something in their faces, a look in their eyes, that seemed to say: "No sacrifice is too great—for France." I felt proud to think that I was one of them, and their quiet salutes showed me that I had their respect. The regard of those grave, war-worn men meant much to me. My wife and I silently watched what was going on about us, while our little girl chattered at our side. Many women accompanied their "braves" to the station. Most of them carried baskets of food and delicacies, but some, too poor even to buy a present for their "poilus," came empty-handed. The moments of leave-taking seemed almost tragic. Many a man went up those steps whistling and with head erect, while others laughed as they tossed their little ones high in the air for a last good-by. These were fine examples, and when the porter touched me on the arm and said: "The train for Toul, m'sieu'," I too was able to bear it calmly.The cars were already crowded with "poilus." Not a seat was to be had in the compartments. Standing-room in the corridors was at a premium. We were all bound in the same general direction, toward Verdun, Nancy, and Toul.The train came to a stop at last. We were at Bar-le-Duc, the terminus for Verdun. What an air of mystery there was about the station at "Bar." We could hear the distant roar of the cannon defending the banks of the Meuse. Everywhere men moved about with a sort of suppressed excitement. "Camions" rumbled by in hundreds. In the freight-yard troops filled every available space not already taken up by the newly arrived artillery. Nearly all my travelling companions left me here. For a moment I wished that I too had been ordered to the Verdun sector. It was after sundown when the train drew into the station at Toul. The town was in darkness, and I felt very doubtful as to whether I would be able to join my escadrille that night. To my surprise, an officer, noticing my indecision, came up to me and asked if he could help me. I told him where I wanted to go and inquired if he could direct me. "Why, it is too late to do this to-day," he remarked; "better wait until the morning." With that he motioned me to step into his automobile and directed the chauffeur to drive us to the Etat-Major.As we rolled through the streets of the silent city I had a moment to reflect upon what all this meant. I began to realize that a change had taken place in my position. I was no longer a mere soldier, but an aviator and as such entitled to courtesies usually extended only to officers in the other branches of the army. There is no mention of this custom in the regulations. It was merely an unwritten paragraph of military etiquette. Here was an officer, my superior in rank, treating me with a consideration I had rarely experienced. I noticed by the insignia on his overcoat that he was a captain in the Aviation Corps. He was therefore a pilot. I thought for a few moments. Suddenly an idea occurred to me. I was also a pilot, and in the eyes of traditional convention we were comrades, for we were both aviators. At the Etat-Major the colonel like-wise extended a warm welcome and shook me heartily by the hand. I suppose that my being an American had something to do with it, but I could not help thinking that I was still only a corporal. He immediately gave orders to requisition a large room for me at the hotel, and bade me hurry or I would be late for dinner. No wonder aviators are inspired to do such splendid work at the front when their efforts meet with so much appreciation.The next morning I started out soon after sunrise to walk out to the aviation-field. Everywhere, above the streets of Toul, there were posters which read "Cave Voutée," and with the number of persons, varying from fifteen to sixty, who could be accommodated. These cellars were protected with sand-bags and were located at convenient intervals, so that the people might find shelter quickly whenever the German aeroplanes made their appearance. Only a few days previous to my arrival there had been a raid, yet everything seemed normal and the housewives went about their marketing and shopping as if they had nothing else to think about.An hour's walk brought me to my escadrille, F-44. I was barely in time. Orders had just been received transferring it to the Verdun sector and preparations to move camp were already under way. Every one went to work with a will, laughing and jumping around in a sort of war-dance. No wonder they were happy. They—we, I should say, for I was now one of them—were about to become participants in the world's greatest defensive battle.[image]A German aeroplane brought down by a French aeroplane.The smoke is from the German machine, which the aviator hasset fire to upon being brought down. The French machine canbe seen to the right, its wing broken by a bad landing. Thesmall dots in the center are French soldiers. The whitelines are the French third-line trenches.The French pilot with his German prisoner (insert).The aeroplanes started for Bar-le-Duc "by air" shortly after noon. One pilot and myself, however, had to make the journey by rail. My own machine had not yet arrived, and his had been smashed up the day before. When the German raiders came over Toul he had gone up with the defending aeroplanes, and had brought down an aviatik which he had engaged. It is customary for a pilot, when driven down in the enemy's territory to set fire to his machine to prevent it from falling into the hands of his adversaries. This the German proceeded to do the moment he touched ground. My friend was frantic to prevent this and tried to make a quick landing in order to get to him in time. He was too excited, however, and smashed one of the wings of his own machine during the landing. This occurred just behind the French third-line trenches. The soldiers rushed out and made the German pilot a prisoner, but not until after he had applied the match to his gasolene-tank.IN THE VERDUN SECTORAt Bar-le-Duc I felt again the suppressed excitement of the near-front. Everywhere were "Cave Voutée" signs, troops were in motion on all sides, sentries were posted at every street-corner, every one seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere.Our escadrille was camped in a field adjoining that occupied by the American Escadrille. Our "train" consisted of a dozen light, covered trucks with their tent-like trailers, and three automobiles for the use of the officers and pilots. Our camp was pitched by the time I had made the trip from Toul by rail, and the array of tents and the park of tractors had every outward appearance of a country circus. It was my first impression of an air-squadron camp at the front, and I must admit that my previous conception of the amount of equipment required by each of these units was far below what I now beheld. The personnel of my escadrille alone looked like an expeditionary force for service in Mexico. There were a dozen artillery-observers, seven pilots, countless mechanics, chauffeurs, orderlies, servants, wireless operators, photographers, and other "attachés," over a hundred and twenty-five men in all. Each of these hundred-odd men were essential to the work of the nineteen pilots and observers.It was a pleasant surprise to find the American pilots here. I had not heard that they had been ordered to the Verdun sector. This honor had been thrust upon them unexpectedly. They were now here, among the best fighting units of the French Army, to protect the photography, fire-control, and bombarding-machines of this sector. Their camp was thirty miles behind the lines, but with their fast little Nieuports it took them less than fifteen minutes to be in the thick of the fray. The government had given them a large, comfortable villa to live in. I must say I felt a bit envious when I compared their feather-beds and baths with my little tent and canvas-covered cot.That evening I had dinner with my compatriots. It was a meal I will never forget. As visiting pilot I was seated on the right of their commander, Captain Thenault. Across the table, opposite me, sat Victor Chapman, Norman Prince, and Kiffen Rockwell—all three since fallen on the "champ d'honneur." At the other end of the table were Elliot Cowdin, Jim McConnell, and "Red" Rumsey, together with Clyde Balsley, Chouteau Johnston, and Dudley Hill. Bill Thaw was not with us, as he was in the hospital, having been wounded in a recent combat with a Boche. The places of the three pilots killed have since been taken by other volunteers, but in the minds and memories of the Americans dining at the camp that night their places can never be filled. We know that they did not die in vain, and that what they did will live in history. Their spirit was one of sincere patriotism to the cause they had made their own, and among the Allies the sympathy and the belief they expressed has been amply proved.The escadrille was to make its first sortie as a unit in the morning. Captain Thenault had much to say to his men, and after dinner the conversation continued along the same general lines. There seemed to be so much detail to attend to and signals to arrange that I was almost tempted to ask them how escadrilles ever managed to co-operate so well in the presence of the enemy air squadrons.[image]A bi-motor Caudron.A captured Fokker.When I awoke next morning it was raining. The clouds hung low, too low for flying over the lines, so the Americans remained in their beds. Our escadrille, however, was obliged to move on, as the station to which it had been assigned was directly behind the lines. The planes had to proceed "par la voie de l'air," but the ground was so soft and muddy that it was difficult to get the machines to leave the earth. The pilots all seemed nervous, yet all rose in good form except one, who was a little late in getting off. He did not know the way, and was afraid of losing his companions in the mist. In his haste he took too short a run, so that when he came to the end of the field he was not high enough to clear the line of hangars in his path. To make matters worse the unlucky man lost his head. He tried to make a sharp turn, but it was too late. The tip of his wing caught the canvas of the tent, and the machine fell with a crash to the ground, killing the pilot and pinning his mechanic beneath the wreckage.We felt much depressed by this accident. Our departure for the new camp seemed to emphasize our sadness, for, as we moved off in our long line of motors our procession had an appearance almost funereal. First came the automobiles; then, following them, the twelve tractors and trailers—twenty-seven vehicles in all—moving slowly toward the front.As we turned into the main road to Verdun the traffic was so heavy that we had to move at a snail's pace. Ahead of us rumbled a steady stream of "camions" with ammunition and supplies. Alongside of the road were the columns of troops going to the trenches. Their heavy coats were already soaked, and the probability was that they would remain so for a week, but nothing daunted them. They just plodded along gayly, singing their marching songs, utterly unmindful of the rain-drops that were hourly weighting down their equipment more and more.From the opposite direction