Part 2
I witnessed one very sad example. A young lieutenant had just been brevetted and was ready to leave the school. Just as he was saying good-by to his comrades, a "Morane Parasol" was brought out on the field. These machines are very tricky and dangerous. He had never piloted one, but wanted to show off. The monitors begged him not to take it up, but he insisted on doing so. When he had reached an altitude of about five hundred metres he shut off his motor to come down, not realizing that monoplanes do not volplane well. He did not dive enough and had a "perte de vitesse." The machine slipped off the wing. We all held our breaths and prayed that he would recover control before he engaged in the fatal corkscrew spiral. Our hopes were of no avail. The machine started to turn, and approached the earth spinning like a chip caught in a whirlpool. I turned my back, but I could hear the machine whistling through the air till it came to the ground with a sickening crash.
Faulty landings are also very common causes of accidents. It takes a beginner a long time to train his eye to make a perfect landing, and even experienced men now and then smash up on the "atterrissage." A few inches sometimes make a great difference. If the pilot does not check his speed in time he will crash into the ground and "capote," that is, turn over. If he pulls up too soon he will slip off on the wing or land so hard that the machine collapses. Not only the manner of landing but gaining the exact place of landing is difficult. If the pilot misjudges his distance, and lands either beyond or short of a given spot, he may collide with some object that will wreck the aeroplane.
Just before leaving the ground is another critical moment. If the tail is lifted too high in an effort to gain speed the wheels are liable to hit some small obstacle and the machine turns a somersault. Often one is forced to lift the tail very high to gain flying speed in a short distance, and it always results in an uncomfortable few seconds until the pilot knows he is clear. Still another mishap against which aviators are powerless may occur while rolling along the ground. The machine may be caught by a cross wind, which will turn it completely around, a "chevaux-de-bois," a merry-go-round, the French call it. If the machine is going fast when this happens it means touching the ground with a wing and a first-class smash.
For two months I studied and watched, and the result was a profound respect for the air. During this time it seems that I also had been the object of study and observation on the part of my teachers, for one day I was told that I was to receive my "bapteme de l'air," my first flight as a passenger. Words cannot describe my joy or my sensations.
I walked over to the double-seater. The pilot had already taken his seat, and the propeller was turning. I had hardly climbed in and fastened my belt than we were off. I could hear the wheels bounding along the ground. Suddenly the noise stopped--we were in the air. I was sure I would have vertigo, as I often had had in high places. I did not look out of the machine until we were about five hundred feet up. Then, to my surprise, I experienced not the slightest sensation of height. The ground seemed to be merely moving slowly under and away from me. We kept climbing. I could see the country for miles. Never had I viewed the horizon from so far. The snow-clad Pyrenees were literally at my feet. Trees looked like weeds and roads like white ribbons. It was a marvellous sight. At about two thousand feet we struck some wind and "remous" (whirlpools). Each time we struck one we would drop about fifty feet, and the sensation was like being in a descending express elevator. At the end of the drop we would stop, the biplane would shiver and roll like a ship in a heavy sea, and then it would shoot up until we struck the solid air again. This was real flying.
After a while my instructor cut off the motor, and we started to come down. We were going fast enough on the level, but now the wind just roared past my ears. The ground appeared to be rushing up to meet us. We were pointing down so straight that my whole weight was on my feet, and I was literally standing up. I thought that the pilot had forgotten to redress, and that we would go head first into the ground, but he finally pulled up, and before I knew it we were rolling along the ground at a speed of about forty miles an hour.
With this preliminary experience I was ready to commence my final studies for a pilot's brevet.
Some people seem to think that the two months devoted merely to first principles are time lost, but I now realize that this is not so. I seemed to have much more confidence on account of this intelligent understanding of every detail. I felt that I knew just what I was to avoid, and just how to do the correct thing in case an emergency arose.
Perhaps I might say here that military aviators have four distinct duties to perform at the front: they must fight, reconnoitre the enemy's positions, control the fire of their own batteries, or make distant bombarding raids over the enemy's bases of supplies.
The fighting pilots do nothing but combat work. Their machines are the very small and fast Nieuports, designed especially for quick manoeuvring. They are called the "appareils de chasse," on account of their great speed--over one hundred miles an hour. Their armament consists of a mitrailleuse, which is carried in a fixed position. In order to aim it, the pilot must point his machine. The principal task assigned to the Nieuports is to do sentry duty over our own lines, in order to prevent the enemy aeroplanes from crossing over for observation purposes.
