Part 4
My first trip was to the aviation school near Bourges, situated on the estates of the Count d'Avord, who has lent the ground to the government for the duration of the war. It is a much larger school than any I had attended, and its instruction covers every type of machine. The most important course given is that in night flying. All the aviators who have been selected for the bombarding-machines and for the work of guarding cities are sent here. Their life is the exact opposite of that led by the average pilot, for they sleep all day and work all night. All this was so new to me that I found much of interest. What surprised me most was to learn that night flying is really easier than day work. The reason given is that after sunset there are no "remoux," and that, when it comes to making landings, the aviation-fields are so well lighted that the pilots have no more difficulty making contact than in the daytime. It is another matter, of course, if an aviator meets with a mishap and is forced to alight elsewhere. Under those circumstances the story is usually a sad one.
One of the longest flights I made was to Tours. Since then I have often thought how strange it was to be flying over this historic region of France. We took it as a matter of course, but what would the ancient heroes of France have thought had they seen us? One week we were over Bourges, called the source of the French nation, for it was from here that the Duke de Berry sallied forth and conquered the English hosts, bringing to a close the struggle which had lasted for a century. The next week we were over Lorraine and the chateaux of the Bourbon kings, who did many great deeds, but had surely never thought of flying.
The lectures which we attended every day were extremely important. The first subject covered had reference to artillery-fire and the theory of trajectories. It is essential that aviators be familiar with the parabola described by the shells fired by cannon of various calibers. If they are not, some day they may unconsciously fly in the very path of shells sent by their own guns and be killed by projectiles not meant for them. The "seventy-five" field-guns, when firing at long ranges, have to elevate their muzzles so much that their shells describe a high parabola before they explode over the enemy's trenches. The very heavy shells, on the other hand, like those of the 420-centimetre French pieces and the famous German "Big-Berthas," rise to a point almost over their target and then drop suddenly. Aviators must become familiar with this and with a hundred other peculiarities of artillery-fire. When flying over the front it is too late to acquire this knowledge. Information has to be gained beforehand or you stand the chance of being annihilated with your machine. An aviator I know involuntarily got into the path of a seventy-seven or seventy-five caliber shell. He is alive to-day, but he lost his left foot in the "collision." He just managed to come down within our lines before he had bled too much to recover.
Our next subject for study was "liaison," which means the science of maintaining communication between the several branches of an army. During an attack upon the enemy's position each arm of the service has its own part to play. The artillery has to prepare the way for the infantry, and at a given signal the infantry must be ready to rush forward to the attack. As the infantry carry the positions before them and move forward the artillery-fire must be correspondingly lengthened; the supply-trains have to keep the necessary amount of ammunition and shells and other material supplied to the infantry and artillery; while the cavalry must be ready to charge the moment a favorable opening presents itself. For all this co-ordination there are various "agents de liaison." There are messengers on foot, and despatch-bearers on horseback, and motor-cycles; there are visual signals, such as the signal-flags, the semaphore, and the colored fires and star shells; and there are the telephone and the telegraph. None of these are depended upon by the army headquarters as much as the aviation corps, the "agent de liaison par excellence." It is one of the most important roles that aviators are called upon to play at the front, and we were being prepared for this work by very special instruction.
Under the subject of "war aviation" we studied the designs of the various enemy aircraft, and the pitfalls which are encountered at the front. Then followed a course in bomb-dropping. This was a practical course, and our method of learning was as peculiar as it was ingenious. A complete bomb-dropping apparatus was mounted on stakes about twenty-five feet above the ground. Under this there was a miniature landscape painted to scale on canvas. It was a regular piece of theatrical scenery mounted on rollers so that it could be revolved to represent the passage of the earth under your machine. We would climb into the seat on the stilts and consider ourselves flying at some arbitrary height. Through our range-finder we would gaze down at the "land," and as a town appeared we would make allowances through the system of mirrors arranged by the range-finder for our speed and height and for an imaginary wind. At the calculated moment the property bombs would be loosed.