came the empty supply-trains. Sandwiched in with these were ambulances and motor-buses, bearing the men returning from their "stage" in the trenches. The poor fellows looked hardly human, for they were brown with mud from head to foot. Their faces were caked with dirt, and a week's growth of beard gave them a still more uninviting appearance. They seemed to gaze at us with a far-away, half-conscious expression, so utterly stupefied were they by the terrible bombardment to which they had been subjected.The farther we went the more numerous were the evidences of war. The roar of the cannonade became louder. On both sides of the roads the villages were in ruins. Not a farmhouse was inhabited, and the fields were dotted everywhere with soldiers' graves; on each cross hung the "képi" of the dead hero. In some of the military cemeteries there were graves without little wooden crosses—only a small fence marked them off from the rest. These, I was told, were the graves of the Mohammedan African troops, whose comrades claimed for them a plot apart from the "unsacred ground" used by their Christian allies.It was almost dark by the time we reached our new camping-site. The fields were soaked with the heavy rain, and we splashed about in the mud for hours before the task of pitching camp was completed. By nine o'clock, however, all was ready and we sat down to a good, warm supper. Then we turned in. It was so cold and chilly that I went to bed in my fur-lined clothes. But tired as I was I could not get to sleep. The roar of the artillery was frightful. On every side of us it crashed and thundered, unceasingly, uninterruptedly. An attack was in process at the Mort-Homme, and every little while there would be a "tir de barrage," or curtain fire as we call it. The small 75's would sound like the rat-tat of a snare-drum accompanying the louder beats of the deep-bass drums.I got out of bed and gazed toward the battle-field. The earth was brilliantly illuminated by the rockets and flares that were being sent up everywhere. The sky seemed full of fire-flies—in reality exploding shells. On all sides the guns flashed angrily. Search-lights played about in every direction. It was a most superb spectacle, but it was terrible. It was hell.MY FIRST FLIGHT OVER THE LINESUnfavorable weather conditions kept us inactive for several days, but as soon as the skies cleared our escadrille immediately went to work again. For some reason my own machine was delayed "en route," and did not arrive for a week. This was time I could ill afford to lose, so the "chef pilote" took me as a passenger in his biplane to familiarize me with the ground in our sector.We started late one afternoon. The atmosphere was extraordinarily clear. Every detail in the landscape stood out boldly, and as we rose the dozens of camps in the immediate vicinity spread out below us like models set in a painted scenery. The valleys, the tents, the guns, the troops, all were visible to the naked eye. On all sides were aviation-camps, which were easily distinguished from the others—there must have been at least twenty of them within a radius of five miles.As soon as we reached a height of three thousand feet my pilot headed the machine toward the lines. At our feet lay the terrain of the "Verdun sector." From the forest of the Argonne on our left to the plains of the Woëvre on our right stretched one of the bloodiest battle-fields of history. At regular intervals along the front the French captive balloons—there were eighteen in sight at this moment—swung lazily in the breeze. They looked for all the world like the "saucisses" they are named after. Day and night they are kept aloft, maintaining ceaseless vigil over the movements of the enemy.Passing the balloons, we could see the various important points of the defense at closer range. The city of Verdun nestled close to the banks of the Meuse, which wound like a silver band through that now desolate land. Far off to the right were the forts of Vaux and Douaumont. A trifle nearer was Fleury. To the left, in the distance, I could make out the "Mort-Homme" and Hill 304, while directly before us lay Cumières and Chattancourt. The entire Verdun sector was spread out like a relief-map.The German attacks upon the French position on the Mort-Homme were still in progress. I had never before seen a battle, and to see such an important conflict from "the gallery" seemed most strange. It looked more like a pan of boiling water, with the steam hanging in a pall over it, than anything else I can think of. In fact, a yellow mist rose to a great height and almost obscured the view. Tiny flashes showed where the guns were concealed, but to us the battle was a silent one. The noise of our motor drowned the whistling of the shells and the roar of the bombardment. I could not help thinking how much some of those poor fellows below us would appreciate a little of this silence.We could plainly see the network of the trenches, broken and half-obliterated in the mud. In some places they were so close together that it was difficult to make out where the French lines ended and the German earthworks began. The ground was speckled with "pock-marks" caused by shell explosions, and altogether it was a weird scene of desolation. All signs of nature which had once beautified this region had vanished. The forests and the green fields had disappeared. Ruined villages lay like piles of disused stone among the circular "entonnoirs," or shell-holes. In color it was all a dirty brown.[image]A view of the Mort-Homme taken from a height of 3,600 feet.These are two photographs pasted together.Exact maps of the front are made in this manner dailyby the photographic sections.On every side of us were the French artillery biplanes. They were hovering over the German lines like gulls, continually wirelessing back the ranges to their batteries. High above us circled the little Nieuports on guard, to protect us and to prevent the Fokkers and aviatiks from crossing over our lines. Everywhere were little white puffs, which seemed to follow the machines about. I watched them, strangely fascinated and amused, until my pilot informed me that these were caused by exploding shrapnel from the enemy's anti-aircraft guns. Then I noticed with uneasiness that the same puffs were also following us. My interest in the little white puffs from that moment assumed quite another character. I listened for the sharp crack of their explosions, but all I could hear was a dull "whung." The thought that very few machines are really brought down by shrapnel was a bit reassuring, but I must admit that when the enemy is sending them on all sides of you, you do not feel like giving much credence to what others may have told you.Presently my attention was called to the lines of German captive balloons, which are moored some miles behind their first-line trenches. Several aeroplanes stood guard over them, and as we knew that they were armed and that we on this occasion were not we decided to turn back.I made several of these trips over the different positions on our immediate front. By the time my own machine arrived I was thoroughly familiar with the sector and also with the main dangers to be encountered by aviators over the battle lines. The first precaution I learned was—always, when landing, to unhook the belt that held me in my seat. This is one of the most important things to remember at the front. The fields are not always in the best condition, and the slightest obstruction may cause an unexpected crash. If you are in an artillery pusher-machine when this happens you are invariably crushed under the motor, unless your belt is unfastened, when you are usually thrown clear.[image]"Everywhere little white puffs seemed to follow the machines about."Another danger, which I would never have thought of if an experienced pilot had not pointed it out, lies in the cables mooring the captive balloons. These are invisible to an approaching aviator and to collide with one means a fatal smash. When flying low enough to pass under the "saucisses," aviators must watch out for these "tethers." Nevertheless, you can always take advantage of one of their peculiarities. The cable always stretches to windward, and in a good breeze it stretches far. By keeping well to leeward you can always rest reasonably assured that you are on the safe side. Many aviators, however, have met with fatal accidents, through fouling these cables. I know of only one instance where the pilot did escape unhurt after striking the wire. It seems that the moment he saw what was going to happen he put his machine into a vertical bank, so that when the impact came he was turning about the cable. Then, strangely enough, by continuing his spiral he was able finally to disengage himself and escape.Telephone and telegraph wires also are a certain menace to aviators. They form a regular network behind the lines, while on every aviation-field there are in addition wireless aerials to avoid. Many a returning pilot has forgotten them in his haste to get back to camp, and fouled them, to his regret. One pilot I knew met his fate in this way. He had been wounded by a shrapnel-ball over the German lines, and had managed to return to his own field. He was so weak from the loss of blood that in his anxiety to land quickly he forgot the aerials. His machine caught the wires and fell to the ground. Both the pilot's legs were broken in the fall and he died, not so much from his wound as from this unfortunate accident.Still another risk is encountered when flying in the clouds. A cloud is dangerous at any time because there may be an enemy—or, in fact, any machine—in it. If you enter the mist you may be going head on into another aeroplane without having the slightest warning of its presence. Your own motor makes so much noise that you never under any circumstances hear that of another machine until too late. You are in consequence deprived of both your eyesight and your hearing. At the front the risk of meeting an enemy aeroplane under such circumstances can never be overlooked, for often fighting machines use the mist to cover their presence.Shells also have to be carefully avoided, for, though destined for some far-away target below you, they sometimes in their flight destroy aeroplanes unintentionally. As I have already explained, we devoted much time to this subject at Châteauroux, learning the trajectories of the different calibers. Still, at the front, the theory is not so easily put into practice. It seems almost impossible to keep track of all the artillery massed by your own side, especially in such a sector as Verdun, where the guns often were placed so close together that their wheels almost touched. On more than one occasion when flying quietly through the air my machine has given a sudden lurch, and I have heard the dull "tung" of a passing shell. There is none of the whistling we are accustomed to on the earth; merely the dulled sound caused by the sudden displacement of the air.My own machine finally arrived, after delays that seemed interminable, and my two mechanics immediately set to work installing the various instruments, and painting it. These two men were