I
Avord,
July 4, 1917.
Dear H——:
... My work here is going well, although slowly. Those in my class ought to get out by October if nothing goes wrong. There are some 150 Americans learning to fly now in France, besides the ones the Government may have sent over—more than a hundred at this one school, and the oddest combination I’ve ever been thrown with: chauffeurs, second-story men, ex-college athletes, racing drivers, salesmen, young bums of leisure, a colored prize fighter, ex-Foreign Légionnaires, ball players, millionaires and tramps. Not too good a crowd according to most standards, but the worst bums may make the best aviators. There’s plenty of need for all of them.
There are lots of Frenchmen here also and a big crowd of Russians, mostly happy youngsters having a very good time. They’re always in a hurry to get up in the air and are continually breaking machines and their necks. The Americans have an endless streak of luck in being able to fall out of the air and collect themselves uninjured from amidst a pile of kindling wood which was the machine. As yet I haven’t done any piloting in the air, so can’t talk very wisely about the glories and thrills of slipping through the ephemeral clouds. All I have learned is that almost any kind of a dub can be a pilot, but that there aren’t a lot of very good ones. The idea is to get enough practice to become a good one before arguing with the elusive Boche at a high altitude.
It looks over here as though there would be about two years more of war, judging from what most people say. It is to be hoped that after twelve to eighteen months we will be able to take France’s place at the front, for she deserves to be relieved and will have to be. Even now, France is almost spent; it will be England and the United States who will finish the war. This war is a terrible thing, but for America it is an opportunity as well. I am glad that we have at last come into it and that it will be no half-way fight that we must put up. The Canadians have been about the best regiments in the war. Why shouldn’t America be as good?...
Stuart.
II
Escole d’Aviation Militaire
Avord, Cher, France.
Friday, July 13, 1917.
You see it’s Friday, the thirteenth, my lucky day, and I’m happy because the work is going well. First, I’ll tell you about a smash I had a week or so ago.
The roller or Rouleur class which I smashed in has the same machine as those that fly with a 45 P motor. Only it is throttled down, and we are supposed to keep it on the ground—just about ready to fly, but not quite getting up—a speed of about 30 m.p.h. When there is the slightest wind we can not roll, because the wind turns the tail around and swings the machine in a circle—a wooden horse—cheval de bois. I rode about the end of the list Saturday—and the wind had come up as the day got on. Work stops at 8:30 a. m. always because there’s too much wind. My first sortie or trip went O.K. with a considerable breeze on the tail, but on the second there was too much wind and after I got going pretty fast—around she went. The wind caught under the inside wing and up it went. Smash went the outside wheel, and a crackle of busting wood. All the front framework of wood that holds the motor was smashed—a pretty bad break. The monitor was a bit mad and talked to me a bit in French.
The next morning I was called in to see the chief of the Blériot school, Lt. de Chavannes, a very nice officer. He told me that my monitor was not satisfied with me—that he had told me to do something (cut the motor when the machine started to turn) three separate times, and that each time I had intentionally disobeyed, that if anything like that happened again I would be radiated (discharged from the school). That was quite the first I had ever heard of it and I was so mad at the monitor that I could have kicked him in the head. I tried to explain to the Lieutenant but he never heard a word, so I just gurgled with wrath and didn’t do anything. But yesterday we got another monitor who is a different sort.
The class after rouleur is decollé—it is the same machine, but one gets off the ground about a metre or two, then slacks up on the motor and settles to the earth. It is strictly forbidden to decollé in the rouleur class. This morning I had a sortie in the rouleur and all of a sudden noticed that I was in the air a bit—managed to keep it straight and get out of the air without smashing. The monitor said nothing so I decolléed on all the sorties. When I got out the monitor explained that it was strictly forbidden to go off the ground in the rouleur class, that I shouldn’t have done it, and then asked me if I would like to go up to the other class. Whereupon consenting, I am now in the decollé class, leaving sixteen rather peeved Americans who arrived in the rouleur the same time I did, who can perform in the rouleur quite as well as I can and who will remain in the rouleur for some time yet. They’ve no grudge against me, however, as it was only a streak of luck on my part. Later in the morning I had some sorties in the decolleur and got up two or three metres. The wind was too strong, so my trips were a bit rough, but nothing was damaged—so hurrah for Friday, the thirteenth.
III
July 17, 1917.
The work has been going very well since last I wrote you, which was only two or three days ago. I told you about at last leaving the blessed roller; I never was so relieved in my life. The first evening in the decollé class, I was requisitioned to turn tails and the morning after there was too much wind to work. The decollé is the one where you go up two or three metres and settle down by cutting speed. The first time I had three sorties in the wind, bounced around a lot, but did no damage. The next time was first thing in the morning. Two metres up on the first, four or five on the fifth—strictly against orders. I even had to piqué—point the machine toward the ground—a little, which is not at all comme il faut in the decollé. But these Frenchmen are funny chaps—sometimes they will get terribly angry and punish one for disobeying, and again they will be tickled to death with it. If I had smashed while doing more than I was told to, there would have been a lot of trouble; as it was, no objection—and the monitor personally conducted me to the piqué class with a very nice recommendation.