When I came to Chateauroux I thought that I knew something about aviation because I had obtained my "brevet." I soon realized how very little of the ground I had actually covered. In fact, after four weeks of this advanced work I felt as if I would never acquire all the knowledge required for work at the front. Just then about twenty of us were selected to go into the reserve near the front, to fill vacancies caused by casualties. At last! We were off for the front!
I left Chateauroux for the reserve at Plessis-le-Belleville with a certain feeling of uneasiness, yet with the certainty that in case of emergency I knew almost instinctively what to do. In addition, I had become thoroughly familiar with the perils of the air which pilots are called upon to meet most often. These dangers are the same as those encountered on the high seas by sailors: fog, fire, and a lee shore. Take fog, for example. The most difficult operation in flying is the "atterrissage" (landing). Now, in a fog you must land almost by chance. You cannot see the ground until it is too late for your eyesight to be of any use. Your altimetre is supposed to register your height above the ground, but no altimetre is delicate enough to keep up with the rapid descent of an aeroplane. It is always from fifteen to twenty yards behind your real height. Nor is this all. The altimetre "begins at the ground"; it registers your height above the altitude from which you started. Now, since all ground is more or less irregular, you may be coming down on a spot lower--or, much worse, higher--than that from which you started. Besides, when a fog comes up the atmospheric pressure changes and, as the altimetre is a barometer, it becomes from that moment unregulated. Then, of course, on landing you may strike bad ground--houses or shrubbery or fences, all of which adds to the uncertainty and risk.
The danger from fire has never been entirely eliminated, although it is not to-day as great as it was before aeroplane engines reached their present perfection. The greatest danger lies in the propeller. The slightest obstacle will break it, and if the motor cannot be stopped instantly the increased revolutions are certain to force the flame back into the carburetor and you are "grille" before you can land. Aviators are from the first instructed to leave nothing loose about the machine or their clothing. Many pilots have been killed because their caps blew off, caught in the propeller, and broke it. So fast and powerful is the motion of the propeller that I have seen machines come out of a hail-storm with the blades all splintered from striking the hailstones. There have been experiments made with fire-proof machines, but none have yet proved successful. Fireproofing is apt to make a machine too heavy and cumbersome.
The last peril of the air we were warned against was that of the lee shore. In landing you should always do so against the wind. This is the first principle drummed into the beginners at the schools. If you make an "atterrissage" with the wind behind you, you roll along the ground so fast and so far that you are apt to meet an obstacle which will either wreck your machine or else cause it to turn a somersault. Yet, when making a landing against the wind, the force of the breeze blowing toward you will sometimes prevent you from coming down where you had planned. On many occasions I have seen aeroplanes remain practically stationary in the air, while descending, and sometimes even move backward in reference to the ground. This has to be considered by the pilot and grasped on the instant, or else he will surely come to grief by hooking some object in his descent.
*THE RESERVE GENERALE DE L'AVIATION*
The "Reserve Generale de l'Aviation," "R.G.A.," or, as it is more commonly known, the "Groupe d'Entrainement," is situated northeast of Paris, on the plains of Valois. It was there that General Maunoury, in September, 1914, launched his turning movement against the German right flank under General von Kluck, and helped save France in the great battle of the Marne. The country in this section is ideal for aviation, for the hills are low and rolling, and there are very few "obstacles." In a large forest--an "obstacle"--the village of Ermenonville lies. Here we were billeted, while the commanding officer of the reserve made his headquarters in the chateau of the Prince Radzivill, the "patron" of the neighborhood.
The organization of the reserve is stupendous. There are four separate camps, one for each branch of aviation, and there are over one hundred machines in each camp. We were practically our own masters, and could make flights whenever and wherever we wished. The idea is that the pilots here have an opportunity of perfecting themselves and that, if they do not fly, why, then it is their own loss. Acrobatics and all sorts of feats are encouraged. Accidents occur every day, but we were here on "active service" and our time was far too taken up with our work for any one to pay much attention to the unlucky ones. That, at the front, is a duty reserved for the medical corps.