personally responsible to me for the condition of the motor and planes, but, as pilot, I was the master of the machine, which was reserved for my own use. In fact, each aeroplane has painted on its body and rudder the name and distinguishing marks of its pilot and escadrille.After a few short flights I became aware of the fact that my biplane, in spite of all my efforts to correct it, showed a strong tendency to lean to the right. At times I could hardly make a turn to the left. This was a serious matter at the front, as an enemy might at any moment appear on my "weak" side and I would be placed in a serious position. I therefore mentioned the matter to my captain. To my surprise, he immediately ordered a new machine for me and gave directions that the one I was using should be sent back to the factory. The defect in this particular case was one mechanics could not remedy, and it seems that it was nothing out of the ordinary to send a machine back to the shops. At the front a pilot must have a perfect machine to work with or none at all. The life of a good aeroplane seldom is more than fifty hours of actual flying.During this time the organization of the escadrille was perfected. The pilots were divided into two "watches," one-half being on duty while the other was "standing by" ready for service in case of emergency. All the pilots except myself were "disponibles." I was exempt because I had no machine, and was therefore for the time being my own master, even when it came to rising in the morning. When the others on duty were awakened, at early dawn, I would be awakened with the rest. My turn had not yet come, however, and I could just turn over and sleep to my heart's content.Our camp looked like a little tented city; there were seven enormous canvas hangars, and grouped about these six other tents, each serving a particular purpose: captain's office, wireless plant, telephone central, repair-shop, photographic division, and kitchen. At one end of the field were the living-quarters of the captain and the observers, while at the other were parked the thirty automobiles of our two escadrilles. On the opposite sides of the field were the quarters of the pilots of the two escadrilles. The mechanics slept in the hangars with their machines.Considering everything, we were fairly comfortable. The pilots of each escadrille shared two large tents, and in addition each group had a large mess-tent. Inside each sleeping-tent each one of us had a little alcove. Our cots were raised on wooden platforms. At one end we fitted up a shower-bath, for which purpose a gasolene tank punctured with holes proved ideal. Of course, every time you wanted a bath some one had to empty pails of water into the "tank" above you. Our mess—"popotte" they call it in the French army—was very good. We had a regular daily allowance from the government, but this was not always enough to buy all the supplies we needed. We therefore instituted a system of fines, and our treasurer provided our table with a small tin box in lieu of a centrepiece.Bad language or talking "shop" before coffee involved a ten-centime fine, which had to be dropped into the bank at once. This regulation proved a godsend to the mess—and to our conversation.As I was not "disponible," I was sent on several trips with the staff automobile. Its most frequent runs were to the artillery headquarters to deliver photographs of the enemy's positions. These were situated in a near-by village, within sight of the German trenches. All the roads approaching this place were masked, and the town itself was in ruins. Everywhere sand-bags reinforced the stone walls. The telephone central was a veritable fortress, and continually within the zone of the German artillery "strafes." The life of the officers of the Etat-Major was certainly not an enviable or an easy one.CO-OPERATING WITH THE ARTILLERYBy the time my second machine arrived I had been at the front long enough to appreciate the rôle played by each of the different types of aeroplanes used in this great conflict. Camped near us was a bombarding unit. Every night when the heavens were clear these machines would go up, turning great circles over our heads until they reached the desired altitude. They would then vanish with their destructive bombs in the direction of the enemy. We could always tell when they passed over the lines, for the German search-lights would become very active, and the sky would become dotted with sparks, which in reality were exploding shrapnel. Then, in the early hours of the morning, they would return, having flown far into the enemy's country to drop their bombs. This is tiresome and disagreeable duty, but not by any means as dangerous a one as the other branches of aviation, for bombers are practically free from interruption by enemy aeroplanes in the dark.Camped with us was the famous N-64, the crack fighting unit of the French Aviation Corps. Among its pilots were such famous aviators as Navarre, Nungesser, and Vialet, known familiarly as the "aces." Every evening just before sunset these men would take their machines up in the twilight and do "stunts" for the benefit of hundreds of admiring "poilus" gathered from neighboring camps. These were the self-same "stunts" which on many occasions had enabled them to escape from sure death at the hands of some superior enemy force. As I have said before, the fighting work, although in reality the safest, requires the most experienced and accomplished pilots. The chief duty of the Nieuports is "barrage," or sentry duty. There are always several of them flying over the lines, on the lookout for some "Boche." It is their task to swoop down like a hawk upon them and destroy or else drive them away. Of course, our own "avions de chasse" are as liable to be attacked by the enemy, and they must in consequence be continually on the "qui vive."When one of the larger reconnoissance machines is compelled to go far into the German lines on special-mission work, it is usually accompanied by a body-guard of several Nieuports. Spies, on the other hand, are carried only in the fast-flying Nieuports, which in this case are double-seated. It seems that it is comparatively easy to take a man over and leave him far in the rear of the German trenches, but going back for him is another matter. After several days the pilot returns to a prearranged place, but, as sometimes happens, his compatriot may have been caught. In this case a like fate usually awaits him at the hands of the watchful enemy.For reconnoissance work the large bi-motor Caudrons are generally used. They are fitted with a small wireless apparatus; but this means of communication cannot be used very often. The machines, on many occasions, have to go beyond the effective radius of their radio, and at other times its use is inadvisable, as its messages might become known, or else blocked by the enemy. Resort has been had, therefore, to carrier-pigeons. These are released the moment any important information has to be conveyed to headquarters, and these swift little messengers have proved extremely useful and reliable. Their use has, in consequence, become general.The bimotor Caudrons are employed also by the photography section of the army, though much of this work is actually done by artillery machines detailed for this service. Photography is a dangerous duty, because the flights have to be made at low altitudes to obtain the best results. On the other hand, it is not at all tedious. The mission upon which the machine has been sent is usually accomplished in a brief space of time, and the machine often stays out less than an hour. In comparison with the amount of flying required of the aviators in the other branches of the service, which varies in length from three to five hours a day, photography is easy work."Réglage," or fire-control, on the other hand, is the most difficult and the most dangerous work to be performed by the Flying Corps at the front. The machines used are large and unwieldy, built to carry the weight of two men and all sorts of equipment. They are fairly fast, but their spread of wing is so large that it is almost impossible for them to make a turn quickly when attacked. They are armed with a machine gun, it is true, but they are always at a great disadvantage in the presence of an enemy fighting-machine which can out-manoeuvre them at every turn.The first duty to which I was assigned was "réglage," and this, I found, involves many complications. The chief source of trouble usually is the wireless apparatus, which has to be maintained in perfect working order. Before leaving the home field you usually circle over it, while your observer tests his sending apparatus. The receiving operator then answers by visual signals. Usually these are large white sheets laid on the ground in different formations, which have a prearranged meaning. When the radio is found to be in perfect order you are off to the battery you have been ordered to co-operate with. By wireless your observer then reports to the battery commander, and receives his orders by means of the same visual signals. You then head in the direction indicated to you before leaving, and, hovering over the position to be bombarded, the observer signals back "fire." The moment the shells have landed you turn quickly about and inform the artillery just how many metres their fire was long, short, or to the right or left. Your message is once more answered with the sheets. Again you fly back toward the enemy's position, circling in this way backward and forward between the battery and the target until the réglage is completed. Naturally every care must be taken not to disclose the position of your own guns to the enemy, or retaliation—"strafe," the English call it—summarily follows. Sometimes it is the battery which interrupts the work with the signal, "Avion ennemi," when the fire instantly ceases until the German aeroplane has disappeared or been driven off.With such occasional interruptions the work continues until your observer can send back the signal "fire correct," which is generally answered by the "sheet signal" with the information that you may return home. Until this dismissal occurs, however, the ground below wholly engrosses the attention of your observer. You yourself are forced to keep a close watch for Boche fighting-machines so as not to be caught unawares by one of them. This is often a very trying task, as the models of some of the French and German aeroplanes are so very much alike that they cannot be distinguished until they are within range. The tricolor cockade and the black iron cross painted on the top and bottom of each wing serve to identify the fliers of the two belligerents, but these colors cannot be seen very far. You consequently have little warning as to whether the approaching planes are friends or foes.Sometimes the enemy's anti-aircraft batteries become a bit too familiar. On such occasions the observer tries to signal to his batteries to drop a shell or two where these pieces are mounted. Often quiet is not restored until the machine has been more or less riddled with shrapnel bullets.One réglage is very much like another, and when you have read the description of one you become familiar with them all. It is only in the results accomplished that the details vary.It is a curious fact that in the first months of the war many artillery officers refused to follow the directions of their aerial observers. A colonel of artillery who has been firing big guns all his life cannot be blamed for not thinking that a young observation officer and a mere aviator know enough about the work of batteries to tell him where his shells are falling. Orders, consequently, had to be issued placing the artillery absolutely under the direction of the observers and calling upon the pilots to report any case where a battery refused to be guided by the signals it received. That put an end to the trouble.At first I felt a strong aversion to flying over batteries in action. You are bound to get in close proximity to the trajectory of the shells, and the constant sensation and sound of the passing projectiles is none too pleasant. You get them both coming and going, and, no matter which you are trying to avoid, you are always taking a chance with the other. It is a question of choosing between the devil and the deep sea, with the devil constantly stepping into your path.