Now there are two piqué classes: one with a piste about a quarter of a mile long, in which one is supposed to do little more than decollé, get up about five metres and piqué un tout petit peu—hardly at all. After comes the advanced piqué with a much longer piste on which one can get up 100 metres (300 feet). On my first sortie in the piqué, I was told to roll on the ground all the way, so continuing my policy, did a low decollé. Next I was supposed to do a two metre decollé, so went up ten and piquéd. Had ten sorties in that class one morning, getting as high as I could—about twenty metres—and went to the advanced piqué that night—last night. Four sorties there last night with a machine with a poor motor, so didn’t get up over a hundred feet.
And this morning I did my first real aviating. There was a bit of wind blowing, so the monitor, Mr. Moses, only let a Lieutenant and me go up, as we had gone better than the others last night. First it was a bit rainy and always bumpy as the deuce—air puffs and pockets which require the entire corrective force of the wing warp and rudder to overcome. My last sortie was decidedly active. The wind had developed into a bit of a breeze which is to a Blériot like a rough sea to a row boat. Two or three times I got a puff that tipped the machine ’way over—put the controls over as far as I could and waited. It seemed a minute before she straightened. The trouble was that the machine was climbing and therefore not going very fast. If I had piquéd, it would have corrected quicker. I had no trouble at all in making the landing. Hopping out of the machine, I saw the head monitor rushing over to Mr. Moses on the double, shouting volubly in French and berating him severely. I gathered that he had been watching my manoeuvres, expecting something to fall every instant, and that he strenuously objected to Moses’ letting me go up. Work stopped there for the morning, and it was very fully explained to me what the trouble was. If I have some sorties there tonight, I go to Tour de Piste (Flying Field) in the morning. I may be on Nieuport in two weeks.
I am now beginning to see the advantages of the Blériot training. There is a great deal of preliminary work on or near the ground. In all other aviation training, such as at Newport News, 90 per cent of the work is in making landings—in piquéing down, redressing at the proper moment and making gradual connections with the earth. I haven’t made a really bad landing yet and the reason is that I have been in a machine so much on and near the ground, that I have sort of developed a sense or feel of it, and almost automatically redress correctly, and settle easily. Also I can tell pretty closely what is flying speed because of the work on the rollers. It’s the same way with all the other students only I know it now from my own experience.
And this morning I began to realize that my hundred minutes at Newport News was invaluable. I not only found out some of the tricks of a master hand (Carlstrom) but also developed a bit of confidence in the air, and air sense, without which I could have got into trouble this morning. My bumpy ride this morning is absolutely invaluable. I’ll probably never have so much trouble in the air again, because a fast machine or even a Blériot with a good motor, would hardly have noticed these puffs. It was a bit risky, I guess, or the head monitor would not have been worried, but now that it’s over, I know a lot more.
IV
August 11, 1917.
Dear ——[B]:
You have certainly developed into a wonderful correspondent. Honest-to-goodness, a letter you started my way about a month ago was quite the most satisfactory and amusing thing I’ve received since I’ve been over here. Based on practically no material, yet it was alive with interest, every line. There’s nothing like a finishing school education. If I thought that you could knit, I would immediately appoint you as my marraine (godmother), for it’s quite possible for one person to have more than one soldier and I am but a soldier of the second class in the French Army. As I understand it, the chief duty of a marraine is to write letters—you’ve started that in good style—and to knit wool scarfs, which the devoted soldier hands to a French peasant woman to unravel and make a pair of socks out of....
Many Yale boys have wandered in upon us of late, Alan Winslow, Wally Winter, George Mosely, and others. Also Chester Bassett, late of Washington and Harvard University, who I believe has the good fortune to be acquainted with you, a very recommendable young man. They tell me that Cord Meyer is aviating at some camp nearby, but, not having any machines, they have to spend their time touring the country in a high powered motor.
Had a long and gossipy letter from Pat the other day, containing details of many weddings and engagements, even unto young —— ——. All my classmates are doing the same stunt. How about being original and waiting until the war is over and seeing who of the competitors are left? I quite expect to be, but it’s luck I’m trusting to; there’s a lot of war left in the nations of Europe. One never can tell; I may come home on permission in a French uniform with a wing on my collar.... When the American Air Service is a little further along, it may be that we will be taken over from the French Army.
I finished up in one division of the school the other day and passed to another for brevet, the tests for a military aviator. I sort of have the impression that I wrote you a few weeks ago about it, but not being sure, run the risk of repetition, which, if any, I hope you will excuse. This epistle is being written out at the piste (flying field), waiting for the wind to drop enough to fly, and with me seated amidst a bunch of Russians, so if there are any superfluous “iskis” or “ovitches” in this, you will understand why. The Russians are great fliers; in fact they know so much about it that they never listen to their monitors and as a result break more machines than all the other pupils combined. A month ago five of them went to the next school for acrobacy and in a week every one of them had killed himself. I pulled a bit of the same Russian stuff in the spiral class of the Blériot. All the work is solo—never a flight double command so one has to get instructions on the ground and follow them in the air.
