Flying for France
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James R. McConnell >> Flying for France
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The uncertain wait at Luxeuil finally came to an end on the 12th of
October. The afternoon of that day the British did not say: "Come on
Yanks, let's call off the war and have tea," as was their wont, for
the bombardment of Oberndorf was on. The British and French machines
had been prepared. Just before climbing into their airplanes the
pilots were given their orders. The English in their single-seated
Sopwiths, which carried four bombs each, were the first to leave. The
big French Brequets and Farmans then soared aloft with their tons of
explosive destined for the Mauser works. The fighting machines, which
were to convoy them as far as the Rhine, rapidly gained their height
and circled above their charges. Four of the battleplanes were from
the American escadrille. They were piloted respectively by Lieutenant
de Laage, Lufbery, Norman Prince, and Masson.
The Germans were taken by surprise and as a result few of their
machines were in the air. The bombardment fleet was attacked, however,
and six of its planes shot down, some of them falling in flames.
Baron, the famous French night bombarder, lost his life in one of the
Farmans. Two Germans were brought down by machines they attacked and
the four pilots from the American escadrille accounted for one each.
Lieutenant de Laage shot down his Boche as it was attacking another
French machine and Masson did likewise. Explaining it afterward he
said: "All of a sudden I saw a Boche come in between me and a Breguet
I was following. I just began to shoot, and darned if he didn't fall."
As the fuel capacity of a Nieuport allows but little more than two
hours in the air the _avions de chasse_ were forced to return to their
own lines to take on more gasoline, while the bombardment planes
continued on into Germany. The Sopwiths arrived first at Oberndorf.
Dropping low over the Mauser works they discharged their bombs and
headed homeward. All arrived, save one, whose pilot lost his way and
came to earth in Switzerland. When the big machines got to Oberndorf
they saw only flames and smoke where once the rifle factory stood.
They unloaded their explosives on the burning mass.
The Nieuports having refilled their tanks went up to clear the air of
Germans that might be hovering in wait for the returning raiders.
Prince found one and promptly shot it down. Lufbery came upon three.
He drove for one, making it drop below the others, then forcing a
second to descend, attacked the one remaining above. The combat was
short and at the end of it the German tumbled to earth. This made the
fifth enemy machine which was officially credited to Lufbery. When a
pilot has accounted for five Boches he is mentioned by name in the
official communication, and is spoken of as an "Ace," which in French
aerial slang means a super-pilot. Papers are allowed to call an "ace"
by name, print his picture and give him a write-up. The successful
aviator becomes a national hero. When Lufbery worked into this
category the French papers made him a head liner. The American "Ace,"
with his string of medals, then came in for the ennuis of a matinee
idol. The choicest bit in the collection was a letter from
Wallingford, Conn., his home town, thanking him for putting it on the
map.
Darkness was coming rapidly on but Prince and Lufbery remained in the
air to protect the bombardment fleet. Just at nightfall Lufbery made
for a small aviation field near the lines, known as Corcieux.
Slow-moving machines, with great planing capacity, can be landed in
the dark, but to try and feel for the ground in a Nieuport, which
comes down at about a hundred miles an hour, is to court disaster. Ten
minutes after Lufbery landed Prince decided to make for the field. He
spiraled down through the night air and skimmed rapidly over the trees
bordering the Corcieux field. In the dark he did not see a
high-tension electric cable that was stretched just above the tree
tops. The landing gear of his airplane struck it. The machine snapped
forward and hit the ground on its nose. It turned over and over. The
belt holding Prince broke and he was thrown far from the wrecked
plane. Both of his legs were broken and he naturally suffered internal
injuries. In spite of the terrific shock and his intense pain Prince
did not lose consciousness. He even kept his presence of mind and
gave orders to the men who had run to pick him up. Hearing the hum of
a motor, and realizing a machine was in the air, Prince told them to
light gasoline fires on the field. "You don't want another fellow to
come down and break himself up the way I've done," he said.
Lufbery went with Prince to the hospital in Gerardmer. As the
ambulance rolled along Prince sang to keep up his spirits. He spoke of
getting well soon and returning to service. It was like Norman. He
was always energetic about his flying. Even when he passed through
the harrowing experience of having a wing shattered, the first thing
he did on landing was to busy himself about getting another fitted in
place and the next morning he was in the air again.
