THE winter of 1916-17 was the most prolonged and bitter that
France has known in many years. It was a trying period to the little group of
Americans assembled at the Ecole Militaire d'Aviation, eager as they were to
complete their training, and to be ready, when spring should come, to share in
the great offensive, which they knew would then take place on the Western
front. Aviation is a waiting game at the best of seasons. In winter it is a
series of seemingly endless delays. Day after day, the plain on the high
plateau overlooking the old city of V was storm-swept, a forlorn and
desolate place as we looked at it from our windows, watching the flocks of
crows as they beat up against the wind, or as they turned, and were swept with
it, over our barracks, crying and calling derisively to us as they passed.
"Birdmen do you call yourselves?" they seemed to say. "Then
come on up; the weather 's fine!"
Well they knew that we were impostors, fair-weather fliers,
who dared not accept their challenge.
It is strange how vague and shadowy my remembrance is of
those long weeks of inactivity, when we were dependent for employment and
amusement on our own devices. To me there was a quality of unreality about our
life at B. Our environment was, no doubt, partly responsible for this
feeling. Although we were not far distant from Paris, less than an hour
by train, the country round about our camp seemed to be quite cut off
from the rest of the world. With the exception of our Sunday afternoons of
leave, when we joined the boulevardiers in town, we lived a life as remote and
cloistered as that of some brotherhood of monks in an inaccessible monastery.
That is how it appeared to me, although here again I am in danger of making it
seem that my own impressions were those of all the others. This of course was
not true. The spirit of the place appealed to us, individually, in widely
different ways, and upon some, perhaps, it had no effect at all.
Sometimes we spent our winter afternoons of enforced leisure
in long walks through country roads which lay empty to the eye for miles. They
gave one a sense of loneliness which colored thought, not in any sentimental
way, but in a manner very natural and real. The war was always in the
background of one's musings, and while we were far removed from actual contact
with it, every depopulated country village brought to mind the sacrifice which
France has made for the cause of all freedom-loving nations. Every roadside
cafe, long barren of its old patronage, was an evidence of the completeness of
the sacrifice. Americans, for the most part, are of an unconquerably healthy
cast of mind; but there were few of us who could frequent these places
light-heartedly.
Paris was our emotional storehouse, to use Kipling's term,
during the time we were at B. We spent our Sunday afternoons there,
mingling with the crowds on the boulevards, or, in pleasant weather, sitting
outside the cafes, watching the soldiers of the world go by. The streets were
filled with permissionnaires from all parts of the Western front, and there
were many of those despised of all the rest, the embusques, as they are called,
who hold the comfortable billets in safe places well back of the lines. It was
very easy to distinguish them from the men newly arrived from the trenches, in
whose eyes one saw the look of wonder, almost of unbelief, that there was still
a goodly world to be enjoyed. It was often beyond the pathetic to see them
trying to satisfy their need for all the wholesome things of life in a brief
seven days of leave; to see the family parties at the modest restaurants on the
side streets, making merry in a kind of forced way, as if every one were
thinking of the brevity of the time for such enjoyment.
Scarcely a week went by without bringing one or two
additional recruits to the Franco- American Corps. We wondered why they came so
slowly. There must have been thousands of Americans who would have been, not
only willing, but glad to join us; and yet the opportunities for doing so had
been made widely known. For those who did come this was the legitimate
by-product of glorious adventure and a training in aviation not to be surpassed
in Europe.
This was to be had by any healthy young American, almost for
the asking; but our numbers increased very gradually, from fifteen to
twenty-five, until by the spring of 1917 there were fifty of us at the various
aviation schools of France. Territorially we represented at least a dozen
states, from the Atlantic to the Pacific. There were rich men's sons and poor
men's sons among our number; the sons of very old families, and those who
neither knew nor cared what their antecedents were.
The same was true of our French comrades, for membership in
the French air service is not based upon wealth or family position or political
influence. The policy of the Government is as broad and democratic as may be.
Men are chosen because of an aptitude that promises well, or as a reward for
distinguished service at the front. A few of the French
élèves-pilotes had been officers, but most of them N.C.O.'s and
private soldiers in infantry or artillery regiments. This very wide latitude in
choice at first seemed "laxitude" to some of us Americans. But evidently,
experience in training war pilots, and the practical results obtained by these
men at the front, have been proof enough to the French authorities of the folly
of setting rigid standards, making hard- and-fast rules to be met by
prospective aviators. As our own experience increased, we saw the wisdom of a
policy which is more concerned with a man's courage, his self-reliance, and his
powers of initiative, than with his ability to work out theoretical problems in
aerodynamics.
