Flying for France

J >> James R. McConnell >> Flying for France

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Only four days later, however, Rockwell brought down the escadrille's
first plane in his initial aerial combat. He was flying alone when,
over Thann, he came upon a German on reconnaissance. He dived and the
German turned toward his own lines, opening fire from a long distance.
Rockwell kept straight after him. Then, closing to within thirty
yards, he pressed on the release of his machine gun, and saw the enemy
gunner fall backward and the pilot crumple up sideways in his seat.
The plane flopped downward and crashed to earth just behind the German
trenches. Swooping close to the ground Rockwell saw its debris burning
away brightly. He had turned the trick with but four shots and only
one German bullet had struck his Nieuport. An observation post
telephoned the news before Rockwell's return, and he got a great
welcome. All Luxeuil smiled upon him--particularly the girls. But he
couldn't stay to enjoy his popularity. The escadrille was ordered to
the sector of Verdun.

While in a way we were sorry to leave Luxeuil, we naturally didn't
regret the chance to take part in the aerial activity of the world's
greatest battle. The night before our departure some German aircraft
destroyed four of our tractors and killed six men with bombs, but even
that caused little excitement compared with going to Verdun. We would
get square with the Boches over Verdun, we thought--it is impossible
to chase airplanes at night, so the raiders made a safe getaway.

OFF TO VERDUN

As soon as we pilots had left in our machines, the trucks and tractors
set out in convoy, carrying the men and equipment. The Nieuports
carried us to our new post in a little more than an hour. We stowed
them away in the hangars and went to have a look at our sleeping
quarters. A commodious villa half way between the town of Bar-le-Duc
and the aviation field had been assigned to us, and comforts were as
plentiful as at Luxeuil.

Our really serious work had begun, however, and we knew it. Even as
far behind the actual fighting as Bar-le-Duc one could sense one's
proximity to a vast military operation. The endless convoys of motor
trucks, the fast-flowing stream of troops, and the distressing number
of ambulances brought realization of the near presence of a gigantic
battle.

Within a twenty-mile radius of the Verdun front aviation camps abound.
Our escadrille was listed on the schedule with the other fighting
units, each of which has its specified flying hours, rotating so there
is always an _escadrille de chasse_ over the lines. A field wireless
to enable us to keep track of the movements of enemy planes became
part of our equipment.

Lufbery joined us a few days after our arrival. He was followed by
Johnson and Balsley, who had been on the air guard over Paris. Hill
and Rumsey came next, and after them Masson and Pavelka. Nieuports
were supplied them from the nearest depot, and as soon as they had
mounted their instruments and machine guns, they were on the job with
the rest of us. Fifteen Americans are or have been members of the
American Escadrille, but there have never been so many as that on duty
at any one time.

BATTLES IN THE AIR

Before we were fairly settled at Bar-le-Duc, Hall brought down a
German observation craft and Thaw a Fokker. Fights occurred on almost
every sortie. The Germans seldom cross into our territory, unless on a
bombarding jaunt, and thus practically all the fighting takes place on
their side of the line. Thaw dropped his Fokker in the morning, and on
the afternoon of the same day there was a big combat far behind the
German trenches. Thaw was wounded in the arm, and an explosive bullet
detonating on Rockwell's wind-shield tore several gashes in his face.
Despite the blood which was blinding him Rockwell managed to reach an
aviation field and land. Thaw, whose wound bled profusely, landed in a
dazed condition just within our lines. He was too weak to walk, and
French soldiers carried him to a field dressing-station, whence he was
sent to Paris for further treatment. Rockwell's wounds were less
serious and he insisted on flying again almost immediately.

A week or so later Chapman was wounded. Considering the number of
fights he had been in and the courage with which he attacked it was a
miracle he had not been hit before. He always fought against odds and
far within the enemy's country. He flew more than any of us, never
missing an opportunity to go up, and never coming down until his
gasolene was giving out. His machine was a sieve of patched-up bullet
holes. His nerve was almost superhuman and his devotion to the cause
for which he fought sublime. The day he was wounded he attacked four
machines. Swooping down from behind, one of them, a Fokker, riddled
Chapman's plane. One bullet cut deep into his scalp, but Chapman, a
master pilot, escaped from the trap, and fired several shots to show
he was still safe. A stability control had been severed by a bullet.
Chapman held the broken rod in one hand, managed his machine with the
other, and succeeded in landing on a near-by aviation field. His wound
was dressed, his machine repaired, and he immediately took the air in
pursuit of some more enemies. He would take no rest, and with bandaged
head continued to fly and fight.