[image]Reduced facsimile of the photographic report suppliedto the Headquarters Stall of the fighting at Cumières.When you are observing for the artillery you must stay and die, if necessary, in the performance of your assigned duty. It is another matter with reconnoissance or photographic work. Here the main thing is to get back to headquarters with the information you have gained. If you are attacked and you see no chance of successfully fighting off the enemy, it is your business to run.After some weeks of service with the fire-control detail I was ordered to serve as a photography pilot. This I found a most interesting duty. Whenever we received orders to photograph a position we would start out immediately, flying very low—say, from one thousand eight hundred to three thousand feet. As we reached the part of the enemy's positions to be photographed I would fly in parallel lines, while my observer took the photographs with a specially constructed telephoto camera. We would then hasten back to camp and immediately hand the plates over to the sergeant in charge of the dark room. This taciturn non-com would waste no time with words. In a few moments the photographs would be ready and on their way to headquarters. On several occasions I have seen photographs placed in the hands of the Etat-Major within an hour and a half after the order had been issued by the commanding officer there—examples of celerity and efficiency of service which have placed the photographic branch of aviation "hors concours."ALL IN THE DAY'S WORKIt is strange how easily you become accustomed to being at the front. At first you sense your proximity to the vast military operations that are in progress, but after a while the newness wears off. One day passes like another without special notice, although daily something out of the ordinary is occurring somewhere along the western front. These experiences, however, generally fall to the lot of the fighting-machines. We of the artillery and photography sections share only the dangers. It is all in the day's work.I remember one curious incident that occurred while I was in the Verdun sector. Victor Chapman, who was doing combat work with the American Escadrille after a brush with four German aeroplanes, was forced to descend to our field. Not only had he received a bad scalp-wound from a bullet but his machine had been riddled and nearly wrecked. One bullet had even severed a metal stability control. By all the rules of aviation he should have lost control of his aeroplane and met with a fatal accident. But Chapman was an expert pilot. He simply held on to the broken rod with one hand, while with the other he steered his machine. This needed all the strength at his command, but he had the power and the skill necessary to bring him safely to earth. A surgeon immediately dressed his wound, our mechanics repaired his machine. The repairs completed, he was off and up again in pursuit of some more Boches. I must say that every one considered him a remarkable pilot. He was absolutely fearless, and always willing and able to fly more than was ever required of him. His machine was a sieve of patched-up bullet-holes. A few days later came his last fight. He was carrying two bags of oranges to Clyde Balsley, who lay wounded in a hospital not far away. There was an aerial combat against odds within the German lines, and Chapman lost no time in going to the aid of his hard-pressed comrades. He brought down one of the enemy airmen, but the others were still too numerous, and the fight then was only a matter of seconds. He was last seen falling behind the German lines.Balsley had been wounded in an encounter with several Germans. He was doing well, when he was struck in the thigh by an explosive bullet which burst in his stomach. He immediately lost all consciousness. His machine began to tumble straight toward the lines. Just before reaching the ground, however, Balsley regained his senses sufficiently to realize what was happening. By a superhuman effort he managed to right his machine and make a landing in a neighboring meadow. He was carried to a near-by hospital, where for days he wavered between life and death. Two fragments of the explosive bullet were removed from his intestines. These he kept wrapped up in a handkerchief as proof that the enemy, despite their denials, do violate the rules of civilized warfare. For a long time the only nourishment he could take was the juice of oranges, and that was why Chapman was on this mission on that unfortunate day.A sad accident occurred on a neighboring aviation-field while I was at the front. The captain of one of the escadrilles had visiting him his younger brother, a bright lad of nineteen. The boy was unusually well-informed about aeronautical matters, but he had never made a flight. His request to go up was acceded to, but the captain did not want to take him, so he asked one of his officers, the best pilot in the escadrille, to take him as a passenger. I suppose that the lieutenant was on his mettle, for before his machine was three hundred feet from the ground he began to do stunts. He was a past master in his art, but a bit too bold. Suddenly his machine slipped off on the wing, and crashed to the ground. Even the best pilot was not immune against fate.Our escadrille also met with a heart-breaking tragedy. One of our pilots, who had only recently joined us, was making his first flight over the lines with a young artillery officer, who was also inexperienced. Unluckily they flew too low and were brought down by rifle-fire. No one yet knows whether the pilot was mortally wounded or if it was the machine that was disabled. At any rate, the aeroplane came down in no man's land, between the French and German lines. The poilus immediately made a sally to rescue the two men and save their maps and important papers. The Germans had like intentions and opened a murderous fire upon them with their machine guns, trying themselves to reach the aeroplane. The result was a hand-to-hand struggle, and then a deadlock. Each feared that the other would reach the goal under cover of darkness. For a while there was a lull on both sides. Then an inferno burst loose. Machine guns and field-pieces showered the unfortunate aviators with shell and shrapnel. In a short while the machine and its occupants were completely annihilated. The men, I believe, were alive when they landed, but it was impossible to save them. If the pilot could have steered fifty yards to the right or left, they would have been inside either line and their lives would have been spared. As it was, there never will be a monument to mark the spot where they perished at the hands of both friend and foe.Occasionally the bombarding escadrilles have thrilling experiences to narrate. I remember one case in particular. The raiders were returning from a long flight into the enemy's territory when they were attacked by a group of German fighting-planes. An incendiary bullet pierced the gasolene-tank of one of the French machines and ignited it. The pilot knew that he was sure to be "grillé" and that he did not have time even to reach the ground. His minutes were numbered. Without a moment's hesitation he turned his machine sharply about and headed straight for one of his pursuers. The German tried to avoid the head-on collision, but he was too late. There was a sickening crash and both machines fell to earth.
[image]A heavy bombarding-machine.
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A heavy bombarding-machine.
Suddenly he darted into position and for a second hovered uncertainly. Then, with a dive like that of a dragon-fly, he rushed down to the attack. Again a sheet of flame and a shower of sparks. This time the balloon sagged. The flames crept slowly around its silken envelope. "Touché!" cried the multitude. Then the balloon burst and fell to the ground, a mass of flames. High above, the little Nieuport saucily continued its pranks, as though contemptuous of such easy prey.
To the north a group of tiny specks in the sky seemed to grow in size and number. Nearer and nearer they came. I knew they must be a bombarding escadrille, returning from a raid across the enemy's lines. One, two, three, I counted them, up to twelve. Slowly they floated along as if tired by their long flight, and then gently they began to drop down.
They rolled smoothly across the field and stopped before their hangars. Cannon protruded menacingly from their armored, boat-shaped bodies as the pilots climbed down and stretched themselves.
"At the front this morning, to-night they can dine in Paris," jealously sighed an infantry officer. "But," replied an aviator from our group, "there are two of them who will probably never dine in Paris again. Fourteen started out this morning. Now they number only twelve."
ORDERED TO THE FRONT
After three weeks at Plessis-le-Belleville I became "disponible," that is to say, I was listed among the first twenty aviators who were considered ready for duty at the front. From that moment orders directing my future movements might be received any minute, and I was under restriction not to stray too far away. I must say that I experienced a curious sensation, waiting around in this way, not knowing where I would be in a week. You never know to what sector of the front you are going until your orders are handed to you. Three days after my name had been posted on the bulletin-board an order came detaching five pilots for duty with the "Armée de l'Orient" at Salonica. My name was sixth on the list, so I missed by one being among them. That evening, however, my turn came. This time the direction was Toul.
When men leave the Réserve for the front there are no sad leave-takings. Every pilot seems to be glad that his turn has come to do his share in the defense of his country, and instead of being downcast he is light-hearted. Yet the part which he is to play in the air involves chances which are four to one against his coming through alive.