There are many French pilots with excellent records of
achievement in war-flying who have but a sketchy knowledge of motor and
aircraft construction. Some are college-bred men, but many more have only a
common-school education. It is not at all strange that this should be the case,
for one may have had no technical training worth mentioning; one may have only
a casual speaking acquaintance with motors, and a very imperfect idea of why
and how one is able to defy the law of gravity, and yet prove his worth as a
pilot in what is, after all, the best possible way by his record at the
front.
A judicious amount of theoretical instruction is, of course,
not wanting in the aviation schools of France; but its importance is not
exaggerated. We Americans, with our imperfect knowledge of the language, lost
the greater part of this. The handicap was not a serious one, and I think I may
truthfully say that we kept pace with our French comrades. The most important
thing was to gain actual flying experience, and as much of it as possible. Only
in this way can one acquire a sensitive ear for motors, and an accurate sense
of flying speed: the feel of one's machine in the air. These are of the
greatest importance. Once the pilot has developed this airman's sixth sense, he
need not, and never does, worry about the scantiness of his knowledge of the
theory of flight.
Sometimes the winds would die away and the thick clouds
lift, and we would go joyously to work on a morning of crisp, bright winter
weather. Then we had moments of glorious revenge upon the crows. They would
watch us from afar, holding noisy indignation meetings in a row of
weather-beaten trees at the far side of the field. And when some inexperienced
pilot lost control of his machine and came crashing to earth, they would take
the air in a body, circling over the wreckage, cawing and jeering with the most
evident delight. "The Oriental Wrecking Company," as the Annamites were called,
were on the scene almost as quickly as our enemies the crows. They were a
familiar sight on every working day, chattering together in their high-pitched
gutturals, as they hauled away the wrecked machines. They appeared to side with
the birds, and must have thought us the most absurd of men, making wings for
ourselves, and always coming to grief when we tried to use them.
We made progress regardless of all this skepticism. It was
necessarily slow, for beginners at a single-command monoplane school are
permitted to fly only under the most favorable weather conditions. Even then,
old Mother Earth, who is not kindly disposed toward those of her children who
leave her so jauntily, would clutch us back to her bosom, whenever we gave her
the slightest opportunity, with an embrace that was anything but tender. We
were inclined to think rather highly of our own courage in defying her; and
sometimes our vanity was increased by our moniteurs. After an exciting
misadventure they often gave expression to their relief at finding an amateur
pilot still whole, by praising his "presence of mind" in too generous French
fashion.
We should not have been so proud, I think, of our own little
exploits, had we remembered those of the pioneers in aviation, so many of whom
lost their lives in experiment with the first crude types of the
heavier-than-air machines. They were pioneers in the fine and splendid meaning
of the word men to be compared in spirit with the old fifteenth-century
navigators. We were but followers, adventuring, in comparative safety, along a
well- defined trail.
This, at any rate, was Drew's opinion. He would never allow
me the pleasure of indulging in any flights of fancy over these trivial
adventures of ours. He would never let me set them off against "the heroic
background" of Paris. As for Paris, we saw nothing of war there, he would say,
except the lighter side, the home- coming, leave-enjoying side. We needed to
know more of the horror and the tragedy of it. We needed to keep that close and
intimate to us as a right perspective for our future adventures. He believed it
to be our duty as aviators to anticipate every kind of experience which we
might have to meet at the front. His imagination was abnormally vivid. Once he
discussed the possibility of "falling in flames," which is so often the end of
an airman's career. I shall never again be able to take the same whole-hearted
delight in flying that I did before he was so horribly eloquent upon the
subject. He often speculated upon one's emotions in falling in a machine
damaged beyond the possibility of control.
"Now try to imagine it," he would say: "your gasoline tanks
have been punctured and half of your fuselage has been shot away. You believe
that there is not the slightest chance for you to save your life. What are you
going to do lose your head and give up the game? No, you've got to
attempt the impossible"; and so on, and so forth.
I would accuse him of being morbid. Furthermore, I saw no
reason why we should plan for terrible emergencies which might never arrive.
His answer was that we were military pilots in training for combat machines. We
had no right to ignore the grimness of the business ahead of us. If we did, so
much the worse for us when we should go to the front. But beyond this practical
interest, he had a great curiosity about the nature of fear, and a great dread
of it, too. He was afraid that in some last adventure, in which death came
slowly enough for him to recognize it, he might die like a terror-stricken
animal, and not bravely, as a man should.
We did not often discuss these gruesome possibilities,
although this was not Drew's fault. I would not listen to him; and so he would
be silent about them until convinced that the furtherance of our careers as
airmen demanded additional unpleasant imaginings. There was something of the
Hindoo fanatic in him; or perhaps it was the outcropping of the stern spirit of
his New England forbears. But when he talked of the pleasant side of the
adventures before us, it was more than compensation for all the rest. Then he
would make me restless and impatient, for I did not have his faculty of
enjoyment in anticipation. The early period of training, when we were flying
only a few metres above the ground, seemed endless.