I used my head and senses in performing my first spiral, instead of shutting my eyes, doing what I had been told and trusting to God. The result was that I made one more turn than I expected to and that quite perpendicular, not at all comme il faut in a Blériot. Why something did not break has been the wonder of the Blériot school. But nothing did and we got down all right. Another time I planted a cuckoo on her nose, which is not at all encouraged by the monitors. ’Tis quite a trick to balance a monoplane on its nose on the ground, but I did it—quite vertical she lay, with me in the middle struggling with the safety belt and wondering which way it was going to fall. My final appearance in the Blériot school was likewise spectacular. The left wing hit a hole in the air which the right one didn’t. Naturally things tipped; then they wouldn’t straighten and the only thing to do was to dive to the low side. I did, but forgot to shut off the motor. A very steep and fast spiral resulted in which I lost 500 feet in a half-turn in about two seconds, I think, all with the motor going to beat the cars. I must have been travelling at many hundreds of miles an hour. Once again nothing broke, but it was no fault of mine that it didn’t....
Sincerely,
Stuart.
V
August 25, 1917.
I started for my altitude test three days ago. The requirement is one hour above 2,000 metres. I got to 1,950 metres and one cylinder refused to fire, so I was forced to come down. The next morning I tried again, got to 900 metres and the magneto ceased to function, thereby stopping all progress. I glided toward home, but didn’t have quite the height to make the piste, so had to land in a nearby field, just dodging a potato patch. A flock of curious sheep came around and carefully examined the machine, getting considerably mixed up in the wires of the open tail construction and leaving considerable wool thereon. When the mechanics eventually got the motor going, I started off, didn’t get quite in the air before the motor went bad and then I ran into a bean patch, gathering about a bushel of beans with the same tail wires. Yesterday morning I tried again, climbed to 2,000 in fourteen minutes and to 3,500 metres (11,500 feet) in forty minutes. I went up through some light clouds and when I got to 3,500, the top of my recording barograph, more clouds had formed and I was practically shut off from the earth, nothing but a beautiful sea of clouds below me, a very beautiful sight. One other machine was in sight, far below me, but on top of the clouds. Not wanting to get lost I came down through the clouds and stayed out my hour just above 2,000 and below the clouds, where the air was very much churned up, keeping me very busy. Just as soon as the time was up I came down with a pair of very chilled feet, making the 2,000 metres in five minutes to the ground. No work since then on account of bad weather.
This morning I attended my first Catholic funeral, that of the commandant of the school who was the victim of a mid-air collision, a very unusual accident. The other machine got down safely though badly smashed. Everybody in camp attended the funeral in the chapel of the Artillery Camp next door. I understood none of the service, but the music by a tenor and a ’cello was excellent. While the cortege was going down the hill to the cemetery, a Nieuport circled overhead very low for half an hour or more and dropped a wreath. It was a very impressive ceremony.
I expect to start on triangle and petit voyage in a few days. When they are done, I will be a breveted flier in the French Army. Then comes perfectionné work and acrobacy, so it will be quite a while yet for me.
VI
August 31, 1917.
Dear ——[C]:
Here it is almost September and I am still a dog-goned élève pilote. Verily, every time I think of how the time passes along without results, I go wild. My complaint is caused by the west wind, which has blown about twenty-five days during the month of August and seems likely to continue well on into September. The only variety is an occasional storm. For the past two weeks I’ve been waiting to start my voyages, two trips to a town forty miles away and back and two other triangular trips about 180 miles long each. When they are done, one becomes a pilote élève; and there’s a great if subtle difference when the words are reversed. An élève pilote is the scum of the earth, looked down on by mechanics, pilots, monitors, and everyone else; a pilote élève can wear wings on his collar and is as good as any one else. He is permitted to fly in rough weather, to take chances and is not in so much danger of getting radiated if he gets in trouble. The proper thing to do on a triangle or petit voyage is to have something bust directly over a nice château; make a skilful landing on the front lawn under the eyes of the admiring household and then be an enforced guest for a few days until one is rescued by a truck and mechanics. One has to be very careful where the panne de moteur catches him lest he have to make his landing in a lake or on a forest, which is apt to be a bit awkward. One chap, an American, has been out on a triangle for two weeks, staying at some country place, and there are four others at another school near a big town waiting for weather to return. Reports give us to believe they are having a much better time there than we are here.