No one thought that Prince was mortally injured but the next day he
went into a coma. A blood clot had formed on his brain. Captain Haff
in command of the aviation groups of Luxeuil, accompanied by our
officers, hastened to Gerardmer. Prince lying unconscious on his bed,
was named a second lieutenant and decorated with the Legion of Honor.
He already held the Medaille Militaire and Croix de Guerre. Norman
Prince died on the 15th of October. He was brought back to Luxeuil and
given a funeral similar to Rockwell's. It was hard to realize that
poor old Norman had gone. He was the founder of the American
escadrille and every one in it had come to rely on him. He never let
his own spirits drop, and was always on hand with encouragement for
the others. I do not think Prince minded going. He wanted to do his
part before being killed, and he had more than done it. He had, day
after day, freed the line of Germans, making it impossible for them to
do their work, and three of them he had shot to earth.
Two days after Prince's death the escadrille received orders to leave
for the Somme. The night before the departure the British gave the
American pilots a farewell banquet and toasted them as their "Guardian
Angels." They keenly appreciated the fact that four men from the
American escadrille had brought down four Germans, and had cleared the
way for their squadron returning from Oberndorf. When the train pulled
out the next day the station platform was packed by khaki-clad pilots
waving good-bye to their friends the "Yanks."
The escadrille passed through Paris on its way to the Somme front. The
few members who had machines flew from Luxeuil to their new post. At
Paris the pilots were reinforced by three other American boys who had
completed their training. They were: Fred Prince, who ten months
before had come over from Boston to serve in aviation with his brother
Norman; Willis Haviland, of Chicago, who left the American Ambulance
for the life of a birdman, and Bob Soubrian, of New York, who had been
transferred from the Foreign Legion to the flying corps after being
wounded in the Champagne offensive.
Before its arrival in the Somme the escadrille had always been
quartered in towns and the life of the pilots was all that could be
desired in the way of comforts. We had, as a result, come to believe
that we would wage only a de luxe war, and were unprepared for any
other sort of campaign. The introduction to the Somme was a rude
awakening. Instead of being quartered in a villa or hotel, the pilots
were directed to a portable barracks newly erected in a sea of mud.
It was set in a cluster of similar barns nine miles from the nearest
town. A sieve was a watertight compartment in comparison with that
elongated shed. The damp cold penetrated through every crack, chilling
one to the bone. There were no blankets and until they were procured
the pilots had to curl up in their flying clothes. There were no
arrangements for cooking and the Americans depended on the other
escadrilles for food. Eight fighting units were located at the same
field and our ever-generous French comrades saw to it that no one went
hungry. The thick mist, for which the Somme is famous, hung like a
pall over the birdmen's nest dampening both the clothes and spirits of
the men.
Something had to be done, so Thaw and Masson, who is our _Chef de
Popote_ (President of the Mess) obtained permission to go to Paris in
one of our light trucks. They returned with cooking utensils, a stove,
and other necessary things. All hands set to work and as a result life
was made bearable. In fact I was surprised to find the quarters as
good as they were when I rejoined the escadrille a couple of weeks
after its arrival in the Somme. Outside of the cold, mud, and dampness
it wasn't so bad. The barracks had been partitioned off into little
rooms leaving a large space for a dining hall. The stove is set up
there and all animate life from the lion cub to the pilots centre
around its warming glow.
The eight escadrilles of fighting machines form a rather interesting
colony. The large canvas hangars are surrounded by the house tents of
their respective escadrilles; wooden barracks for the men and pilots
are in close proximity, and sandwiched in between the encampments of
the various units are the tents where the commanding officers hold
forth. In addition there is a bath house where one may go and freeze
while a tiny stream of hot water trickles down one's shivering form.
Another shack houses the power plant which generates electric light
for the tents and barracks, and in one very popular canvas is located
the community bar, the profits from which go to the Red Cross.
We had never before been grouped with as many other fighting
escadrilles, nor at a field so near the front. We sensed the war to
better advantage than at Luxeuil or Bar-le-Duc. When there is
activity on the lines the rumble of heavy artillery reaches us in a
heavy volume of sound. From the field one can see the line of
sausage-shaped observation balloons, which delineate the front, and
beyond them the high-flying airplanes, darting like swallows in the
shrapnel puffs of anti-air-craft fire. The roar of motors that are
being tested, is punctuated by the staccato barking of machine guns,
and at intervals the hollow whistling sound of a fast plane diving to
earth is added to this symphony of war notes.