Now that we were all gathered in one great camp, I had the opportunity of noticing more than before the different types of men that are to be found in the French Flying Corps. Unlike the conscript "poilu" of the army, every aviator is a volunteer. Aviation is far more dangerous than fighting in the trenches, yet there are many who have preferred the extra risk of being in the Aviation Corps to the tedium of remaining in the narrow-walled trenches. I believe there is at present a waiting list of over six thousand men who have applied for service in the Flying Corps, but for whom there are still no vacancies. A pilot may resign his commission at any time and return to his regiment at the front, but the majority of the "vacancies" are caused by casualties. Curiously enough, there are many men who have been rendered unfit by wounds for service in the infantry, who have volunteered for the air service. A people with such patriots surely can never be defeated.
The French army understands that flying calls for the most intense kind of concentration, mental as well as physical. Every effort is therefore made to absolve the aviators from all work except that of running the machines and seeing that they are well cared for. My old football trainer in college used to say that his principle was to wrap the men in cotton-wool when they were off the field and drive them for all they were worth when they were in the field. The French seem to have the same theory about aviation. No one who has not tried it can appreciate the tremendous strain of flying. After a few hours in the air I find that I am more exhausted than I used to be after a hard football match.
While the matter of personal habits is left to the aviator's judgment, he is usually cautioned about drinking, smoking, and even overeating. You need all the strength there is in you when in the air. The French, as every one knows, drink wine as we drink tea and coffee. Yet I have noticed that French aviators, when they are at work at the front, merely color their water with the wine. Many of them smoke cigarettes only in moderation.
The democracy existing in the French army since the outbreak of hostilities has aroused the enthusiasm of every observer and has caused much surprise to incredulous pacifists. The Aviation Corps I found even more democratic among themselves than the other branches of the service. I suppose one of the reasons for this total absence of distinction between officers and men is because they all have passed through the same schools, through the same courses of training, and have run the same risks. Among the pilots, however, one may notice three classes. The first and predominating class is that composed of "gentlemen." By gentlemen I mean gentlemen in the English sense--men who in private life have the leisure time to be sportsmen, and who in war have chosen aviation because it is a more sporting proposition than fighting in the trenches. The second class comprises those who before the war were professional pilots or aviation mechanics. In the third class one finds men who were mechanics or chauffeurs by trade and who were accepted because their knowledge of machinery would ultimately help them to become pilots.
The best pilots are obtained from men between the ages of twenty and thirty. Under twenty a boy is too impetuous, and over thirty a man is apt to be too cautious. Of course, there are exceptions, but these limits express the preferences of the instructors at the schools.
At the "R.G.A." there is also a course for the training of young artillery officers who have volunteered as observers for the aviation. Our duty as pilots was to take one of these officers up with us every time we made a flight, so as to give him "air sense." We would make imaginary reconnoissances all over the country, regulate supposed batteries, and go on photographic missions. The observer would send off his reports by wireless and direct us by his maps, while we would do our best to throw him off his guard and make him lose his bearings. In this way observer and pilot work together and help each other with observations and advice. During my stay at the "R.G.A." my partner was a young artillery officer who had just been promoted from the ranks. He was very clever and full of enthusiasm for his work, and we derived much pleasure from our association.
"Reglage," or fire-control, was a course that involved practice, constant practice, and still more practice, in developing a faculty for reading distances. We would go up and try to estimate just where the puffs of smoke, representing the explosion of shells, went off. The corrections then had to be wirelessed to the battery, so that the next shots might get "home." In real observation work the observer does all this. The pilot merely flies the machine. It is thought best, however, for the pilot to have the same training and technic as the observer, so that he may help the latter.
While stationed at the Reserve I made some most interesting trips around the country, up and down the valley of the Marne, over the forest of Compiegne, and even over Paris. In fact, I was at liberty to go anywhere, except in a northeasterly direction, for there there was always a danger of getting across the lines. Two or three machines disappeared in the course of a year, and it is thought that the pilots must have committed an "indiscretion" and fallen into the hands of the Germans for their pains.