The escadrille's next serious encounter with the foe took place a few
days later. Rockwell, Balsley, Prince, and Captain Thenault were
surrounded by a large number of Germans, who, circling about them,
commenced firing at long range. Realizing their numerical inferiority,
the Americans and their commander sought the safest way out by
attacking the enemy machines nearest the French lines. Rockwell,
Prince, and the captain broke through successfully, but Balsley found
himself hemmed in. He attacked the German nearest him, only to receive
an explosive bullet in his thigh. In trying to get away by a vertical
dive his machine went into a corkscrew and swung over on its back.
Extra cartridge rollers dislodged from their case hit his arms. He was
tumbling straight toward the trenches, but by a supreme effort he
regained control, righted the plane, and landed without disaster in a
meadow just behind the firing line.

Soldiers carried him to the shelter of a near-by fort, and later he
was taken to a field hospital, where he lingered for days between life
and death. Ten fragments of the explosive bullet were removed from his
stomach. He bore up bravely, and became the favourite of the wounded
officers in whose ward he lay. When we flew over to see him they would
say: _Il est un brave petit gars, l'aviateur americain_. [He's a brave
little fellow, the American aviator.] On a shelf by his bed, done up
in a handkerchief, he kept the pieces of bullet taken out of him, and
under them some sheets of paper on which he was trying to write to his
mother, back in El Paso.

Balsley was awarded the _Medaille Militaire_ and the _Croix de
Guerre_, but the honours scared him. He had seen them decorate
officers in the ward before they died.

CHAPMAN'S LAST FIGHT

Then came Chapman's last fight. Before leaving, he had put two bags
of oranges in his machine to take to Balsley, who liked to suck them
to relieve his terrible thirst, after the day's flying was over. There
was an aerial struggle against odds, far within the German lines, and
Chapman, to divert their fire from his comrades, engaged several enemy
airmen at once. He sent one tumbling to earth, and had forced the
others off when two more swooped down upon him. Such a fight is a
matter of seconds, and one cannot clearly see what passes. Lufbery and
Prince, whom Chapman had defended so gallantly, regained the French
lines. They told us of the combat, and we waited on the field for
Chapman's return. He was always the last in, so we were not much
worried. Then a pilot from another fighting escadrille telephoned us
that he had seen a Nieuport falling. A little later the observer of a
reconnaissance airplane called up and told us how he had witnessed
Chapman's fall. The wings of the plane had buckled, and it had dropped
like a stone he said.

We talked in lowered voices after that; we could read the pain in one
another's eyes. If only it could have been some one else, was what we
all thought, I suppose. To lose Victor was not an irreparable loss to
us merely, but to France, and to the world as well. I kept thinking of
him lying over there, and of the oranges he was taking to Balsley. As
I left the field I caught sight of Victor's mechanician leaning
against the end of our hangar. He was looking northward into the sky
where his _patron_ had vanished, and his face was very sad.

PROMOTIONS AND DECORATIONS

By this time Prince and Hall had been made adjutants, and we corporals
transformed into sergeants. I frankly confess to a feeling of marked
satisfaction at receiving that grade in the world's finest army. I was
a far more important person, in my own estimation, than I had been as
a second lieutenant in the militia at home. The next impressive event
was the awarding of decorations. We had assisted at that ceremony for
Cowdin at Luxeuil, but this time three of our messmates were to be
honoured for the Germans they had brought down. Rockwell and Hall
received the _Medaille Militaire_ and the _Croix de Guerre_, and Thaw,
being a lieutenant, the _Legion d'honneur_ and another "palm" for the
ribbon of the _Croix de Guerre_ he had won previously. Thaw, who came
up from Paris specially for the presentation, still carried his arm in
a sling.

There were also decorations for Chapman, but poor Victor, who so often
had been cited in the Orders of the Day, was not on hand to receive
them.

THE MORNING SORTIE

Our daily routine goes on with little change. Whenever the weather
permits--that is, when it isn't raining, and the clouds aren't too
low--we fly over the Verdun battlefield at the hours dictated by
General Headquarters. As a rule the most successful sorties are those
in the early morning.

