Part 5

It is customary for a pilot to spend two days in Paris before starting for his ordered destination. Officially my leave was due to begin only on the following morning. I decided, however, to take time by the forelock and to be off that night. In this way I would gain twelve hours additional leave. All the "paperasserie"--red tape--was first disposed of, and then I proceeded to pack my effects. These I had drawn from the aviation quartermaster's depot. There was my fur-lined union suit, a fur overcoat, fur boots, gloves, and cap. I also received an automatic pistol with a holster, a special aeroplane compass, an "altimetre," a special aviation clock mounted on wire springs, and a speed-indicator. These were furnished to me by the government, and became my property. I had the privilege of providing myself with anything else I wished, but the government outfit always had to be at hand for inspection.

Fortunately I had just time to make the evening train for Paris. According to my pass, I was on "service recommande" and on my way to the front, where in a few days I would be flying over the German lines. The moment I had looked forward to for so many months had at last come. I could hardly believe it myself.

My two days in Paris passed like magic. There was so much to attend to, so much to do, that before I knew it the moment to leave had come. I took a taxi to the Gare de l'Est, my wife and my little girl accompanying me. My luggage consisted of my black army canteen, across the front of which was painted in white letters "Carroll Winslow--Pilote Aviateur," and my long canvas duffel-bag, which contained my fur-lined clothes and all my flying paraphernalia. There are usually so many formalities to be complied with that I allowed more than enough time for the visa of my papers. It was well that I did. The station was crowded with grimy, blue-coated "poilus," walking up and down the waiting-rooms and lounging on the stone steps; outside others were saying good-by to their families, while across the street large numbers crowded about the free "buffets," where patriotic women of Paris daily minister to the wants of the departing "permissionnaires." All the men wore their steel helmets, and had their knapsacks strapped to their shoulders. They were not as smart-looking as the khaki-clad British "Tommies," but despite their muddy boots and faded uniforms there was something in their faces, a look in their eyes, that seemed to say: "No sacrifice is too great--for France." I felt proud to think that I was one of them, and their quiet salutes showed me that I had their respect. The regard of those grave, war-worn men meant much to me. My wife and I silently watched what was going on about us, while our little girl chattered at our side. Many women accompanied their "braves" to the station. Most of them carried baskets of food and delicacies, but some, too poor even to buy a present for their "poilus," came empty-handed. The moments of leave-taking seemed almost tragic. Many a man went up those steps whistling and with head erect, while others laughed as they tossed their little ones high in the air for a last good-by. These were fine examples, and when the porter touched me on the arm and said: "The train for Toul, m'sieu'," I too was able to bear it calmly.

The cars were already crowded with "poilus." Not a seat was to be had in the compartments. Standing-room in the corridors was at a premium. We were all bound in the same general direction, toward Verdun, Nancy, and Toul.

The train came to a stop at last. We were at Bar-le-Duc, the terminus for Verdun. What an air of mystery there was about the station at "Bar." We could hear the distant roar of the cannon defending the banks of the Meuse. Everywhere men moved about with a sort of suppressed excitement. "Camions" rumbled by in hundreds. In the freight-yard troops filled every available space not already taken up by the newly arrived artillery. Nearly all my travelling companions left me here. For a moment I wished that I too had been ordered to the Verdun sector. It was after sundown when the train drew into the station at Toul. The town was in darkness, and I felt very doubtful as to whether I would be able to join my escadrille that night. To my surprise, an officer, noticing my indecision, came up to me and asked if he could help me. I told him where I wanted to go and inquired if he could direct me. "Why, it is too late to do this to-day," he remarked; "better wait until the morning." With that he motioned me to step into his automobile and directed the chauffeur to drive us to the Etat-Major.

As we rolled through the streets of the silent city I had a moment to reflect upon what all this meant. I began to realize that a change had taken place in my position. I was no longer a mere soldier, but an aviator and as such entitled to courtesies usually extended only to officers in the other branches of the army. There is no mention of this custom in the regulations. It was merely an unwritten paragraph of military etiquette. Here was an officer, my superior in rank, treating me with a consideration I had rarely experienced. I noticed by the insignia on his overcoat that he was a captain in the Aviation Corps. He was therefore a pilot. I thought for a few moments. Suddenly an idea occurred to me. I was also a pilot, and in the eyes of traditional convention we were comrades, for we were both aviators. At the Etat-Major the colonel like-wise extended a warm welcome and shook me heartily by the hand. I suppose that my being an American had something to do with it, but I could not help thinking that I was still only a corporal. He immediately gave orders to requisition a large room for me at the hotel, and bade me hurry or I would be late for dinner. No wonder aviators are inspired to do such splendid work at the front when their efforts meet with so much appreciation.