It is customary for a pilot to spend two days in Paris before starting for his ordered destination. Officially my leave was due to begin only on the following morning. I decided, however, to take time by the forelock and to be off that night. In this way I would gain twelve hours additional leave. All the "paperasserie"—red tape—was first disposed of, and then I proceeded to pack my effects. These I had drawn from the aviation quartermaster's depot. There was my fur-lined union suit, a fur overcoat, fur boots, gloves, and cap. I also received an automatic pistol with a holster, a special aeroplane compass, an "altimetre," a special aviation clock mounted on wire springs, and a speed-indicator. These were furnished to me by the government, and became my property. I had the privilege of providing myself with anything else I wished, but the government outfit always had to be at hand for inspection.
Fortunately I had just time to make the evening train for Paris. According to my pass, I was on "service recommandé" and on my way to the front, where in a few days I would be flying over the German lines. The moment I had looked forward to for so many months had at last come. I could hardly believe it myself.
My two days in Paris passed like magic. There was so much to attend to, so much to do, that before I knew it the moment to leave had come. I took a taxi to the Gare de l'Est, my wife and my little girl accompanying me. My luggage consisted of my black army canteen, across the front of which was painted in white letters "Carroll Winslow—Pilote Aviateur," and my long canvas duffel-bag, which contained my fur-lined clothes and all my flying paraphernalia. There are usually so many formalities to be complied with that I allowed more than enough time for the visa of my papers. It was well that I did. The station was crowded with grimy, blue-coated "poilus," walking up and down the waiting-rooms and lounging on the stone steps; outside others were saying good-by to their families, while across the street large numbers crowded about the free "buffets," where patriotic women of Paris daily minister to the wants of the departing "permissionnaires." All the men wore their steel helmets, and had their knapsacks strapped to their shoulders. They were not as smart-looking as the khaki-clad British "Tommies," but despite their muddy boots and faded uniforms there was something in their faces, a look in their eyes, that seemed to say: "No sacrifice is too great—for France." I felt proud to think that I was one of them, and their quiet salutes showed me that I had their respect. The regard of those grave, war-worn men meant much to me. My wife and I silently watched what was going on about us, while our little girl chattered at our side. Many women accompanied their "braves" to the station. Most of them carried baskets of food and delicacies, but some, too poor even to buy a present for their "poilus," came empty-handed. The moments of leave-taking seemed almost tragic. Many a man went up those steps whistling and with head erect, while others laughed as they tossed their little ones high in the air for a last good-by. These were fine examples, and when the porter touched me on the arm and said: "The train for Toul, m'sieu'," I too was able to bear it calmly.
The cars were already crowded with "poilus." Not a seat was to be had in the compartments. Standing-room in the corridors was at a premium. We were all bound in the same general direction, toward Verdun, Nancy, and Toul.
The train came to a stop at last. We were at Bar-le-Duc, the terminus for Verdun. What an air of mystery there was about the station at "Bar." We could hear the distant roar of the cannon defending the banks of the Meuse. Everywhere men moved about with a sort of suppressed excitement. "Camions" rumbled by in hundreds. In the freight-yard troops filled every available space not already taken up by the newly arrived artillery. Nearly all my travelling companions left me here. For a moment I wished that I too had been ordered to the Verdun sector. It was after sundown when the train drew into the station at Toul. The town was in darkness, and I felt very doubtful as to whether I would be able to join my escadrille that night. To my surprise, an officer, noticing my indecision, came up to me and asked if he could help me. I told him where I wanted to go and inquired if he could direct me. "Why, it is too late to do this to-day," he remarked; "better wait until the morning." With that he motioned me to step into his automobile and directed the chauffeur to drive us to the Etat-Major.
As we rolled through the streets of the silent city I had a moment to reflect upon what all this meant. I began to realize that a change had taken place in my position. I was no longer a mere soldier, but an aviator and as such entitled to courtesies usually extended only to officers in the other branches of the army. There is no mention of this custom in the regulations. It was merely an unwritten paragraph of military etiquette. Here was an officer, my superior in rank, treating me with a consideration I had rarely experienced. I noticed by the insignia on his overcoat that he was a captain in the Aviation Corps. He was therefore a pilot. I thought for a few moments. Suddenly an idea occurred to me. I was also a pilot, and in the eyes of traditional convention we were comrades, for we were both aviators. At the Etat-Major the colonel like-wise extended a warm welcome and shook me heartily by the hand. I suppose that my being an American had something to do with it, but I could not help thinking that I was still only a corporal. He immediately gave orders to requisition a large room for me at the hotel, and bade me hurry or I would be late for dinner. No wonder aviators are inspired to do such splendid work at the front when their efforts meet with so much appreciation.
The next morning I started out soon after sunrise to walk out to the aviation-field. Everywhere, above the streets of Toul, there were posters which read "Cave Voutée," and with the number of persons, varying from fifteen to sixty, who could be accommodated. These cellars were protected with sand-bags and were located at convenient intervals, so that the people might find shelter quickly whenever the German aeroplanes made their appearance. Only a few days previous to my arrival there had been a raid, yet everything seemed normal and the housewives went about their marketing and shopping as if they had nothing else to think about.
An hour's walk brought me to my escadrille, F-44. I was barely in time. Orders had just been received transferring it to the Verdun sector and preparations to move camp were already under way. Every one went to work with a will, laughing and jumping around in a sort of war-dance. No wonder they were happy. They—we, I should say, for I was now one of them—were about to become participants in the world's greatest defensive battle.
[image]A German aeroplane brought down by a French aeroplane.The smoke is from the German machine, which the aviator hasset fire to upon being brought down. The French machine canbe seen to the right, its wing broken by a bad landing. Thesmall dots in the center are French soldiers. The whitelines are the French third-line trenches.The French pilot with his German prisoner (insert).
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A German aeroplane brought down by a French aeroplane.The smoke is from the German machine, which the aviator hasset fire to upon being brought down. The French machine canbe seen to the right, its wing broken by a bad landing. Thesmall dots in the center are French soldiers. The whitelines are the French third-line trenches.The French pilot with his German prisoner (insert).
The aeroplanes started for Bar-le-Duc "by air" shortly after noon. One pilot and myself, however, had to make the journey by rail. My own machine had not yet arrived, and his had been smashed up the day before. When the German raiders came over Toul he had gone up with the defending aeroplanes, and had brought down an aviatik which he had engaged. It is customary for a pilot, when driven down in the enemy's territory to set fire to his machine to prevent it from falling into the hands of his adversaries. This the German proceeded to do the moment he touched ground. My friend was frantic to prevent this and tried to make a quick landing in order to get to him in time. He was too excited, however, and smashed one of the wings of his own machine during the landing. This occurred just behind the French third-line trenches. The soldiers rushed out and made the German pilot a prisoner, but not until after he had applied the match to his gasolene-tank.
IN THE VERDUN SECTOR
At Bar-le-Duc I felt again the suppressed excitement of the near-front. Everywhere were "Cave Voutée" signs, troops were in motion on all sides, sentries were posted at every street-corner, every one seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere.
Our escadrille was camped in a field adjoining that occupied by the American Escadrille. Our "train" consisted of a dozen light, covered trucks with their tent-like trailers, and three automobiles for the use of the officers and pilots. Our camp was pitched by the time I had made the trip from Toul by rail, and the array of tents and the park of tractors had every outward appearance of a country circus. It was my first impression of an air-squadron camp at the front, and I must admit that my previous conception of the amount of equipment required by each of these units was far below what I now beheld. The personnel of my escadrille alone looked like an expeditionary force for service in Mexico. There were a dozen artillery-observers, seven pilots, countless mechanics, chauffeurs, orderlies, servants, wireless operators, photographers, and other "attachés," over a hundred and twenty-five men in all. Each of these hundred-odd men were essential to the work of the nineteen pilots and observers.
It was a pleasant surprise to find the American pilots here. I had not heard that they had been ordered to the Verdun sector. This honor had been thrust upon them unexpectedly. They were now here, among the best fighting units of the French Army, to protect the photography, fire-control, and bombarding-machines of this sector. Their camp was thirty miles behind the lines, but with their fast little Nieuports it took them less than fifteen minutes to be in the thick of the fray. The government had given them a large, comfortable villa to live in. I must say I felt a bit envious when I compared their feather-beds and baths with my little tent and canvas-covered cot.
That evening I had dinner with my compatriots. It was a meal I will never forget. As visiting pilot I was seated on the right of their commander, Captain Thenault. Across the table, opposite me, sat Victor Chapman, Norman Prince, and Kiffen Rockwell—all three since fallen on the "champ d'honneur." At the other end of the table were Elliot Cowdin, Jim McConnell, and "Red" Rumsey, together with Clyde Balsley, Chouteau Johnston, and Dudley Hill. Bill Thaw was not with us, as he was in the hospital, having been wounded in a recent combat with a Boche. The places of the three pilots killed have since been taken by other volunteers, but in the minds and memories of the Americans dining at the camp that night their places can never be filled. We know that they did not die in vain, and that what they did will live in history. Their spirit was one of sincere patriotism to the cause they had made their own, and among the Allies the sympathy and the belief they expressed has been amply proved.