We are called while it's still dark. Sleepily I try to reconcile the
French orderly's muttered, _C'est l'heure, monsieur_, that rouses me
from slumber, with the strictly American words and music of "When That
Midnight Choo Choo Leaves for Alabam'" warbled by a particularly
wide-awake pilot in the next room. A few minutes later, having
swallowed some coffee, we motor to the field. The east is turning gray
as the hangar curtains are drawn apart and our machines trundled out
by the mechanicians. All the pilots whose planes are in
commission--save those remaining behind on guard--prepare to leave.
We average from four to six on a sortie, unless too many flights have
been ordered for that day, in which case only two or three go out at a
time.

Now the east is pink, and overhead the sky has changed from gray to
pale blue. It is light enough to fly. We don our fur-lined shoes and
combinations and adjust the leather flying hoods and goggles. A good
deal of conversation occurs--perhaps because, once aloft, there's
nobody to talk to.

"Eh, you," one pilot cries jokingly to another, "I hope some Boche
just ruins you this morning, so I won't have to pay you the fifty
francs you won from me last night!"

This financial reference concerns a poker game.

"You do, do you?" replies the other as he swings into his machine.
"Well, I'd be glad to pass up the fifty to see you landed by the
Boches. You'd make a fine sight walking down the street of some
German town in those wooden shoes and pyjama pants. Why don't you
dress yourself? Don't you know an aviator's supposed to look _chic?_"

A sartorial eccentricity on the part of one of our colleagues is here
referred to.

GETTING UNDER WAY

The raillery is silenced by a deafening roar as the motors are tested.
Quiet is briefly restored, only to be broken by a series of rapid
explosions incidental to the trying out of machine guns. You loudly
inquire at what altitude we are to meet above the field.

"Fifteen hundred metres--go ahead!" comes an answering yell.

_Essence et gaz!_ [Oil and gas!] you call to your mechanician,
adjusting your gasolene and air throttles while he grips the
propeller.

_Contact!_ he shrieks, and _Contact!_ you reply. You snap on the
switch, he spins the propeller, and the motor takes. Drawing forward
out of line, you put on full power, race across the grass and take the
air. The ground drops as the hood slants up before you and you seem to
be going more and more slowly as you rise. At a great height you
hardly realize you are moving. You glance at the clock to note the
time of your departure, and at the oil gauge to see its throb. The
altimeter registers 650 feet. You turn and look back at the field
below and see others leaving.

In three minutes you are at about 4,000 feet. You have been making
wide circles over the field and watching the other machines. At 4,500
feet you throttle down and wait on that level for your companions to
catch up. Soon the escadrille is bunched and off for the lines. You
begin climbing again, gulping to clear your ears in the changing
pressure. Surveying the other machines, you recognize the pilot of
each by the marks on its side--or by the way he flies. The
distinguishing marks of the Nieuports are various and sometimes
amusing. Bert Hall, for instance, has BERT painted on the left side of
his plane and the same word reversed (as if spelled backward with the
left hand) on the right--so an aviator passing him on that side at
great speed will be able to read the name without difficulty, he says!

The country below has changed into a flat surface of varicoloured
figures. Woods are irregular blocks of dark green, like daubs of ink
spilled on a table; fields are geometrical designs of different shades
of green and brown, forming in composite an ultra-cubist painting;
roads are thin white lines, each with its distinctive windings and
crossings--from which you determine your location. The higher you are
the easier it is to read.

In about ten minutes you see the Meuse sparkling in the morning light,
and on either side the long line of sausage-shaped observation
balloons far below you. Red-roofed Verdun springs into view just
beyond. There are spots in it where no red shows and you know what has
happened there. In the green pasture land bordering the town, round
flecks of brown indicate the shell holes. You cross the Meuse.

VERDUN, SEEN FROM THE SKY

Immediately east and north of Verdun there lies a broad, brown band.
From the Woevre plain it runs westward to the "S" bend in the Meuse,
and on the left bank of that famous stream continues on into the
Argonne Forest. Peaceful fields and farms and villages adorned that
landscape a few months ago--when there was no Battle of Verdun. Now
there is only that sinister brown belt, a strip of murdered Nature. It
seems to belong to another world. Every sign of humanity has been
swept away. The woods and roads have vanished like chalk wiped from a
blackboard; of the villages nothing remains but gray smears where
stone walls have tumbled together. The great forts of Douaumont and
Vaux are outlined faintly, like the tracings of a finger in wet sand.
One cannot distinguish any one shell crater, as one can on the
pockmarked fields on either side. On the brown band the indentations
are so closely interlocked that they blend into a confused mass of
troubled earth. Of the trenches only broken, half-obliterated links
are visible.