The next morning I started out soon after sunrise to walk out to the aviation-field. Everywhere, above the streets of Toul, there were posters which read "Cave Voutee," and with the number of persons, varying from fifteen to sixty, who could be accommodated. These cellars were protected with sand-bags and were located at convenient intervals, so that the people might find shelter quickly whenever the German aeroplanes made their appearance. Only a few days previous to my arrival there had been a raid, yet everything seemed normal and the housewives went about their marketing and shopping as if they had nothing else to think about.

An hour's walk brought me to my escadrille, F-44. I was barely in time. Orders had just been received transferring it to the Verdun sector and preparations to move camp were already under way. Every one went to work with a will, laughing and jumping around in a sort of war-dance. No wonder they were happy. They--we, I should say, for I was now one of them--were about to become participants in the world's greatest defensive battle.

The aeroplanes started for Bar-le-Duc "by air" shortly after noon. One pilot and myself, however, had to make the journey by rail. My own machine had not yet arrived, and his had been smashed up the day before. When the German raiders came over Toul he had gone up with the defending aeroplanes, and had brought down an aviatik which he had engaged. It is customary for a pilot, when driven down in the enemy's territory to set fire to his machine to prevent it from falling into the hands of his adversaries. This the German proceeded to do the moment he touched ground. My friend was frantic to prevent this and tried to make a quick landing in order to get to him in time. He was too excited, however, and smashed one of the wings of his own machine during the landing. This occurred just behind the French third-line trenches. The soldiers rushed out and made the German pilot a prisoner, but not until after he had applied the match to his gasolene-tank.

*IN THE VERDUN SECTOR*

At Bar-le-Duc I felt again the suppressed excitement of the near-front. Everywhere were "Cave Voutee" signs, troops were in motion on all sides, sentries were posted at every street-corner, every one seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere.

Our escadrille was camped in a field adjoining that occupied by the American Escadrille. Our "train" consisted of a dozen light, covered trucks with their tent-like trailers, and three automobiles for the use of the officers and pilots. Our camp was pitched by the time I had made the trip from Toul by rail, and the array of tents and the park of tractors had every outward appearance of a country circus. It was my first impression of an air-squadron camp at the front, and I must admit that my previous conception of the amount of equipment required by each of these units was far below what I now beheld. The personnel of my escadrille alone looked like an expeditionary force for service in Mexico. There were a dozen artillery-observers, seven pilots, countless mechanics, chauffeurs, orderlies, servants, wireless operators, photographers, and other "attaches," over a hundred and twenty-five men in all. Each of these hundred-odd men were essential to the work of the nineteen pilots and observers.

It was a pleasant surprise to find the American pilots here. I had not heard that they had been ordered to the Verdun sector. This honor had been thrust upon them unexpectedly. They were now here, among the best fighting units of the French Army, to protect the photography, fire-control, and bombarding-machines of this sector. Their camp was thirty miles behind the lines, but with their fast little Nieuports it took them less than fifteen minutes to be in the thick of the fray. The government had given them a large, comfortable villa to live in. I must say I felt a bit envious when I compared their feather-beds and baths with my little tent and canvas-covered cot.

That evening I had dinner with my compatriots. It was a meal I will never forget. As visiting pilot I was seated on the right of their commander, Captain Thenault. Across the table, opposite me, sat Victor Chapman, Norman Prince, and Kiffen Rockwell--all three since fallen on the "champ d'honneur." At the other end of the table were Elliot Cowdin, Jim McConnell, and "Red" Rumsey, together with Clyde Balsley, Chouteau Johnston, and Dudley Hill. Bill Thaw was not with us, as he was in the hospital, having been wounded in a recent combat with a Boche. The places of the three pilots killed have since been taken by other volunteers, but in the minds and memories of the Americans dining at the camp that night their places can never be filled. We know that they did not die in vain, and that what they did will live in history. Their spirit was one of sincere patriotism to the cause they had made their own, and among the Allies the sympathy and the belief they expressed has been amply proved.

The escadrille was to make its first sortie as a unit in the morning. Captain Thenault had much to say to his men, and after dinner the conversation continued along the same general lines. There seemed to be so much detail to attend to and signals to arrange that I was almost tempted to ask them how escadrilles ever managed to co-operate so well in the presence of the enemy air squadrons.