CHAPTER III
PERSONAL LETTERS FROM SERGEANT McCONNELL--AT THE FRONT
We're still waiting for our machines. In the meantime the Boches sail
gaily over and drop bombs. One of our drivers has been killed and five
wounded so far but we'll put a stop to it soon. The machines have
left and are due to-day.
You ask me what my work will be and how my machine is armed. First of
all I mount an _avion de chasse_ and am supposed to shoot down Boches
or keep them away from over our lines. I do not do observation, or
regulating of artillery fire. These are handled by escadrilles
equipped with bigger machines. I mount at daybreak over the lines;
stay at from 11,000 to 15,000 feet and wait for the sight of an enemy
plane. It may be a bombardment machine, a regulator of fire, an
observer, or an _avion de chasse_ looking for me. Whatever she is I
make for her and manoeuvre for position. All the machines carry
different gun positions and one seeks the blind side. Having obtained
the proper position one turns down or up, whichever the case may be,
and, when within fifty yards, opens up with the machine gun. That is
on the upper plane and it is sighted by a series of holes and cross
webs. As one is passing at a terrific rate there is not time for many
shots, so, unless wounded or one's machine is injured by the first
try--for the enemy plane shoots, too--one tries it again and again
until there's nothing doing or the other fellow is dropped. Apart from
work over the lines, which is comparatively calm, there is the job of
convoying bombardment machines. That is the rotten task. The captain
has called on us to act as guards on the next trip. You see we are
like torpedo boats of the air with our swift machines.
We have the honour of being attached to a bombardment squadron that is
the most famous in the French Army. The captain of the unit once lost
his whole escadrille, and on the last trip eight lost their lives. It
was a wonderful fight. The squadron was attacked by thirty-three
Boches. Two French planes crashed to earth--then two German; another
German was set on fire and streaked down, followed by a streaming
column of smoke. Another Frenchman fell; another German; and then a
French lieutenant, mortally wounded and realizing that he was dying,
plunged his airplane into a German below him and both fell to earth
like stones.
The tours of Alsace and the Vosges that we have made, to look over
possible landing places, were wonderful. I've never seen such
ravishing sights, and in regarding the beauty of the country I have
missed noting the landing places. The valleys are marvellous. On each
side the mountain slopes are a solid mass of giant pines and down
these avenues of green tumble myriads of glittering cascades which
form into sparkling streams beneath. It is a pleasant feeling to go
into Alsace and realize that one is touring over country we have taken
from the Germans. It's a treat to go by auto that way. In the air, you
know, one feels detached from all below. It's a different world, that
has no particular meaning, and besides, it all looks flat and of a
weary pattern.
THE FIRST TRIP
Well, I've made my first trip over the lines and proved a few things
to myself. First, I can stand high altitudes. I had never been higher
than 7,000 feet before, nor had I flown more than an hour. On my trip
to Germany I went to 14,000 feet and was in the air for two hours. I
wore the fur head-to-foot combination they give one and paper gloves
under the fur ones you sent me. I was not cold. In a way it seemed
amusing to be going out knowing as little as I do. My mitrailleuse
had been mounted the night before. I had never fired it, nor did I
know the country at all even though I'd motored along our lines. I
followed the others or I surely should have been lost. I shall have to
make special trips to study the land and be able to make it out from
my map which I carry on board. For one thing the weather was hazy and
clouds obscured the view.
We left en escadrille, at 30-second intervals, at 6:30 A.M. I'd been
on guard since three, waiting for an enemy plane. I climbed to 3,500
feet in four minutes and so started off higher than the rest. I lost
them immediately but took a compass course in the direction we were
headed. Clouds were below me and I could see the earth only in spots.
Ahead was a great barrier of clouds and fog. It seemed like a
limitless ocean. To the south the Alps jutted up through the clouds
and glistened like icebergs in the morning sun. I began to feel
completely lost. I was at 7,000 feet and that was all I knew. Suddenly
I saw a little black speck pop out of a cloud to my left--then two
others. They were our machines and from then on I never let them get
out of my sight. I went to 14,000 in order to be able to keep them
well in view below me. We went over Belfort which I recognized, and,
turning, went toward the lines. The clouds had dispersed by this time.