Between here and the point for the petit voyage—a little bit off the route, is the big future American aviation camp and also an Artillery camp. There are quite a bunch of fellows there, Quentin Roosevelt, Cord Meyer, etc., I think. Every American that has left on his voyages in the last month has stopped there against all orders and been bawled out by the monitor. One has to keep a recording barometer or altimeter machine, a barograph, during the voyages, which indicates all stops. One chap came back home the other day with a barometer record showing beyond the shadow of a doubt that he had made a stop of about fifteen minutes en route. The monitor saw it, said, “Alors, all you Americans stop off there, I don’t like it.” Then the chap tried to explain how he had had a panne and come down in a field out in the country somewhere, fixed the motor and come on home. He almost got away with it, but the monitor happened to snook around a bit and noticed on the tail very clearly written a good Anglo-Saxon name, the name of the town, and the date—quite indisputable evidence. I fully expect to have a panne there myself before long.
By the way, to declare a short pause in my chronicle of aviation, how about all those “letters that are to follow”? If you try to tell me how good you are to your Belgian soldier, I refuse to believe a word until you treat me in the same way. And I also refuse to accept anyone as a marraine (isn’t that what you call these fairy godmother persons one is supposed to correspond with during the war and marry afterward? How inconsiderate some of them are, to take three or four soldiers, just assuming that not more than one will survive; however, they may be wise to have more than one iron in the fire. But my parenthesis grows apace.)—I say I refuse a marraine until she approves her ability. But let me see again. Does said marraine have to be a complete stranger? It seems to me that is customary, and also usually they are of different nationalities. All of the foregoing weak line will be interpreted as a mere plea for that other letter. I’ve never made this “absence makes the heart grow fonder” stuff at all. Even —— has given me up; I remain to her only another of the forgotten conquests (?) of the dead past....
This odd person, Bassett, wandered in all dressed up like a patch of blue sky and I just had to let you know he was here. With absolute confidence in each other’s integrity, we put our loving messages side by each. By the way, he is a good scout, don’t you think? I have gotten to like him immensely since he has been here. I never had a better time in my life than one evening in Paris with Chet. However quiet the party, he is the life of it.
It must be that I take my weekly shave—in cold, cold water, with a dull, dull razor. Oh, happy thought! Tell the father and brothers hello from me. Also tell —— to drop me a line of what he’s doing and when he’s coming over.
Stuart.
VII
September 1, 1917.
The wild man in the Nieuport was out again this morning giving some one a joy ride. There is a long straight stretch of road in front of our piste and he came down that several times, a nasty puffy wind blowing which bothered him not at all, flying only two or three feet off the ground. In front of the piste is a telephone wire crossing the road. He came along the road 100 miles an hour until almost on top of the wire and jumped up just in time to clear it by a few feet—really beautiful work. He goes all over the surrounding country flying low, hopping over trees and houses, sometimes turning up sideways to slip between two trees a bit too close together to fly through; sometimes dragging a wing through the space between a couple of hangars or doing vertical virages just in front of them. It doesn’t seem possible that any man can be so much a part of his machine, can be so consistently accurate that he never misses. For this chap, Lumière, has never had a smash....
A chap named Loughran started off on one of his brevet voyages a few days before I got ready for brevet. He got quite a ways along, ran into a storm, went above it, got caught in a cloud, kept on for quite a long way being drifted by a strong wind, then came down through the clouds and found that they were only 400 feet above the ground. After a while he found a place to land and came down safely. He went to a farmhouse, got his machine guarded and tied down. In the meantime word had spread over the countryside that an aviator had come down there and the entire population came out to look him over. A grand equipage drove up with a Count who lived in a nearby château. He insisted that Eddie come to the château and accept their hospitality. There the fortunate Ed stayed five days; the Countess talked English, and also some house guests. He hadn’t brought a trunk so borrowed razor, etc., from the Count; went down to see the machine every day in the baronial barouche. Whenever he went to the little town in the vicinity all the kids followed him around the streets and when at last he left, he was presented with a multitude of bouquets and had to kiss each and every donor. He brought back pictures of the château—a delightful looking old place—and numerous addresses.
STUART WALCOTT AT THE FRONT
VIII
September 4, 1917.
At last the two weeks of wind and rain has ceased and now it is perfect weather—a bit of a breeze and lots of sun for the last two days. Yesterday morning there weren’t enough machines to go around so I did not work, making the eighth consecutive day I hadn’t stepped in a machine. Last evening I at last and with much rejoicing started out on my “maiden voyage” to another school about 60 kilometres away (37.5 miles). It was delightfully easy—nothing to do but climb two or three thousand feet and just sit there and watch the country unfold, comparing the maplike surface of the earth spread out below with the map in the machine. In good weather it is very easy to follow, spot roads, towns, woods, rivers and bridges. Railroad tracks get lost at high altitudes and are harder to find anyway. One has to keep an eye open for a place to land within gliding distance in case of a panne always, but the country is so flat and so much cultivated around here that it is absurdly simple. I endeavored always to keep some pleasant looking house or château in range in case of trouble, for the French are proverbially hospitable to aviators en panne (lying to, descending).
Coming back yesterday evening, the sun was pretty low and the air absolutely calm, nothing but the drone of the motor and the wind; the only movements necessary an occasional slight pressure on the joy stick to one side or the other to keep the proper direction. I came very nearly going to sleep, it was so peaceful up there; several times closed my eyes and swayed a bit. As a matter of fact one is perfectly safe at that altitude—anything over a thousand feet—because the machine, at least this particular type, won’t get into any position from which one cannot get it out within 200 metres at most. But nevertheless I haven’t tried any impromptu falls as yet.