Columns of muddy smoke spurt up continually as high explosives tear
deeper into this ulcered area. During heavy bombardment and attacks I
have seen shells falling like rain. The countless towers of smoke
remind one of Gustave Dore's picture of the fiery tombs of the
arch-heretics in Dante's "Hell." A smoky pall covers the sector under
fire, rising so high that at a height of 1,000 feet one is enveloped
in its mist-like fumes. Now and then monster projectiles hurtling
through the air close by leave one's plane rocking violently in their
wake. Airplanes have been cut in two by them.

THE ROAR OF BATTLE--UNHEARD

For us the battle passes in silence, the noise of one's motor
deadening all other sounds. In the green patches behind the brown belt
myriads of tiny flashes tell where the guns are hidden; and those
flashes, and the smoke of bursting shells, are all we see of the
fighting. It is a weird combination of stillness and havoc, the Verdun
conflict viewed from the sky.

Far below us, the observation and range-finding planes circle over the
trenches like gliding gulls. At a feeble altitude they follow the
attacking infantrymen and flash back wireless reports of the
engagement. Only through them can communication be maintained when,
under the barrier fire, wires from the front lines are cut. Sometimes
it falls to our lot to guard these machines from Germans eager to
swoop down on their backs. Sailing about high above a busy flock of
them makes one feel like an old mother hen protecting her chicks.

"NAVIGATING" IN A SEA OF CLOUDS

The pilot of an _avion de chasse_ must not concern himself with the
ground, which to him is useful only for learning his whereabouts.
The earth is all-important to the men in the observation,
artillery-regulating, and bombardment machines, but the fighting
aviator has an entirely different sphere. His domain is the blue
heavens, the glistening rolls of clouds below the fleecy banks
towering above, the vague aerial horizon, and he must watch it as
carefully as a navigator watches the storm-tossed sea.

On days when the clouds form almost a solid flooring, one feels very
much at sea, and wonders if one is in the navy instead of aviation.
The diminutive Nieuports skirt the white expanse like torpedo boats in
an arctic sea, and sometimes, far across the cloud-waves, one sights
an enemy escadrille, moving as a fleet.

Principally our work consists of keeping German airmen away from our
lines, and in attacking them when opportunity offers. We traverse the
brown band and enter enemy territory to the accompaniment of an
antiaircraft cannonade. Most of the shots are wild, however, and we
pay little attention to them. When the shrapnel comes uncomfortably
close, one shifts position slightly to evade the range. One glances up
to see if there is another machine higher than one's own. Low and far
within the German lines are several enemy planes, a dull white in
appearance, resembling sand flies against the mottled earth. High
above them one glimpses the mosquito-like forms of two Fokkers. Away
off to one side white shrapnel puffs are vaguely visible, perhaps
directed against a German crossing the lines. We approach the enemy
machines ahead, only to find them slanting at a rapid rate into their
own country. High above them lurks a protection plane. The man doing
the "ceiling work," as it is called, will look after him for us.

TACTICS OF AN AIR BATTLE

Getting started is the hardest part of an attack. Once you have begun
diving you're all right. The pilot just ahead turns tail up like a
trout dropping back to water, and swoops down in irregular curves and
circles. You follow at an angle so steep your feet seem to be holding
you back in your seat. Now the black Maltese crosses on the German's
wings stand out clearly. You think of him as some sort of big bug.
Then you hear the rapid tut-tut-tut of his machine gun. The man that
dived ahead of you becomes mixed up with the topmost German. He is so
close it looks as if he had hit the enemy machine. You hear the
staccato barking of his mitrailleuse and see him pass from under the
German's tail.

The rattle of the gun that is aimed at you leaves you undisturbed.
Only when the bullets pierce the wings a few feet off do you become
uncomfortable. You see the gunner crouched down behind his weapon,
but you aim at where the pilot ought to be--there are two men aboard
the German craft--and press on the release hard. Your mitrailleuse
hammers out a stream of bullets as you pass over and dive, nose down,
to get out of range. Then, hopefully, you re-dress and look back at
the foe. He ought to be dropping earthward at several miles a minute.
As a matter of fact, however, he is sailing serenely on. They have an
annoying habit of doing that, these Boches.