Alsace was below us and in the distance I could see the straight
course of the Rhine. It looked very small. I looked down and saw the
trenches and when I next looked for our machines I saw clusters of
smoke puffs. We were being fired at. One machine just under me seemed
to be in the centre of a lot of shrapnel. The puffs were white, or
black, or green, depending on the size of the shell used. It struck me
as more amusing than anything else to watch the explosions and smoke.
I thought of what a lot of money we were making the Germans spend. It
is not often that they hit. The day before one of our machines had a
part of the tail shot away and the propeller nicked, but that's just
bum luck. Two shells went off just at my height and in a way that led
me to think that the third one would get me; but it didn't. It's hard
even for the aviator to tell how far off they are. We went over
Mulhouse and to the north. Then we sailed south and turned over the
lines on the way home. I was very tired after the flight but it was
because I was not used to it and it was a strain on me keeping a
look-out for the others.
AT VERDUN
To-day the army moving picture outfit took pictures of us. We had a
big show. Thirty bombardment planes went off like clock-work and we
followed. We circled and swooped down by the camera. We were taken in
groups, then individually, in flying togs, and God knows what-all.
They will be shown in the States.
If you happen to see them you will recognize my machine by the MAC,
painted on the side.
Seems quite an important thing to have one's own airplane with two
mechanics to take care of it, to help one dress for flights, and to
obey orders. A pilot of no matter what grade is like an officer in any
other arm.
We didn't see any Boche planes on our trip. We were too many. The only
way to do is to sneak up on them.
I do not get a chance to see much of the biggest battle in the world
which is being fought here, for I'm on a fighting machine and the sky
is my province. We fly so high that ground details are lacking. Where
the battle has raged there is a broad, browned band. It is a great
strip of murdered Nature. Trees, houses, and even roads have been
blasted completely away. The shell holes are so numerous that they
blend into one another and cannot be separately seen. It looks as if
shells fell by the thousand every second. There are spurts of smoke at
nearly every foot of the brown areas and a thick pall of mist covers
it all. There are but holes where the trenches ran, and when one
thinks of the poor devils crouching in their inadequate shelters under
such a hurricane of flying metal, it increases one's respect for the
staying powers of modern man. It's terrible to watch, and I feel sad
every time I look down. The only shooting we hear is the tut-tut-tut
of our own or enemy plane's machine guns when fighting is at close
quarters. The Germans shoot explosive bullets from theirs. I must
admit that they have an excellent air fleet even if they do not fight
decently.
I'm a sergeant now--_sergent_ in French--and I get about two francs
more a day and wear a gold band on my cap, which makes old
territorials think I'm an officer and occasions salutes which are some
bother.
A SORTIE
We made a foolish sortie this morning. Only five of us went, the
others remaining in bed thinking the weather was too bad. It was. When
at only 3,000 feet we hit a solid layer of clouds, and when we had
passed through, we couldn't see anything but a shimmering field of
white. Above were the bright sun and the blue sky, but how we were in
regard to the earth no one knew. Fortunately the clouds had a big
hole in them at one point and the whole mass was moving toward the
lines. By circling, climbing, and dropping we stayed above the hole,
and, when over the trenches, worked into it, ready to fall on the
Boches. It's a stunt they use, too. We finally found ourselves 20
kilometres in the German lines. In coming back I steered by compass
and then when I thought I was near the field I dived and found myself
not so far off, having the field in view. In the clouds it shakes
terribly and one feels as if one were in a canoe on a rough sea.
VICTOR CHAPMAN
I was mighty sorry to see old Victor Chapman go. He was one of the
finest men I've ever known. He was _too_ brave if anything. He was
exceptionally well educated, had a fine brain, and a heart as big as a
house. Why, on the day of his fatal trip, he had put oranges in his
machine to take to Balsley who was lying wounded with an explosive
bullet. He was going to land near the hospital after the sortie.
Received letter inclosing note from Chapman's father. I'm glad you
wrote him. I feel sure that some of my letters never reach you. I
never let more than a week go by without writing. Maybe I do not get
all yours, either.