The escadrille was to make its first sortie as a unit in the morning. Captain Thenault had much to say to his men, and after dinner the conversation continued along the same general lines. There seemed to be so much detail to attend to and signals to arrange that I was almost tempted to ask them how escadrilles ever managed to co-operate so well in the presence of the enemy air squadrons.
[image]A bi-motor Caudron.A captured Fokker.
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A bi-motor Caudron.A captured Fokker.
When I awoke next morning it was raining. The clouds hung low, too low for flying over the lines, so the Americans remained in their beds. Our escadrille, however, was obliged to move on, as the station to which it had been assigned was directly behind the lines. The planes had to proceed "par la voie de l'air," but the ground was so soft and muddy that it was difficult to get the machines to leave the earth. The pilots all seemed nervous, yet all rose in good form except one, who was a little late in getting off. He did not know the way, and was afraid of losing his companions in the mist. In his haste he took too short a run, so that when he came to the end of the field he was not high enough to clear the line of hangars in his path. To make matters worse the unlucky man lost his head. He tried to make a sharp turn, but it was too late. The tip of his wing caught the canvas of the tent, and the machine fell with a crash to the ground, killing the pilot and pinning his mechanic beneath the wreckage.
We felt much depressed by this accident. Our departure for the new camp seemed to emphasize our sadness, for, as we moved off in our long line of motors our procession had an appearance almost funereal. First came the automobiles; then, following them, the twelve tractors and trailers—twenty-seven vehicles in all—moving slowly toward the front.
As we turned into the main road to Verdun the traffic was so heavy that we had to move at a snail's pace. Ahead of us rumbled a steady stream of "camions" with ammunition and supplies. Alongside of the road were the columns of troops going to the trenches. Their heavy coats were already soaked, and the probability was that they would remain so for a week, but nothing daunted them. They just plodded along gayly, singing their marching songs, utterly unmindful of the rain-drops that were hourly weighting down their equipment more and more.
From the opposite direction came the empty supply-trains. Sandwiched in with these were ambulances and motor-buses, bearing the men returning from their "stage" in the trenches. The poor fellows looked hardly human, for they were brown with mud from head to foot. Their faces were caked with dirt, and a week's growth of beard gave them a still more uninviting appearance. They seemed to gaze at us with a far-away, half-conscious expression, so utterly stupefied were they by the terrible bombardment to which they had been subjected.
The farther we went the more numerous were the evidences of war. The roar of the cannonade became louder. On both sides of the roads the villages were in ruins. Not a farmhouse was inhabited, and the fields were dotted everywhere with soldiers' graves; on each cross hung the "képi" of the dead hero. In some of the military cemeteries there were graves without little wooden crosses—only a small fence marked them off from the rest. These, I was told, were the graves of the Mohammedan African troops, whose comrades claimed for them a plot apart from the "unsacred ground" used by their Christian allies.
It was almost dark by the time we reached our new camping-site. The fields were soaked with the heavy rain, and we splashed about in the mud for hours before the task of pitching camp was completed. By nine o'clock, however, all was ready and we sat down to a good, warm supper. Then we turned in. It was so cold and chilly that I went to bed in my fur-lined clothes. But tired as I was I could not get to sleep. The roar of the artillery was frightful. On every side of us it crashed and thundered, unceasingly, uninterruptedly. An attack was in process at the Mort-Homme, and every little while there would be a "tir de barrage," or curtain fire as we call it. The small 75's would sound like the rat-tat of a snare-drum accompanying the louder beats of the deep-bass drums.
I got out of bed and gazed toward the battle-field. The earth was brilliantly illuminated by the rockets and flares that were being sent up everywhere. The sky seemed full of fire-flies—in reality exploding shells. On all sides the guns flashed angrily. Search-lights played about in every direction. It was a most superb spectacle, but it was terrible. It was hell.
MY FIRST FLIGHT OVER THE LINES
Unfavorable weather conditions kept us inactive for several days, but as soon as the skies cleared our escadrille immediately went to work again. For some reason my own machine was delayed "en route," and did not arrive for a week. This was time I could ill afford to lose, so the "chef pilote" took me as a passenger in his biplane to familiarize me with the ground in our sector.
We started late one afternoon. The atmosphere was extraordinarily clear. Every detail in the landscape stood out boldly, and as we rose the dozens of camps in the immediate vicinity spread out below us like models set in a painted scenery. The valleys, the tents, the guns, the troops, all were visible to the naked eye. On all sides were aviation-camps, which were easily distinguished from the others—there must have been at least twenty of them within a radius of five miles.
As soon as we reached a height of three thousand feet my pilot headed the machine toward the lines. At our feet lay the terrain of the "Verdun sector." From the forest of the Argonne on our left to the plains of the Woëvre on our right stretched one of the bloodiest battle-fields of history. At regular intervals along the front the French captive balloons—there were eighteen in sight at this moment—swung lazily in the breeze. They looked for all the world like the "saucisses" they are named after. Day and night they are kept aloft, maintaining ceaseless vigil over the movements of the enemy.
Passing the balloons, we could see the various important points of the defense at closer range. The city of Verdun nestled close to the banks of the Meuse, which wound like a silver band through that now desolate land. Far off to the right were the forts of Vaux and Douaumont. A trifle nearer was Fleury. To the left, in the distance, I could make out the "Mort-Homme" and Hill 304, while directly before us lay Cumières and Chattancourt. The entire Verdun sector was spread out like a relief-map.
The German attacks upon the French position on the Mort-Homme were still in progress. I had never before seen a battle, and to see such an important conflict from "the gallery" seemed most strange. It looked more like a pan of boiling water, with the steam hanging in a pall over it, than anything else I can think of. In fact, a yellow mist rose to a great height and almost obscured the view. Tiny flashes showed where the guns were concealed, but to us the battle was a silent one. The noise of our motor drowned the whistling of the shells and the roar of the bombardment. I could not help thinking how much some of those poor fellows below us would appreciate a little of this silence.
We could plainly see the network of the trenches, broken and half-obliterated in the mud. In some places they were so close together that it was difficult to make out where the French lines ended and the German earthworks began. The ground was speckled with "pock-marks" caused by shell explosions, and altogether it was a weird scene of desolation. All signs of nature which had once beautified this region had vanished. The forests and the green fields had disappeared. Ruined villages lay like piles of disused stone among the circular "entonnoirs," or shell-holes. In color it was all a dirty brown.
[image]A view of the Mort-Homme taken from a height of 3,600 feet.These are two photographs pasted together.Exact maps of the front are made in this manner dailyby the photographic sections.
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A view of the Mort-Homme taken from a height of 3,600 feet.These are two photographs pasted together.Exact maps of the front are made in this manner dailyby the photographic sections.
On every side of us were the French artillery biplanes. They were hovering over the German lines like gulls, continually wirelessing back the ranges to their batteries. High above us circled the little Nieuports on guard, to protect us and to prevent the Fokkers and aviatiks from crossing over our lines. Everywhere were little white puffs, which seemed to follow the machines about. I watched them, strangely fascinated and amused, until my pilot informed me that these were caused by exploding shrapnel from the enemy's anti-aircraft guns. Then I noticed with uneasiness that the same puffs were also following us. My interest in the little white puffs from that moment assumed quite another character. I listened for the sharp crack of their explosions, but all I could hear was a dull "whung." The thought that very few machines are really brought down by shrapnel was a bit reassuring, but I must admit that when the enemy is sending them on all sides of you, you do not feel like giving much credence to what others may have told you.
Presently my attention was called to the lines of German captive balloons, which are moored some miles behind their first-line trenches. Several aeroplanes stood guard over them, and as we knew that they were armed and that we on this occasion were not we decided to turn back.
I made several of these trips over the different positions on our immediate front. By the time my own machine arrived I was thoroughly familiar with the sector and also with the main dangers to be encountered by aviators over the battle lines. The first precaution I learned was—always, when landing, to unhook the belt that held me in my seat. This is one of the most important things to remember at the front. The fields are not always in the best condition, and the slightest obstruction may cause an unexpected crash. If you are in an artillery pusher-machine when this happens you are invariably crushed under the motor, unless your belt is unfastened, when you are usually thrown clear.
[image]"Everywhere little white puffs seemed to follow the machines about."
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"Everywhere little white puffs seemed to follow the machines about."