Heavier and somewhat slower, and too cumbersome for fighting, are the machines used for reconnoissance duty. They are large bimotor Caudrons, very stable and capable of carrying two men, an observer and a pilot. In addition they carry a wireless apparatus, powerful photographing instruments, and other equipment essential to their work of observing, recording, and reporting the enemy's movements and the disposition of his batteries. If attacked, they can fight, being armed with a machine gun mounted in front of the observer's seat; but attacking the enemy is not the role they are intended to play.
Next come the Farman artillery machines. They are like the reconnoissance machines, too cumbersome for fighting, but are best equipped for the purpose of "reglage"--controlling the fire of batteries. While the small Nieuports have a carrying capacity of only two hundred and twenty pounds, these unwieldy creatures are able to take on over five hundred pounds, which includes the weight of the two men, their clothes, cameras, the wireless, and the gun and its ammunition. In this branch of aviation the weight of the pilot does not matter so very much, whereas in the case of the little Nieuports, if the aviator exceeds the prescribed weight, he has to choose between not piloting the machine or starting on his flight with a supply of gasolene reduced by the amount of his excess weight.
Finally, there are the heavy-armored bombardment machines, with a carrying capacity of over one thousand pounds. They are the slowest machines of all, and their work is both tiring and tiresome, as their flights are made mostly by night. They are armed with mitrailleuses or small, non-recoil cannon, but on account of their low speed their daylight flights are attended by "escadrilles de chasse." They are also detailed for guarding cities.
In the early months of the war each aviator was usually assigned to any one of these types of machines at hazard. At the school which he attended the instruction he received was specialized for the work which that particular machine could perform. Since then, however, it has been found more advisable to train all beginners on one of the heavier machines. The reason is this: Fighting, although the safest work, requires the most experienced pilot. It is the most important work of all--or rather it calls for greater attributes of skill, courage, and knowledge. The famous aviators of whom we read in the daily communiques, like Navarre, Nungesser, Vialet, and Guynemer, all gained their reputation with the small, fighting Nieuports. A pilot is consequently promoted from a reconnoissance machine to an "appareil de chasse" after he has had two or three months' experience at the front and his captain has indorsed his application.
There are exceptions to this rule. The most notable is the American Escadrille, which consists entirely of fighting machines. The volunteers from the United States who applied for this duty were considered such naturally good aviators that they were accorded the exceptional honor of being assigned immediately to the fighting Nieuports.
When I first reported at the aviation headquarters they offered to let me go directly to the combat school because I was an American. I refused. "When in Rome, do as the Romans do," I thought, and so expressed my preference for a French escadrille. I knew that by doing so I would put in a longer apprenticeship, but that in the end it would make a much better fighting pilot of me. Having chosen this course, I was ordered to report to the school at Chartres.
*THE SCHOOL AT CHARTRES*
Most Americans know Chartres only for its beautiful Gothic cathedral, which, since its construction in the eleventh century, has been regarded as one of the finest edifices of France. Those of us who, since the war began, have had occasion to visit Chartres, have found there other interests besides the little, straggling streets, the historic old houses, and the beautiful monuments and memorials to men, like Pasteur and Marceau, who brought fame to their native city in peace as well as in war. Not far from the centre of the town lie the vast aviation-fields--close by the little village of Bretigny, where the treaty of peace which concluded the One Hundred Years' War was signed over five centuries ago. Little did the soldiers who met on that historic battle-field dream that to-day their descendants would be training for an even greater conflict, in which the combatants not only clinch below ground but also fight aerial battles high above the clouds.
As Chartres was a great cavalry headquarters of the French army before the war, to-day many of the horses shipped over from the western plains of North America are sent there the moment they are unloaded from the steamers at Bordeaux. Many a morning from my window I have seen the square below filled with a moving mass of animals on their way to the near-by remount depots. Twice I saw whole regiments of cavalry leaving for the front. So steadily and so quietly did those mounts move in ranks that it seemed as if they had acquired some of their riders' dogged determination and sense of responsibility.
The aviation school at Chartres is as large as the one I had recently left, and its organization is the same. In fact, it is only one of a dozen equally large and important schools located in various parts of France--all of which is bound to make a great impression upon Americans when they appreciate the insufficiency of aviation schools in our own country. At Chartres there are three fields. Two of these are reserved for the use of the double-control machines, while the third, the "Grande Piste," serves as a practice-field for the eleves who are about to come up for their pilots' examinations. As soon as I had reported my arrival to the officer in charge, and had complied with the usual formalities, I was assigned to an "equipe," which in English means a "team." There were twelve of these "equipes" under instruction at all times, comprising a dozen pupils apiece, and each having its own double-control machine and an instructor. Half of the number are always making use of one of the two smaller fields, while the remaining six use the other.