This morning I repeated the same identical performance, because for some reason we have to do two petits voyages, and had much the same kind of a time as yesterday. On the way home one cylinder quit its job and threw oil instead, covering me from head to foot and clouding up my goggles so I had to wipe them off about every minute. When I got back the mechanics decided that that motor had died of old age and would have to be repaired, so I am again without a machine. Have watched a beautiful afternoon pass by from the barracks when without my luck I’d be working. But with a machine and weather, I can be finished tomorrow; two triangles to do about 200 kilometres (125 miles) each and I can do one in the morning and the other in the evening and then I’m breveted. Perhaps by day after tomorrow I’ll start perfectionné on Nieuport. I hope so.
IX
September 9, 1917.
Since my last to Father, I have had some very interesting times. First, I finished my brevet with very little excitement, made all my voyages and only got lost a little bit once. Then I saw two machines on the ground in a field, made a rather dramatic spiral and steeply banked descent amidst a crowd of villagers and got away with it; then found that the machines belonged to two monitors who were bringing them from Paris and had effected a panne de château. Being asked what I was doing, I fortunately found a spark plug on the burn and got that repaired. The rest of it was very easy, a bit of flying in the rain which stings the face a bit, but is not bad otherwise.
Since I have been on the Nieuport. There are three sizes of machines on which one is trained, starting with the larger double command and going to the smallest. At Pau, we get another even smaller, about as big as half-a-minute. Four times I went out without a ride—bad weather, crowded class and busted machines, the same old story. Then last night I had my first rides with a monitor who is rather oldish, crabbed and new at his job, a brand new aviator. As you know, when an airplane takes a turn, it does not remain horizontal but banks up: comme ça (if you can interpret that illustration—it shows signs of remarkable imaginative power)—alors, one banks to take a turn and uses the rudder only a very little because the machine turns along when banked. There is a sort of falling-out feeling the first few times until one becomes a part of the machine.
To get back to the story, this monitor does not like to bank his machine and sort of sidles round the corners, keeping it quite flat and almost slipping out to the outside of the turn. I have done many fool things in a machine and made many mistakes, but never have I been so scared in anything in my life as when riding with this monitor. A monitor is supposed to let the pupil drive as much as he is able, but this bird never let me make a move, and when we got through told me I was too brutal. I was never madder in my life and cursed nice American cuss words all the way home. There’s a fifteen kilo ride in a seatless tractor back to camp to improve a bad humor.
Well, this morning I saw some more rides impending and didn’t like it, so asked the chef de piste to put me with another monitor. He had to know why and I registered my kick, which practically said that the first monitor didn’t know his business and couldn’t drive, that I was scared to ride with him. The chef was a bit sarcastic and told me to take two rides with another monitor to show how I could make a virage. I did it the way I’ve been accustomed to, made a fairly short turn; when we got down, the monitor said “Epatant” (Am. “stunning”) or something like that to the chef. The chef had meanwhile communicated my complaint to the first monitor and he was the maddest man I ever saw. Demanded what “Ce type là” (indicating me) wanted, said the virages I had just made were dangerously banked (the monitor I was with didn’t mind, though) and then all three started arguing at once at me and I spelled all the French I knew. About that time I thought of what you had just told me in a letter about trusting in Latin, which advice and remarks I have come to agree with very much (my admiration for the French has waxed less daily), and here I realized that I had very successfully made a fool out of a man who was supposed to be my teacher, and he fully resented it.
Then, of all things, the lieutenant, without further remarks, said I was to continue with my first monitor. My heart sank into my feet. I had visions of staying in that class without rides or with only rides and fights for months; I rode no more this morning and what was my delight to find this evening that my bewhiskered pal had left on permission. I got another monitor, a fine one who put his hands on the side of the machine and let me do everything with a bit of assistance on the landing, which is different from what I’ve been doing on the Caudron. Seven rides and a finish—the twenty-three-metre tomorrow morning. I wasn’t very good, but got by.
X
September 14, 1917.
Things for me are going all right. Have made progress on the Nieuport since last I wrote and will fly alone soon. As regards the U. S. Army, things are at a standstill until I get to Paris which will be a week or so. I hope to go to the front in a French escadrille and in an American uniform. Some say it can be done; some that it cannot. It sounds so sensible that I am afraid there must be some regulation against it.
XI
September 27, 1917.
Since last I wrote a regular letter, considerable has taken place. First, I am now at Pau, having finished up Avord. Have sent postcards to Father right along to keep track of movements. After brevet was over, I did not take the customary permission of forty-eight hours, but went straight to work on Nieuport, D. C. (double command). One cannot learn a great deal riding with an instructor—only about enough to keep from smashing in landing, because one never knows when the instructor is messing with the controls, when it’s one’s self. There are five kinds of Nieuports—differing mainly in size, the smaller being faster and more agile in the air, better adapted to eccentric flying. They are 28, 23, 18, 15, 13 (the baby Nieuport). At Avord I had about a week of D. C. on 28 and 23 (the numbers refer to size of wings) with several days of no work. Then some days on 23 alone and finally on 18 alone.