Another danger, which I would never have thought of if an experienced pilot had not pointed it out, lies in the cables mooring the captive balloons. These are invisible to an approaching aviator and to collide with one means a fatal smash. When flying low enough to pass under the "saucisses," aviators must watch out for these "tethers." Nevertheless, you can always take advantage of one of their peculiarities. The cable always stretches to windward, and in a good breeze it stretches far. By keeping well to leeward you can always rest reasonably assured that you are on the safe side. Many aviators, however, have met with fatal accidents, through fouling these cables. I know of only one instance where the pilot did escape unhurt after striking the wire. It seems that the moment he saw what was going to happen he put his machine into a vertical bank, so that when the impact came he was turning about the cable. Then, strangely enough, by continuing his spiral he was able finally to disengage himself and escape.
Telephone and telegraph wires also are a certain menace to aviators. They form a regular network behind the lines, while on every aviation-field there are in addition wireless aerials to avoid. Many a returning pilot has forgotten them in his haste to get back to camp, and fouled them, to his regret. One pilot I knew met his fate in this way. He had been wounded by a shrapnel-ball over the German lines, and had managed to return to his own field. He was so weak from the loss of blood that in his anxiety to land quickly he forgot the aerials. His machine caught the wires and fell to the ground. Both the pilot's legs were broken in the fall and he died, not so much from his wound as from this unfortunate accident.
Still another risk is encountered when flying in the clouds. A cloud is dangerous at any time because there may be an enemy—or, in fact, any machine—in it. If you enter the mist you may be going head on into another aeroplane without having the slightest warning of its presence. Your own motor makes so much noise that you never under any circumstances hear that of another machine until too late. You are in consequence deprived of both your eyesight and your hearing. At the front the risk of meeting an enemy aeroplane under such circumstances can never be overlooked, for often fighting machines use the mist to cover their presence.
Shells also have to be carefully avoided, for, though destined for some far-away target below you, they sometimes in their flight destroy aeroplanes unintentionally. As I have already explained, we devoted much time to this subject at Châteauroux, learning the trajectories of the different calibers. Still, at the front, the theory is not so easily put into practice. It seems almost impossible to keep track of all the artillery massed by your own side, especially in such a sector as Verdun, where the guns often were placed so close together that their wheels almost touched. On more than one occasion when flying quietly through the air my machine has given a sudden lurch, and I have heard the dull "tung" of a passing shell. There is none of the whistling we are accustomed to on the earth; merely the dulled sound caused by the sudden displacement of the air.
My own machine finally arrived, after delays that seemed interminable, and my two mechanics immediately set to work installing the various instruments, and painting it. These two men were personally responsible to me for the condition of the motor and planes, but, as pilot, I was the master of the machine, which was reserved for my own use. In fact, each aeroplane has painted on its body and rudder the name and distinguishing marks of its pilot and escadrille.
After a few short flights I became aware of the fact that my biplane, in spite of all my efforts to correct it, showed a strong tendency to lean to the right. At times I could hardly make a turn to the left. This was a serious matter at the front, as an enemy might at any moment appear on my "weak" side and I would be placed in a serious position. I therefore mentioned the matter to my captain. To my surprise, he immediately ordered a new machine for me and gave directions that the one I was using should be sent back to the factory. The defect in this particular case was one mechanics could not remedy, and it seems that it was nothing out of the ordinary to send a machine back to the shops. At the front a pilot must have a perfect machine to work with or none at all. The life of a good aeroplane seldom is more than fifty hours of actual flying.
During this time the organization of the escadrille was perfected. The pilots were divided into two "watches," one-half being on duty while the other was "standing by" ready for service in case of emergency. All the pilots except myself were "disponibles." I was exempt because I had no machine, and was therefore for the time being my own master, even when it came to rising in the morning. When the others on duty were awakened, at early dawn, I would be awakened with the rest. My turn had not yet come, however, and I could just turn over and sleep to my heart's content.
Our camp looked like a little tented city; there were seven enormous canvas hangars, and grouped about these six other tents, each serving a particular purpose: captain's office, wireless plant, telephone central, repair-shop, photographic division, and kitchen. At one end of the field were the living-quarters of the captain and the observers, while at the other were parked the thirty automobiles of our two escadrilles. On the opposite sides of the field were the quarters of the pilots of the two escadrilles. The mechanics slept in the hangars with their machines.
Considering everything, we were fairly comfortable. The pilots of each escadrille shared two large tents, and in addition each group had a large mess-tent. Inside each sleeping-tent each one of us had a little alcove. Our cots were raised on wooden platforms. At one end we fitted up a shower-bath, for which purpose a gasolene tank punctured with holes proved ideal. Of course, every time you wanted a bath some one had to empty pails of water into the "tank" above you. Our mess—"popotte" they call it in the French army—was very good. We had a regular daily allowance from the government, but this was not always enough to buy all the supplies we needed. We therefore instituted a system of fines, and our treasurer provided our table with a small tin box in lieu of a centrepiece.
Bad language or talking "shop" before coffee involved a ten-centime fine, which had to be dropped into the bank at once. This regulation proved a godsend to the mess—and to our conversation.
As I was not "disponible," I was sent on several trips with the staff automobile. Its most frequent runs were to the artillery headquarters to deliver photographs of the enemy's positions. These were situated in a near-by village, within sight of the German trenches. All the roads approaching this place were masked, and the town itself was in ruins. Everywhere sand-bags reinforced the stone walls. The telephone central was a veritable fortress, and continually within the zone of the German artillery "strafes." The life of the officers of the Etat-Major was certainly not an enviable or an easy one.
CO-OPERATING WITH THE ARTILLERY
By the time my second machine arrived I had been at the front long enough to appreciate the rôle played by each of the different types of aeroplanes used in this great conflict. Camped near us was a bombarding unit. Every night when the heavens were clear these machines would go up, turning great circles over our heads until they reached the desired altitude. They would then vanish with their destructive bombs in the direction of the enemy. We could always tell when they passed over the lines, for the German search-lights would become very active, and the sky would become dotted with sparks, which in reality were exploding shrapnel. Then, in the early hours of the morning, they would return, having flown far into the enemy's country to drop their bombs. This is tiresome and disagreeable duty, but not by any means as dangerous a one as the other branches of aviation, for bombers are practically free from interruption by enemy aeroplanes in the dark.
Camped with us was the famous N-64, the crack fighting unit of the French Aviation Corps. Among its pilots were such famous aviators as Navarre, Nungesser, and Vialet, known familiarly as the "aces." Every evening just before sunset these men would take their machines up in the twilight and do "stunts" for the benefit of hundreds of admiring "poilus" gathered from neighboring camps. These were the self-same "stunts" which on many occasions had enabled them to escape from sure death at the hands of some superior enemy force. As I have said before, the fighting work, although in reality the safest, requires the most experienced and accomplished pilots. The chief duty of the Nieuports is "barrage," or sentry duty. There are always several of them flying over the lines, on the lookout for some "Boche." It is their task to swoop down like a hawk upon them and destroy or else drive them away. Of course, our own "avions de chasse" are as liable to be attacked by the enemy, and they must in consequence be continually on the "qui vive."
When one of the larger reconnoissance machines is compelled to go far into the German lines on special-mission work, it is usually accompanied by a body-guard of several Nieuports. Spies, on the other hand, are carried only in the fast-flying Nieuports, which in this case are double-seated. It seems that it is comparatively easy to take a man over and leave him far in the rear of the German trenches, but going back for him is another matter. After several days the pilot returns to a prearranged place, but, as sometimes happens, his compatriot may have been caught. In this case a like fate usually awaits him at the hands of the watchful enemy.
For reconnoissance work the large bi-motor Caudrons are generally used. They are fitted with a small wireless apparatus; but this means of communication cannot be used very often. The machines, on many occasions, have to go beyond the effective radius of their radio, and at other times its use is inadvisable, as its messages might become known, or else blocked by the enemy. Resort has been had, therefore, to carrier-pigeons. These are released the moment any important information has to be conveyed to headquarters, and these swift little messengers have proved extremely useful and reliable. Their use has, in consequence, become general.
The bimotor Caudrons are employed also by the photography section of the army, though much of this work is actually done by artillery machines detailed for this service. Photography is a dangerous duty, because the flights have to be made at low altitudes to obtain the best results. On the other hand, it is not at all tedious. The mission upon which the machine has been sent is usually accomplished in a brief space of time, and the machine often stays out less than an hour. In comparison with the amount of flying required of the aviators in the other branches of the service, which varies in length from three to five hours a day, photography is easy work.
"Réglage," or fire-control, on the other hand, is the most difficult and the most dangerous work to be performed by the Flying Corps at the front. The machines used are large and unwieldy, built to carry the weight of two men and all sorts of equipment. They are fairly fast, but their spread of wing is so large that it is almost impossible for them to make a turn quickly when attacked. They are armed with a machine gun, it is true, but they are always at a great disadvantage in the presence of an enemy fighting-machine which can out-manoeuvre them at every turn.