At last came the event which really marked the beginning of
our careers as airmen: the first tour de piste, the first flight round
the aerodrome. We had talked of this for weeks, but when at last the day for it
came, our enthusiasm had waned. We were eager to try our wings and yet afraid
to make the start.
This first tour de piste was always the occasion for
a gathering of the Americans, and there was the usual assembly present. The
beginners were there to shiver in anticipation of their own forthcoming trials,
and the more advanced pilots, who had already taken the leap, to offer
gratuitous advice.
"Now don't try to pull any big league stuff. Not too much
rudder on the turns. Remember how that Frenchman piled up on the Farman hangars
when he tried to bank the corners."
"You'll find it pretty rotten when you go over the woods.
The air currents there are something scandalous!"
"Believe me, it's a lot worse over the fort. Rough? Oh, la
la!"
"And that's where you have to cut your motor and dive, if
you're going to make a landing without hanging up in the telephone wires."
"When you do come down, don't be afraid to stick her nose
forward. Scare the life out of you, that drop will, but you may as well get
used to it in the beginning."
"But wait till we see them redress! Where's the Oriental
Wrecking Gang?"
"Don't let that worry you. Drew: pan-caking isn't too bad.
Not in a Bleriot. Just like falling through a shingle roof. Can't hurt yourself
much.."
"If you do spill, make it a good one. There hasn't been a
decent smash-up to-day."
These were the usual comforting assurances. They did not
frighten us much, although there was just enough truth in the warnings to make
us uneasy. We took our hazing as well as we could inwardly , and of course with
imperturbable calm outwardly; but, to make a confession, I was somewhat
reluctant to hear the businesslike "Allez! en route!" of our moniteur.
When it came, I taxied across to the other side of the
field, turned into the wind, and came racing back, full motor. It seemed a
thing of tremendous power, that little forty-five-horsepower Anzani. The roar
of it struck awe into my soul, and I gripped the controls in no very
professional manner. Then, when I had gathered full ground speed, I eased her
off gently, and up we went, over the class and the assembled visitors, above
the hangars, the lake, the forest, until, at the halfway point, my altimetre
registered three hundred and fifty metres. Out of the corner of my eye I saw
all the beautiful countryside spread out beneath me, but I was too busily
occupied to take in the prospect. I was watching my wings, nervously, in order
to anticipate and counteract the slightest pitch of the machine. But nothing
happened, and I soon realized that this first grand tour was not going to be
nearly so bad as we had been led to believe. I began to enjoy it. I even looked
down over the side of the fuselage, although it was a very hasty glance.
All the time I was thinking of the rapidly approaching
moment when I should have to come down. I knew well enough how the descent was
to be made. It was very simple. I had only to shut off my motor, push forward
with my "broom-stick,"the control connected with the elevating planes ,
and then wait and redress gradually, beginning at from six to eight
metres from the ground. The descent would be exciting, a little more rapid than
Shooting the Chutes. Only one could not safely hold on to the sides of the car
and await the splash. That sort of thing had sometimes been done in aeroplanes,
by over-excited pilots. The results were disastrous, without exception.
The moment for the decision came. I was above the fort,
otherwise I should not have known when to dive. At first the sensation was, I
imagine, exactly that of falling, feet foremost; but after pulling back
slightly on the controls, I felt the machine answer to them, and the
uncomfortable feeling passed. I brought up on the ground in the usual bumpy
manner of the beginner. Nothing gave way, however, so this did not spoil the
fine rapture of a rare moment. It was shared at least it was pleasant to
think so by my old Annamite friend of the Penguin experience, who stood
by his flag nodding his head at me. He said, "Beaucoup bon," showing his
polished black teeth in an approving grin. I forgot for the moment that "beau-
coup bon" was his enigmatical comment upon all occasions, and that he would
have grinned just as broadly had he been dragging me out from a mass of
wreckage.
Drew came in a few moments later, making an almost perfect
landing. In the evening we walked to a neighboring village, where we had a
wonderful dinner to celebrate the end of our apprenticeship. It was a curious
feast. We had little to say to one another, or, better, we were both afraid to
talk. We were under an enchantment which words would have broken. After a
silent meal, we walked all the way home without speaking.
We started off together on our triangles. That was in April,
just passed, so that I have now brought this casual diary almost up to date. We
were then at the great school of aviation at A in central France, where,
for the first time, we were associated with men in training for every branch of
aviation service, and became familiar with other types of French machines. But
the brevet tests, which every pilot must pass before he becomes a military
aviator, were the same in every department of the school. The triangles were
two cross-country flights of two hundred kilometres each, three landings to be
made en route, and each flight to be completed within forty-eight hours. In
addition, there were two short voyages of sixty kilometres eachthese
preceded the triangular tests and an hour of flight at a minimum
altitude of sixty-five hundred feet.
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