The landings are a bit different from those of the machines I had been flying as they are faster and the machines are quite nose-heavy. In the air the nose-heavy feature makes them “fly themselves”—that is, according to the speed of the motor the machine will rise and climb or piqué and descend, with never a touch from the pilot. If the weather is not very bad, the Nieuport will correct itself automatically from all displacements. But in landing the nose-heavy feature causes a great many capotages. If the landing isn’t done about right with the tail low—over she goes on her nose or all the way onto her back. It is a very common occurrence and has become almost a joke. When a pupil capotes, everybody kids him—no one hurries over to see if he is hurt, not at all; he climbs out from under, usually cursing, and in ten minutes the truck is out to salvage the wreck.
It is astounding the way smashes are taken as a matter of course. Yesterday one chap in landing hit another machine, demolishing both but not touching either pilot. Being worth some $15,000 or $25,000, but no one seemed to worry—it’s very much a matter of course. The monitor was a little peeved because he will be short of machines for a few days, but that was all. I’ve seen as many as ten machines flat on their backs or with tails high in the air, on one field at the same time. For myself, I haven’t capoted or busted any wood since the Blériot days. But I’m knocking on the wooden table now. On several occasions it has been only luck that saved me, as I’ve made many rotten landings.
Well, to get back to the diary. After finishing at Avord, I waited around for two days to get papers fixed up, requested and obtained permission and then decided not to use it and left straight for Pau after fond farewells to the friends I’ve been with for three and a half months. Looking back, I didn’t have such a bad time at Avord after all, though I did get terribly tired of the living conditions.
My trip to Pau I put down to experience. I discovered one schedule not to travel by in future. Leaving Avord at 2:15 I got to Bourges at 2:45 and found that the train left at 7:29. Fortunately, there was another chap from the school on the train, Arthur Bluthenthal, an old Princeton football star, whom I have gotten to know quite well, so we managed to waste the afternoon together. At 7:29 I started another half hour’s journey, at the end of which the timetable said that the train for Bordeaux left at 10:30 (this is all P. M.).
At this town there were some American engineers, so I embraced the fellow countrymen in a strange land. Finished up a not very gay evening by attending the movies, a most odd institution. Clouds of tobacco smoke obscured the screen, and most of the action was around the bar at one side of the hall. Nobody was drunk, but nearly every one was drinking and very gay. This was merely Saturday night in a small town of the Provinces—not in gay Paree. At 10:15 I got in a first class compartment and tried to find a comfortable position in which to sleep. At 2:15 A. M. I had mussed up my clothes considerably, lost my temper and not slept a wink. Then we had to change again. The rest of the morning I sat opposite an American officer, a queer old fogey, and we tried to kid each other into thinking we were sleeping, with no success. Arrived at Bordeaux at 7 A. M., and found that the train for Pau left immediately, so I missed out on breakfast, too—Oh, it was a hectic trip. My idea of a very unpleasant occupation is that of a travelling salesman in France.
XII
October 22, 1917.
Ah, ——[D]:
Once more I take my pen in hand to lay at your feet the burdens of an overwrought (how is that word spelled?) mind, said burdens being caused by a most unpleasant captain. Just because I was in Paris for a day and a half without a permission, he handed me eight days of jail, and today for nothing at all he hauled me out in front of the entire division and got quite angered when I told him in extremely broken French that I hadn’t understood a word. But as the jail doesn’t mean anything and doesn’t have to be served, I am not worrying very much. The afternoon is misty and there isn’t a chance of flying, so he takes particular care that nobody leave the piste though there is absolutely nothing to do there, no chance to get warm or comfortable. Which at least gives me a perfect alibi for poor penmanship as I’m sitting in a machine and quite uncomfortable.
Thoughtless creature, so much like the rest of your sex, why did you not tell me where Albert was to be over here, or what he was going to do, or what service he was in, or at least that he was in France? I cleverly deduced the latter from your letter, but did not know where to find him. When I got your letter I was at Pau, not far from Bordeaux (Didn’t I write you or postal-card you from there?). Afterward at Paris, I talked to a few very dressed up ensigns with wings on them somewhere (Walker is the only name I remember), and they told me that —— was near Bordeaux and in the same group with themselves. So if, etc., I might have gone to see the Big Boy.
Yesterday I went to see Billy and another classmate in an artillery camp the other side of Paris. They are officers of the U. S. A. and live as such, which incites in me much envy as I am still a mere corporal of France and treated with no more than my due—not quite as much I sometimes think. That was the expedition that brought the jail. Lots and lots of people are getting over here now. I’ve seen Heyliger Church and Kelly Craig who are about to become aviators somewhere. Porter Guest just became breveted (that is, a licensed pilot) and was considerably seen in Paris shortly after—no end of college friends are over here and even an occasional American girl is seen in Paris. No friends as yet.