Once I was sent to Bar-le-Duc to bring an old machine back to Plessis. The distance, as the crow flies, was one hundred and fifty miles, over Chalons, across Champagne, and down the valley of the Marne. I enjoyed this flight immensely, though it nearly ended disastrously. The aeroplane I brought back was regulated for the weight of two men, so that when I flew in it alone I had to fight it all the way to keep it from climbing too far. Every moment I had to keep pushing against the control and it almost exhausted me. There was a low ceiling of clouds and I simply could not let the machine have its own way. To add to my aggravation, the motor stopped as I was passing over a forest. There was nothing to do but volplane down, though I did not see how I could ever avoid the trees. Unexpectedly a clear landing-place loomed up ahead of me, but before reaching it I felt that I would be in the tree-tops. Worst of all, I had a lee shore. Across my path I suddenly noticed a canal lined with poplars. I could not possibly pass over them, so I pressed desperately against my rudder controls. Being near the ground, it was a frightfully short and sharp turn. I thought that the tip of one of my wings would touch the branches of the trees while the other would scrape the ground; then I would be crushed under the motor. At that moment the machine straightened itself out and came to a stop in a ploughed field. It was a very close call.
I shall never forget one of my flights over Paris. The day was beautiful. The atmosphere was so clear that one could see for miles and miles. As I approached the city it looked like a toy model. Every street, almost every house, stood out in perfect detail. The white church on the hill of Montmartre glistened like ivory. Beyond it I could see the Arc de Triomphe and the Tour Eiffel.
I stayed up so long that my supply of gasolene was almost exhausted, and I was obliged to land to refill the tank. I chose the aviation-field at Le Bourget, the scene of my first war experience on the night of the Zeppelin raid. As it happened, I again selected an unusual occasion for my visit. This time, however, the extraordinary activity was not due to an unwelcome visit by the Germans. It was rather to celebrate the perfection of an unpleasant surprise for the hated Boches.
Great crowds lined the field on every side. In the centre stood a small group of prominent officials. Among them I recognized President Poincare. They were examining a new weapon with which French aeroplanes would henceforth go "sausage-hunting" over the German lines.
Even the casual visitor to the front is struck by the great number of observation balloons which both sides use in their efforts to keep informed of the preparations being made by the enemy. Every few miles a captive balloon or "sausage" wafts lazily over the German lines, fairly far behind the lines, but at an altitude sufficient for observation purposes. Against these "monsters" aeroplanes heretofore had been powerless. Their machine guns fired bullets which, even if incendiary, were too small to set on fire the gas-containing envelope. The aircraft cannon carried by some of the French machines also proved useless. The holes their projectiles made in the balloons were too small to allow a sufficient quantity of air to enter and cause an inflammable mixture.
The rockets, which were being examined as I landed at Le Bourget, solved the problem. Four are mounted on each side of an aeroplane. At the head of each rocket is a large dart, resembling a salmon-gaff. The tails of the rockets are wound into spiral springs, which are held in sockets. All eight rockets are fired at once. They are ignited as they leave their sockets, and travel with lightning speed.
Swinging lazily above the field was a captive balloon. At one end of Le Bourget was a line of waiting aeroplanes. "This is the second. They have already brought down one balloon," remarked the man at my elbow. The hum of a motor caused me to look up. A wide-winged double-motor Caudron had left the ground and was mounting gracefully above us. Up and up it went, describing a great circle, until it faced the balloon. Every one caught his breath. The Caudron was rushing straight at the balloon, diving for the attack.
"Now!" cried the crowd. There was a a loud crack, a flash, and eight long rockets darted forth, leaving behind a fiery trail. The aviator's aim, however, was wide, and, to the disappointment of every one, the darts fell harmlessly to the ground.
Another motor roared far down the field, and a tiny "appareil de chasse" shot upward like a swallow. "A Nieuport," shouted the crowd with one voice. Eager to atone for his "copain's" failure, and impatient at his delay in getting out of the way, the tiny biplane tossed and tumbled about in the air like a clown in the circus-ring.
"Look! He's looping! He falls! He slips! No, he rights again!" cried a hundred voices as the skilful pilot kept our nerves on edge.
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. "Touche!" 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 "Armee 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 Reserve 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.