The first duty to which I was assigned was "réglage," and this, I found, involves many complications. The chief source of trouble usually is the wireless apparatus, which has to be maintained in perfect working order. Before leaving the home field you usually circle over it, while your observer tests his sending apparatus. The receiving operator then answers by visual signals. Usually these are large white sheets laid on the ground in different formations, which have a prearranged meaning. When the radio is found to be in perfect order you are off to the battery you have been ordered to co-operate with. By wireless your observer then reports to the battery commander, and receives his orders by means of the same visual signals. You then head in the direction indicated to you before leaving, and, hovering over the position to be bombarded, the observer signals back "fire." The moment the shells have landed you turn quickly about and inform the artillery just how many metres their fire was long, short, or to the right or left. Your message is once more answered with the sheets. Again you fly back toward the enemy's position, circling in this way backward and forward between the battery and the target until the réglage is completed. Naturally every care must be taken not to disclose the position of your own guns to the enemy, or retaliation—"strafe," the English call it—summarily follows. Sometimes it is the battery which interrupts the work with the signal, "Avion ennemi," when the fire instantly ceases until the German aeroplane has disappeared or been driven off.
With such occasional interruptions the work continues until your observer can send back the signal "fire correct," which is generally answered by the "sheet signal" with the information that you may return home. Until this dismissal occurs, however, the ground below wholly engrosses the attention of your observer. You yourself are forced to keep a close watch for Boche fighting-machines so as not to be caught unawares by one of them. This is often a very trying task, as the models of some of the French and German aeroplanes are so very much alike that they cannot be distinguished until they are within range. The tricolor cockade and the black iron cross painted on the top and bottom of each wing serve to identify the fliers of the two belligerents, but these colors cannot be seen very far. You consequently have little warning as to whether the approaching planes are friends or foes.
Sometimes the enemy's anti-aircraft batteries become a bit too familiar. On such occasions the observer tries to signal to his batteries to drop a shell or two where these pieces are mounted. Often quiet is not restored until the machine has been more or less riddled with shrapnel bullets.
One réglage is very much like another, and when you have read the description of one you become familiar with them all. It is only in the results accomplished that the details vary.
It is a curious fact that in the first months of the war many artillery officers refused to follow the directions of their aerial observers. A colonel of artillery who has been firing big guns all his life cannot be blamed for not thinking that a young observation officer and a mere aviator know enough about the work of batteries to tell him where his shells are falling. Orders, consequently, had to be issued placing the artillery absolutely under the direction of the observers and calling upon the pilots to report any case where a battery refused to be guided by the signals it received. That put an end to the trouble.
At first I felt a strong aversion to flying over batteries in action. You are bound to get in close proximity to the trajectory of the shells, and the constant sensation and sound of the passing projectiles is none too pleasant. You get them both coming and going, and, no matter which you are trying to avoid, you are always taking a chance with the other. It is a question of choosing between the devil and the deep sea, with the devil constantly stepping into your path.
[image]Reduced facsimile of the photographic report suppliedto the Headquarters Stall of the fighting at Cumières.
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Reduced facsimile of the photographic report suppliedto the Headquarters Stall of the fighting at Cumières.
When you are observing for the artillery you must stay and die, if necessary, in the performance of your assigned duty. It is another matter with reconnoissance or photographic work. Here the main thing is to get back to headquarters with the information you have gained. If you are attacked and you see no chance of successfully fighting off the enemy, it is your business to run.
After some weeks of service with the fire-control detail I was ordered to serve as a photography pilot. This I found a most interesting duty. Whenever we received orders to photograph a position we would start out immediately, flying very low—say, from one thousand eight hundred to three thousand feet. As we reached the part of the enemy's positions to be photographed I would fly in parallel lines, while my observer took the photographs with a specially constructed telephoto camera. We would then hasten back to camp and immediately hand the plates over to the sergeant in charge of the dark room. This taciturn non-com would waste no time with words. In a few moments the photographs would be ready and on their way to headquarters. On several occasions I have seen photographs placed in the hands of the Etat-Major within an hour and a half after the order had been issued by the commanding officer there—examples of celerity and efficiency of service which have placed the photographic branch of aviation "hors concours."
ALL IN THE DAY'S WORK
It is strange how easily you become accustomed to being at the front. At first you sense your proximity to the vast military operations that are in progress, but after a while the newness wears off. One day passes like another without special notice, although daily something out of the ordinary is occurring somewhere along the western front. These experiences, however, generally fall to the lot of the fighting-machines. We of the artillery and photography sections share only the dangers. It is all in the day's work.
I remember one curious incident that occurred while I was in the Verdun sector. Victor Chapman, who was doing combat work with the American Escadrille after a brush with four German aeroplanes, was forced to descend to our field. Not only had he received a bad scalp-wound from a bullet but his machine had been riddled and nearly wrecked. One bullet had even severed a metal stability control. By all the rules of aviation he should have lost control of his aeroplane and met with a fatal accident. But Chapman was an expert pilot. He simply held on to the broken rod with one hand, while with the other he steered his machine. This needed all the strength at his command, but he had the power and the skill necessary to bring him safely to earth. A surgeon immediately dressed his wound, our mechanics repaired his machine. The repairs completed, he was off and up again in pursuit of some more Boches. I must say that every one considered him a remarkable pilot. He was absolutely fearless, and always willing and able to fly more than was ever required of him. His machine was a sieve of patched-up bullet-holes. A few days later came his last fight. He was carrying two bags of oranges to Clyde Balsley, who lay wounded in a hospital not far away. There was an aerial combat against odds within the German lines, and Chapman lost no time in going to the aid of his hard-pressed comrades. He brought down one of the enemy airmen, but the others were still too numerous, and the fight then was only a matter of seconds. He was last seen falling behind the German lines.
Balsley had been wounded in an encounter with several Germans. He was doing well, when he was struck in the thigh by an explosive bullet which burst in his stomach. He immediately lost all consciousness. His machine began to tumble straight toward the lines. Just before reaching the ground, however, Balsley regained his senses sufficiently to realize what was happening. By a superhuman effort he managed to right his machine and make a landing in a neighboring meadow. He was carried to a near-by hospital, where for days he wavered between life and death. Two fragments of the explosive bullet were removed from his intestines. These he kept wrapped up in a handkerchief as proof that the enemy, despite their denials, do violate the rules of civilized warfare. For a long time the only nourishment he could take was the juice of oranges, and that was why Chapman was on this mission on that unfortunate day.
A sad accident occurred on a neighboring aviation-field while I was at the front. The captain of one of the escadrilles had visiting him his younger brother, a bright lad of nineteen. The boy was unusually well-informed about aeronautical matters, but he had never made a flight. His request to go up was acceded to, but the captain did not want to take him, so he asked one of his officers, the best pilot in the escadrille, to take him as a passenger. I suppose that the lieutenant was on his mettle, for before his machine was three hundred feet from the ground he began to do stunts. He was a past master in his art, but a bit too bold. Suddenly his machine slipped off on the wing, and crashed to the ground. Even the best pilot was not immune against fate.
Our escadrille also met with a heart-breaking tragedy. One of our pilots, who had only recently joined us, was making his first flight over the lines with a young artillery officer, who was also inexperienced. Unluckily they flew too low and were brought down by rifle-fire. No one yet knows whether the pilot was mortally wounded or if it was the machine that was disabled. At any rate, the aeroplane came down in no man's land, between the French and German lines. The poilus immediately made a sally to rescue the two men and save their maps and important papers. The Germans had like intentions and opened a murderous fire upon them with their machine guns, trying themselves to reach the aeroplane. The result was a hand-to-hand struggle, and then a deadlock. Each feared that the other would reach the goal under cover of darkness. For a while there was a lull on both sides. Then an inferno burst loose. Machine guns and field-pieces showered the unfortunate aviators with shell and shrapnel. In a short while the machine and its occupants were completely annihilated. The men, I believe, were alive when they landed, but it was impossible to save them. If the pilot could have steered fifty yards to the right or left, they would have been inside either line and their lives would have been spared. As it was, there never will be a monument to mark the spot where they perished at the hands of both friend and foe.
Occasionally the bombarding escadrilles have thrilling experiences to narrate. I remember one case in particular. The raiders were returning from a long flight into the enemy's territory when they were attacked by a group of German fighting-planes. An incendiary bullet pierced the gasolene-tank of one of the French machines and ignited it. The pilot knew that he was sure to be "grillé" and that he did not have time even to reach the ground. His minutes were numbered. Without a moment's hesitation he turned his machine sharply about and headed straight for one of his pursuers. The German tried to avoid the head-on collision, but he was too late. There was a sickening crash and both machines fell to earth.