Your letter—I asked at Morgan Harjes about Miss —— and found that she is at the front in a hospital, so I can’t very well find her in Paris. I’m sorry as I would very much have liked to. What one might call permanent people are very nice to know in Paris. I don’t know anything about the front yet, but if I’m near Miss ——’s hospital, will try to get acquainted.
What you said about —— and his going, I can pretty well appreciate. There isn’t a thing in the world to worry us unmarried and very independent young men over here. If something happens to us, it will bother you all back home a great deal more than us. It’s very, very true that women have the heaviest and worst part of war. I had to write a letter the other day to the mother of a pal over here who shot himself when out of his head. A fine pilot and an exceptionally charming fellow, how I pity his poor mother. It’s almost unbelievable the number of women one sees in black here in France. Thank God, it can never become that bad at home, for the war will never get so close to us as it has to the French.
I haven’t the inspiration to compose an imaginative aeronautic thriller today about the experiences of a boy aviator. Since last writing, have finished Nieuport at Avord, went to Pau and there did acrobacy, came here to Plessis-Belleville and started Spad, now await assignment to an escadrille which ought to come within a week. Haven’t broken any wood since Blériot days, but have been a bit more rational and done about average good work. The preliminary training is over—combat training doesn’t amount to anything till we get to the front. I’ll be on a monoplace machine surely. So in my next you can expect to hear mighty tales of combating the Boche at a high altitude. I’m beginning to hear that it’s nothing but a lot of routine work, few combats and pretty soon a frightful bore: I refuse to believe it and hang on to romance for all I’m worth.
Give my regards to a whole lot of people and tell them I haven’t quite given up all hope of a letter though almost. My friends as a group are not very strong on letter writing. There are only a very few shining exceptions like yourself and verily they do make of me the heart glad.
But enough of this, ’tis bootless, so I sign myself,
Thine as of yore,
Stuart.
XIII
Escadrille Spa-84,
Secteur Postal 181,
Par A. C. M.—Paris.
November 1, 1917.
Well, I’m here—in sight of the front at last. To date I haven’t been out there yet and won’t for a few days more as they take lots of care of new pilots and don’t feed them to the Boche right away. Probably day after tomorrow the lieutenant in command will take me out to show me around the lines and after that I’ll take my place in patrols with the others. The work is exclusively patrolling, establishing as it were a barrage against German machines and preventing as far as possible any incursions of the French lines. As the big attack is over, there is comparatively little activity. Sometimes one goes for a whole patrol without being fired on and without seeing an enemy machine anywhere near the lines. During the three days I’ve been here, the group has accounted for several Boches without any losses whatever. Young Bridgeman of the Lafayette Escadrille had a bullet through his fuselage just in front of his chest, but suffered no damage except from fright.
There are several escadrilles in the group, a groupe de combat—it is called—all have Spads which makes it very nice. The Lafayette, 124, is of our group and have adjoining barracks, which makes it very nice (I seem to repeat) for us lone Americans in French escadrilles. We drop in there far too often and the first few nights I used the bed of the famous Bill Thaw’s roommate, away on permission. Did I write you that one morning he brought in Whiskey to wake me up, and my eye no sooner opened than my head was buried under the covers. Whiskey is a pet—a very large lion cub, which has unfortunately outgrown its utility as a pet and was sent yesterday, with its running mate, Soda, to the Zoo at Paris, to be a regular lion.
They are a very odd crowd—the members of the Lafayette Escadrille, a few nice ones and a bunch of rather roughnecks. Their conversation is an eye opener for a new arrival. Mostly about Paris, permissions, and the rue de Braye, but occasionally about work and that is interesting. Nonchalant doesn’t express it. When Bridgy got shot up as mentioned above, they all kidded the life out of him and when he got the Croix de Guerre, they had him almost in tears—just because he’s the kiddable kind.
But in talking about the work—for instance, Jim Hall: “I piquéd on him with full motor and got so darn close to him that when I wanted to open fire I was so scared of running into him that I had to yank out of the way and so never fired a single shot.” Or Lufberry just mentions in passing that he got another Boche this morning, but those —— observer people won’t give him credit for it. He has fourteen official now and probably twice as many more never allowed him. Some days ago during the attack he had seven fights in one day, brought down six of them and got credit for one. Which must be discouraging.
XIV
November 5, 1917.
Well ——[E]:
Here I find myself writing to you without waiting for the usual two or three months to elapse. Do you realize that it was over five and a half months ago that I left my native land? It doesn’t seem near so long to me. Just at present I have about thirteen hours a day to write, read the Washington Star and New York Times, eat an occasional meal (we only get two over here, worse luck), build fires in the stove and stroll for exercise. The rest of the time is devoted to sleep. A terribly hard life that of an aviator on the western front! No appels (meaning roll calls), discipline or inspections. Only, if there should happen to be a good day, one might be wanted to fly a bit. So far (I have only been out here a week) we have had perfectly ideal aviators’ weather—nice low misty clouds about 300 or 400 feet up, which quite prevent aerial activity and yet one is not bothered by mud or depressed by rain. In the morning, one awakes, pokes his head out the window, says “What lo! more luck, a nice light brouillard” and closes the window for a few hours more of sleep. Really I have done more resting the past week than most people do in a lifetime!