Rockwell, who attacked so often that he has lost all count, and who
shoves his machine gun fairly in the faces of the Germans, used to
swear their planes were armoured. Lieutenant de Laage, whose list of
combats is equally extensive, has brought down only one. Hall, with
three machines to his credit, has had more luck. Lufbery, who
evidently has evolved a secret formula, has dropped four, according to
official statistics, since his arrival on the Verdun front. Four
"palms"--the record for the escadrille, glitter upon the ribbon of the
_Croix de Guerre_ accompanying his _Medaille Militaire_. [Footnote:
This book was written in the fall of 1915. Since that time many
additional machines have been credited to the American flyers.]

A pilot seldom has the satisfaction of beholding the result of his
bull's-eye bullet. Rarely--so difficult it is to follow the turnings
and twistings of the dropping plane--does he see his fallen foe strike
the ground. Lufbery's last direct hit was an exception, for he
followed all that took place from a balcony seat. I myself was in the
"nigger-heaven," so I know. We had set out on a sortie together just
before noon, one August day, and for the first time on such an
occasion had lost each other over the lines. Seeing no Germans, I
passed my time hovering over the French observation machines. Lufbery
found one, however, and promptly brought it down. Just then I chanced
to make a southward turn, and caught sight of an airplane falling out
of the sky into the German lines.

As it turned over, it showed its white belly for an instant, then
seemed to straighten out, and planed downward in big zigzags. The
pilot must have gripped his controls even in death, for his craft did
not tumble as most do. It passed between my line of vision and a wood,
into which it disappeared. Just as I was going down to find out where
it landed, I saw it again skimming across a field, and heading
straight for the brown band beneath me. It was outlined against the
shell-racked earth like a tiny insect, until just northwest of Fort
Douaumont it crashed down upon the battlefield. A sheet of flame and
smoke shot up from the tangled wreckage. For a moment or two I watched
it burn; then I went back to the observation machines.

I thought Lufbery would show up and point to where the German had
fallen. He failed to appear, and I began to be afraid it was he whom I
had seen come down, instead of an enemy. I spent a worried hour
before my return homeward. After getting back I learned that Lufbery
was quite safe, having hurried in after the fight to report the
destruction of his adversary before somebody else claimed him, which
is only too frequently the case. Observation posts, however,
confirmed Lufbery's story, and he was of course very much delighted.
Nevertheless, at luncheon, I heard him murmuring, half to himself:
"Those poor fellows."

The German machine gun operator, having probably escaped death in the
air, must have had a hideous descent. Lufbery told us he had seen the
whole thing, spiralling down after the German. He said he thought the
German pilot must be a novice, judging from his manoeuvres. It
occurred to me that he might have been making his first flight over
the lines, doubtless full of enthusiasm about his career. Perhaps,
dreaming of the Iron Cross and his Gretchen, he took a chance--and
then swift death and a grave in the shell-strewn soil of Douaumont.

Generally the escadrille is relieved by another fighting unit after
two hours over the lines. We turn homeward, and soon the hangars of
our field loom up in the distance. Sometimes I've been mighty glad to
see them and not infrequently I've concluded the pleasantest part of
flying is just after a good landing. Getting home after a sortie, we
usually go into the rest tent, and talk over the morning's work. Then
some of us lie down for a nap, while others play cards or read. After
luncheon we go to the field again, and the man on guard gets his
chance to eat. If the morning sortie has been an early one, we go up
again about one o'clock in the afternoon. We are home again in two
hours and after that two or three energetic pilots may make a third
trip over the lines. The rest wait around ready to take the air if an
enemy bombardment group ventures to visit our territory--as it has
done more than once over Bar-le-Duc. False alarms are plentiful, and
we spend many hours aloft squinting at an empty sky.

PRINCE'S AERIAL FIREWORKS

Now and then one of us will get ambitious to do something on his own
account. Not long ago Norman Prince became obsessed with the idea of
bringing down a German "sausage," as observation balloons are called.
He had a special device mounted on his Nieuport for setting fire to
the aerial frankfurters. Thus equipped he resembled an advance agent
for Payne's fireworks more than an _aviateur de chasse_. Having
carefully mapped the enemy "sausages," he would sally forth in hot
pursuit whenever one was signalled at a respectable height. Poor
Norman had a terrible time of it! Sometimes the reported "sausages"
were not there when he arrived, and sometimes there was a
super-abundancy of German airplanes on guard.

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