The instruction in this way progresses rapidly. The "moniteur" first takes each pupil for a few rides to see how the latter takes to the air. The eleve must follow every move of his pilot, until he appears perfectly at home in the machine, and then he is allowed to hold the controls alone. Each flight lasts only about five minutes, the French theory being that an aviator must take his instruction in small doses. In the interim, as in the preliminary courses, he remains on the field, observing and studying the mistakes of his comrades. If the progress of the instruction is too rapid, the pupil has not the time to grasp each step that has been passed and cannot, therefore, become an expert pilot.
The double control works in this way: The controls and the pedals of the pupil are a duplicate set of those of the "moniteur," or instructor, and have the same connections with the engine and steering apparatus. Either set will steer the machine. The pupil takes hold of the controls and places his feet on the pedals. Every motion of the instructor is reproduced in the pupil's control and pedals--their hands and feet move together. In this way the pupil develops a reflex action and instinct for doing the right thing. Each day, weather permitting, at least half a dozen flights are made by a pupil. Gradually the "moniteur" allows him to control the machine. Suddenly he finds himself running the biplane alone, with his instructor riding as a passenger behind him and merely giving him a word of advice or caution from time to time.
Landing is the most difficult part of aviation to master. A great many of the accidents occur because the aviator has made a poor contact with the ground. In fact, in the early days of aviation most of the accidents occurred near the ground, and this led people to speculate on the peculiar action of the lower air currents. These, in reality, had little to do with it. The cause lay in the inability of the pilots to know how to make proper contacts and to appreciate the fact which we now know to be a fundamental principle, that the engine should be shut off before a machine catches the air and volplanes down against the wind. There are exceptions to this rule, but not for a beginner. Sometimes it is necessary for the pilot to descend against a strong wind. In order to maintain the required speed the motor must be left partially turned on. Generally it is most important to turn off the motor, because if the landing is made with the wind, even in the gentlest breeze, the aeroplane, on account of the speed of the tail wind, is likely to turn a somersault and be completely smashed up. Even then another manoeuvre has to be mastered. Just before alighting the pilot must make a quick upward turn, so that at the moment of contact the machine may be travelling parallel with the ground. Formerly the importance of this little upward turn of the rudder was not fully appreciated by aviators, and many a machine was wrecked by a sudden hard compact with the earth.
When the "moniteur" sees that his pupil has acquired the knack of making a landing he passes on to the all-important manoeuvre of volplaning, and the dreaded "perte de vitesse" is tackled. Lastly, but not least, comes the "virage"--turn, or bank, as we say in English. These rudimentary principles are all that are required of the eleve before he may go up alone, or be "lache."
During this phase of my instruction it was repeatedly impressed upon me that, if anything ever happened to me when I was in the air and I did not immediately realize what to do, I was to let go of the controls, turn off the motor, and let the machine take charge of itself. The modern aeroplane is naturally so stable that, if not interfered with, it will always attempt to right itself before the dreaded "vrille" occurs, and fall "en feuille morte." Like a leaf dropping in an autumn breeze is what this means, and no other words explain the meaning better.
A curious instance of this happened one day as I was watching the flights and waiting for my turn. I was particularly interested in a machine that had just risen from the "Grande Piste." It was acting very peculiarly. Suddenly its motor was heard to stop. Instead of diving it commenced to wabble, indicating a "perte de vitesse." It slipped off on the wing and then dove. I watched it intently, expecting it to turn into the dreaded spiral. Instead it began to climb. Then it went off on the wing, righted itself, again slipped off on the wing, volplaned, and went off once more. This extraordinary performance was repeated several times, while each time the machine approached nearer and nearer to the ground. I thought that the pilot would surely be killed. Luck was with him, however, for his slip ceased just as he made contact with the ground, and he settled in a neighboring field. It was a very bumpy landing, but the aeroplane was undamaged.
The officers rushed to the spot to find out what was the matter. They found the pilot unconscious but otherwise unhurt. Later, in the hospital, he explained that the altitude had affected his heart and that he had fainted. As he felt himself going he remembered his instructions and relinquished the controls, at the same moment stopping his motor. His presence of mind and his luck had saved his life--his luck, I say, for had the machine not righted itself at the moment of touching the ground it would have been inevitably wrecked.
This was a practical demonstration of the expediency of the French method of instruction, and before long it was to serve me also in good stead.