When I awoke next morning it was raining. The clouds hung low, too low for flying over the lines, so the Americans remained in their beds. Our escadrille, however, was obliged to move on, as the station to which it had been assigned was directly behind the lines. The planes had to proceed "par la voie de l'air," but the ground was so soft and muddy that it was difficult to get the machines to leave the earth. The pilots all seemed nervous, yet all rose in good form except one, who was a little late in getting off. He did not know the way, and was afraid of losing his companions in the mist. In his haste he took too short a run, so that when he came to the end of the field he was not high enough to clear the line of hangars in his path. To make matters worse the unlucky man lost his head. He tried to make a sharp turn, but it was too late. The tip of his wing caught the canvas of the tent, and the machine fell with a crash to the ground, killing the pilot and pinning his mechanic beneath the wreckage.

We felt much depressed by this accident. Our departure for the new camp seemed to emphasize our sadness, for, as we moved off in our long line of motors our procession had an appearance almost funereal. First came the automobiles; then, following them, the twelve tractors and trailers--twenty-seven vehicles in all--moving slowly toward the front.

As we turned into the main road to Verdun the traffic was so heavy that we had to move at a snail's pace. Ahead of us rumbled a steady stream of "camions" with ammunition and supplies. Alongside of the road were the columns of troops going to the trenches. Their heavy coats were already soaked, and the probability was that they would remain so for a week, but nothing daunted them. They just plodded along gayly, singing their marching songs, utterly unmindful of the rain-drops that were hourly weighting down their equipment more and more.

From the opposite direction came the empty supply-trains. Sandwiched in with these were ambulances and motor-buses, bearing the men returning from their "stage" in the trenches. The poor fellows looked hardly human, for they were brown with mud from head to foot. Their faces were caked with dirt, and a week's growth of beard gave them a still more uninviting appearance. They seemed to gaze at us with a far-away, half-conscious expression, so utterly stupefied were they by the terrible bombardment to which they had been subjected.

The farther we went the more numerous were the evidences of war. The roar of the cannonade became louder. On both sides of the roads the villages were in ruins. Not a farmhouse was inhabited, and the fields were dotted everywhere with soldiers' graves; on each cross hung the "kepi" of the dead hero. In some of the military cemeteries there were graves without little wooden crosses--only a small fence marked them off from the rest. These, I was told, were the graves of the Mohammedan African troops, whose comrades claimed for them a plot apart from the "unsacred ground" used by their Christian allies.

It was almost dark by the time we reached our new camping-site. The fields were soaked with the heavy rain, and we splashed about in the mud for hours before the task of pitching camp was completed. By nine o'clock, however, all was ready and we sat down to a good, warm supper. Then we turned in. It was so cold and chilly that I went to bed in my fur-lined clothes. But tired as I was I could not get to sleep. The roar of the artillery was frightful. On every side of us it crashed and thundered, unceasingly, uninterruptedly. An attack was in process at the Mort-Homme, and every little while there would be a "tir de barrage," or curtain fire as we call it. The small 75's would sound like the rat-tat of a snare-drum accompanying the louder beats of the deep-bass drums.

I got out of bed and gazed toward the battle-field. The earth was brilliantly illuminated by the rockets and flares that were being sent up everywhere. The sky seemed full of fire-flies--in reality exploding shells. On all sides the guns flashed angrily. Search-lights played about in every direction. It was a most superb spectacle, but it was terrible. It was hell.

*MY FIRST FLIGHT OVER THE LINES*

Unfavorable weather conditions kept us inactive for several days, but as soon as the skies cleared our escadrille immediately went to work again. For some reason my own machine was delayed "en route," and did not arrive for a week. This was time I could ill afford to lose, so the "chef pilote" took me as a passenger in his biplane to familiarize me with the ground in our sector.

We started late one afternoon. The atmosphere was extraordinarily clear. Every detail in the landscape stood out boldly, and as we rose the dozens of camps in the immediate vicinity spread out below us like models set in a painted scenery. The valleys, the tents, the guns, the troops, all were visible to the naked eye. On all sides were aviation-camps, which were easily distinguished from the others--there must have been at least twenty of them within a radius of five miles.

As soon as we reached a height of three thousand feet my pilot headed the machine toward the lines. At our feet lay the terrain of the "Verdun sector." From the forest of the Argonne on our left to the plains of the Woevre on our right stretched one of the bloodiest battle-fields of history. At regular intervals along the front the French captive balloons--there were eighteen in sight at this moment--swung lazily in the breeze. They looked for all the world like the "saucisses" they are named after. Day and night they are kept aloft, maintaining ceaseless vigil over the movements of the enemy.