A SMASH-UP
Weather has been fine and we've been doing a lot of work. Our
Lieutenant de Laage de Mieux, brought down a Boche. I had another
beautiful smash-up. Prince and I had stayed too long over the lines.
Important day as an attack was going on. It was getting dark and we
could see the tiny balls of fire the infantry light to show the
low-flying observation machines their new positions. On my return,
when I was over another aviation field, my motor broke. I made for
field. In the darkness I couldn't judge my distance well, and went too
far. At the edge of the field there were trees, and beyond, a deep cut
where a road ran. I was skimming ground at a hundred miles an hour and
heading for the trees. I saw soldiers running to be in at the finish
and I thought to myself that James's hash was cooked, but I went
between two trees and ended up head on against the opposite bank of
the road. My motor took the shock and my belt held me. As my tail went
up it was cut in two by some very low 'phone wires. I wasn't even
bruised. Took dinner with the officers there who gave me a car to go
home in afterward.
FIGHTING A BOCHE
To-day I shared another chap's machine (Hill of Peekskill), and got it
shot up for him. De Laage (our lieutenant) and I made a sortie at
noon. When over the German lines, near _Cote_ 304, I saw two Boches
under me. I picked out the rear chap and dived. Fired a few shots and
then tried to get under his tail and hit him from there. I missed, and
bobbed up alongside of him. Fine for the Boche, but rotten for me! I
could see his gunner working the mitrailleuse for fair, and felt his
bullets darn close. I dived, for I could not shoot from that
position, and beat it. He kept plunking away and altogether put seven
holes in my machine. One was only ten inches in from me. De Laage was
too far off to get to the Boche and ruin him while I was amusing him.
Yesterday I motored up to an aviation camp to see a Boche machine that
had been forced to land and was captured. On the way up I passed a
cantonment of Senegalese. About twenty of 'em jumped up from the bench
they were sitting on and gave me the hell of a salute. Thought I was a
general because I was riding in a car, I guess. They're the blackest
niggers you ever saw. Good-looking soldiers. Can't stand shelling but
they're good on the cold steel end of the game. The Boche machine was
a beauty. Its motor is excellent and she carries a machine gun aft and
one forward. Same kind of a machine I attacked to-day. The German
pilots must be mighty cold-footed, for if the Frenchmen had airplanes
like that they surely would raise the devil with the Boches.
As it is the Boches keep well within their lines, save occasionally,
and we have to go over and fight them there.
KIFFIN ROCKWELL
Poor Kiffin Rockwell has been killed. He was known and admired far
and wide, and he was accorded extraordinary honours. Fifty English
pilots and eight hundred aviation men from the British unit in the
Vosges marched at his funeral. There was a regiment of Territorials
and a battalion of Colonial troops in addition to the hundreds of
French pilots and aviation men. Captain Thenault of the American
Escadrille delivered an exceptionally eulogistic funeral oration. He
spoke at length of Rockwell's ideals and his magnificent work. He told
of his combats. "When Rockwell was on the lines," he said, "no German
passed, but on the contrary was forced to seek a refuge on the
ground."
Rockwell made the _esprit_ of the escadrille, and the Captain voiced
the sentiments of us all when, in announcing his death, he said: "The
best and bravest of us all is no more."
How does the war look to you--as regards duration? We are figuring on
about ten more months, but then it may be ten more years. Of late
things are much brighter and one can feel a certain elation in the
air. Victory, before, was a sort of academic certainty; now, it's
felt.
CHAPTER IV
HOW FRANCE TRAINS PILOT AVIATORS
France now has thousands of men training to become military aviators,
and the flying schools, of which there is a very great number, are
turning out pilots at an astounding rate.
The process of training a man to be a pilot aviator naturally varies
in accordance with the type of machine on which he takes his first
instruction, and so the methods of the various schools depend on the
apparatus upon which they teach an _eleve pilote_--as an embryonic
aviator is called--to fly.
In the case of the larger biplanes, a student goes up in a
dual-control airplane, accompanied by an old pilot, who, after first
taking him on many short trips, then allows him part, and later full,
control, and who immediately corrects any false moves made by him.
After that, short, straight line flights are made alone in a
smaller-powered machine by the student, and, following that, the
training goes on by degrees to the point where a certain mastery of
the apparatus is attained. Then follows the prescribed "stunts" and
voyages necessary to obtain the military brevet.
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