One day, after I had flown for several hours in the double-control machine, my "moniteur" told me that he thought me qualified to be "lache," and that I was to go up alone the following morning. I felt very proud and confided my feelings to one of my friends who had been qualified a few hours earlier. While we were talking he was called upon to make his first independent flight. We watched him leave the ground, rise, and then make his turns. He was doing remarkably well for a beginner, but when he came down for his landing he did not redress his machine in time and it crushed him to the ground, with fatal result. This completely unnerved me. I lost all desire to fly the following day, and prayed earnestly for rain. The next morning, however, was beautifully clear. The captain was there to watch my flight. I was loath to go up, but I had no alternative. The mechanics rolled out a single-control biplane for my use and I climbed in. The motor was started. With its crackling noise my nerve almost deserted me again. I should have felt less frightened, probably, had no one been looking on, but my "moniteur," my captain, and all my comrades stood there, interested to see how I would handle myself. I had to see the thing through, so I opened the throttle. The machine began to roll along the ground, then to bounce, and then, in response to a pull on the control, to fly. I was flying alone. The thought filled me with alarm. I rose to less than two hundred feet, but it seemed prodigious. Then I made a turn. When I found that I was flying smoothly and easily I felt a little more confident. As I turned back toward the field I could see my masters and comrades below looking up at me. Another machine was about to leave the field. It seemed no larger than a huge insect as it glided across the ground. I made up my mind that I was going to make good. If others could do it, I could. I volplaned down, and made my landing safely but somewhat bumpily. The captain told me that I would do, but he would like me to make another turn. I went up again. This time I made a faultless landing. I had passed my test satisfactorily. I felt happy and confident. I was now qualified to "conduct" an aeroplane alone, and in a few weeks I would be allowed to try for a brevet as military pilot.
There were several other pilots whose turns to pass to the "Grande Piste" came before mine. I had, therefore, to wait for several days, which I used to advantage in taking up the old "double-control" machine alone. In this way I was able to make several ascensions and landings every morning and every night. This was to be of the greatest service to me later, for during these practice flights I acquired perfect confidence in myself. At other times, both before and after working hours, my "moniteur" would take me up with him as a passenger for a newly discovered sport. We would rush along the ground, barely two feet above it, and put up partridges, which abounded in the greatest numbers. Our speed would enable us to overtake and hit them with the wires of the machine and kill them. Running along the ground in this way is always attended with danger, but it was real sport. One morning in twenty minutes we killed six partridges in this novel manner.
Finally my turn came. I graduated from the beginners' class at "La Mare de Grenouille" to the company of the more finished pilots of the "Grande Piste." The beginners' field is called the "frog's meadow," because the landings are so hoppy. On the "Grande Piste" we had newer and faster machines, and we could fly alone and go practically anywhere we wished. Six pilots were assigned to one aeroplane. We had to divide up the time equally between each pilot, so as to give every one an opportunity of making at least two flights both morning and afternoon. A maximum height was imposed upon each "equipe," and this was gradually increased from five hundred feet to a thousand, and then to one thousand five hundred, as we became more and more adept.
Most of our time was given to making landings and to accustoming ourselves to volplaning. The motor had to be reduced at a predetermined distance from the field, and the rest of the descent made by volplaning to a given spot. Spirals were also made during each flight. We would select our landing-places and prepare ourselves for the "atterrissage" by reducing our motor, making due allowance for the drive of the wind. At about two hundred feet from the ground we would suddenly turn on the motor again, tilt up the tail, and resume our flights. This was excellent practice and gave us more and more confidence in our own ability to come down wherever we wished. The average layman cannot understand why aviators spend so much time turning in spirals as they approach the ground. It is because they are manoeuvring for position to hold their headway and land against the wind, as does a sailing ship when beating up a harbor against wind and tide.
Every day I took my machine up higher and higher until I had gradually increased my altitude to two thousand feet. Here, one day, I had a narrow escape. I had received orders to make a flight during a snow-storm. I rose to the prescribed height and then prepared to make my descent. A whirling squall caught me in the act of making a spiral. I felt the tail of my machine go down and the nose point up. I had a classical "perte de vitesse." I looked out and saw that I was less than eight hundred feet above the ground, and approaching it at an alarming rate of speed. I had already shut off the motor for the spiral, and turning it on, I knew, would not help me in the least. Suddenly I remembered the pilot who fainted. I let go of everything, and with a sickening feeling I looked down at the up-rushing ground. At that instant I felt the machine give a lurch and right itself. I grabbed the controls, turned on the motor and resumed my line of flight only two hundred feet in the air. All this happened in a few seconds, but my helplessness seemed to have lasted for hours. I had had a very close call--not as close as the man who fainted, but sufficiently so for me.