Passing the balloons, we could see the various important points of the defense at closer range. The city of Verdun nestled close to the banks of the Meuse, which wound like a silver band through that now desolate land. Far off to the right were the forts of Vaux and Douaumont. A trifle nearer was Fleury. To the left, in the distance, I could make out the "Mort-Homme" and Hill 304, while directly before us lay Cumieres and Chattancourt. The entire Verdun sector was spread out like a relief-map.

The German attacks upon the French position on the Mort-Homme were still in progress. I had never before seen a battle, and to see such an important conflict from "the gallery" seemed most strange. It looked more like a pan of boiling water, with the steam hanging in a pall over it, than anything else I can think of. In fact, a yellow mist rose to a great height and almost obscured the view. Tiny flashes showed where the guns were concealed, but to us the battle was a silent one. The noise of our motor drowned the whistling of the shells and the roar of the bombardment. I could not help thinking how much some of those poor fellows below us would appreciate a little of this silence.

We could plainly see the network of the trenches, broken and half-obliterated in the mud. In some places they were so close together that it was difficult to make out where the French lines ended and the German earthworks began. The ground was speckled with "pock-marks" caused by shell explosions, and altogether it was a weird scene of desolation. All signs of nature which had once beautified this region had vanished. The forests and the green fields had disappeared. Ruined villages lay like piles of disused stone among the circular "entonnoirs," or shell-holes. In color it was all a dirty brown.

On every side of us were the French artillery biplanes. They were hovering over the German lines like gulls, continually wirelessing back the ranges to their batteries. High above us circled the little Nieuports on guard, to protect us and to prevent the Fokkers and aviatiks from crossing over our lines. Everywhere were little white puffs, which seemed to follow the machines about. I watched them, strangely fascinated and amused, until my pilot informed me that these were caused by exploding shrapnel from the enemy's anti-aircraft guns. Then I noticed with uneasiness that the same puffs were also following us. My interest in the little white puffs from that moment assumed quite another character. I listened for the sharp crack of their explosions, but all I could hear was a dull "whung." The thought that very few machines are really brought down by shrapnel was a bit reassuring, but I must admit that when the enemy is sending them on all sides of you, you do not feel like giving much credence to what others may have told you.

Presently my attention was called to the lines of German captive balloons, which are moored some miles behind their first-line trenches. Several aeroplanes stood guard over them, and as we knew that they were armed and that we on this occasion were not we decided to turn back.

I made several of these trips over the different positions on our immediate front. By the time my own machine arrived I was thoroughly familiar with the sector and also with the main dangers to be encountered by aviators over the battle lines. The first precaution I learned was--always, when landing, to unhook the belt that held me in my seat. This is one of the most important things to remember at the front. The fields are not always in the best condition, and the slightest obstruction may cause an unexpected crash. If you are in an artillery pusher-machine when this happens you are invariably crushed under the motor, unless your belt is unfastened, when you are usually thrown clear.

Another danger, which I would never have thought of if an experienced pilot had not pointed it out, lies in the cables mooring the captive balloons. These are invisible to an approaching aviator and to collide with one means a fatal smash. When flying low enough to pass under the "saucisses," aviators must watch out for these "tethers." Nevertheless, you can always take advantage of one of their peculiarities. The cable always stretches to windward, and in a good breeze it stretches far. By keeping well to leeward you can always rest reasonably assured that you are on the safe side. Many aviators, however, have met with fatal accidents, through fouling these cables. I know of only one instance where the pilot did escape unhurt after striking the wire. It seems that the moment he saw what was going to happen he put his machine into a vertical bank, so that when the impact came he was turning about the cable. Then, strangely enough, by continuing his spiral he was able finally to disengage himself and escape.

Telephone and telegraph wires also are a certain menace to aviators. They form a regular network behind the lines, while on every aviation-field there are in addition wireless aerials to avoid. Many a returning pilot has forgotten them in his haste to get back to camp, and fouled them, to his regret. One pilot I knew met his fate in this way. He had been wounded by a shrapnel-ball over the German lines, and had managed to return to his own field. He was so weak from the loss of blood that in his anxiety to land quickly he forgot the aerials. His machine caught the wires and fell to the ground. Both the pilot's legs were broken in the fall and he died, not so much from his wound as from this unfortunate accident.