To get statistical, I finished up at Pau (from where I sent to you a letter, n’est-ce-pas?) a month ago, and then spent two very unpleasant weeks at Plessis-Belleville near Paris, at the big dépôt for the front, waiting to be sent to an escadrille, with nothing to do but a little desultory flying, nurse the system, food, weather, lodging, discipline, etc. Eventually my turn came and, with another American, I was dispatched to Esc. SPA 84, where we arrived after the usual delay passing through Paris. That’s one nice thing about this country: all roads lead to Paris. Sent from one place to another, it is a safe wager that one goes via Paris, and always takes forty-eight hours there and gets permission for it if he can. There are a few Frenchmen there still, but on the streets one sees almost entirely American, British or British Colonial officers—occasionally a French aviator and of course clouds of sweet and innocent young things—yes? Nearly all of my classmates are over here and get to Paris every once in a while, so all I have to do is to sit at the Café de la Paix and if I wait long enough, some one I know will surely come along.
Well, to get back on the track, we eventually found ourselves members of le-dit Esc. SPA 84—one esc. of a groupe de chasse, which means that we will have patrolling work to do mainly and not protection of observation or photo machines—which they tell me, is fortunate. Also we have good machines—the best there are, which might not have happened had we been sent to another type of escadrille—purely good fortune. The much advertised Lafayette Esc. No. 124, is a member of the same group, is located near us and does the same work, which makes it much pleasanter for lone Americans. We use their stove and tea of an afternoon quite freely as our quarters are new and not fixed up. But say, when we do get going, everybody will be in to see us. We’ll have a cosy, beautifully wallpapered room clustering around a stove.... The men of 124 are a rather good crowd—not much different from any crowd of Americans, a bit rough but most of it affected because they’re away from home, very hospitable, rather daredevil or hard-hearted (whichever you wish to call it—the way they talk about each other’s narrow escapes, coming falls, the mistakes or misfortunes of departed brothers, and there have been several) and very mixed, centering around Lieutenant Bill Thaw, of the French Army, who impresses me as being very much of a leader and an unusually fine type. There is one tough nut from a Middle Western Siwash-like college, who was probably still ungraduated at 27, and a quiet, innocent looking kid who seems to have just got out of prep school; of course, the tough guy tears the little one. Then there are a couple of old Légionnaires—rather superior and terribly tired of war, quite unenthusiastic, but I dare say congenial when one gets under their hide or fills it full of booze. And Jim Hall, the author chap—quiet, reserved, almost simple in his lack of affectation and boyish in his enthusiasm. (Gad, how he wants to get his Boche and he almost thinks he did the other day, but it wasn’t verified. He followed him down from 1,500 to 200 metres, shooting all the time, and thinks he must have brought him down)....
Did I mention above that I am at present in the status, practically, of a non-flying member? On arriving at the front, one is not rushed straightway to the cannon’s mouth, but rather allowed to get acclimated a bit first, to have a few preliminary voyages to look around, etc. During my week here, there has been little flying and I haven’t even seen the front, only heard the guns occasionally. Of my three flights, two were just short tours de champs. But the other: never in my wildest Blériot days did I do a wilder one. Coming from Pau where I had tried some stunts, I thought I was a bit of an acrobat, second only to Navarre, Guynemer and a few others. So arriving at a safe height, I started to go through the répertoire. First came a loop which got around to the vertical point—a quarter turn and then slipped, ending in a vertical corkscrew or climbing barrel turn or whatever you want to call it—then losing momentum and just naturally tumbling. I didn’t know what was going on—only that it wasn’t right; they told me afterward. After that came the renversements and vertical turns, etc., and not a thing came out. Lost—I got lost thirty times and had to hunt all around to see where I was. Nothing went right and I kept getting madder and madder and poorer and poorer. They were all laughing down below and wondering what was going on up there. Eventually the party ended—one of the old pilots told me that that one flight equalled about thirty hours over the lines and the commander advised against a repetition of the performance, and so I went and lay down. Two hours later I began to feel that perhaps I could stand on my feet again; did you ever have mal-de-mer?
So now I really ought to begin to learn something, having acquired that all essential first knowledge of ignorance, which all good students should have. And in the meantime perhaps I shall go and combat the Wily Hun. Said W. Hun need not worry about my bothering him if he doesn’t keep fooling around under my nose till I’m ashamed not to go after him. I’m not bloodthirsty a bit, especially till I learn to fly, and the lack of combats isn’t going to keep me awake nights for a while yet.
But the bunkmate seems to have gone to bed; it’s almost ten—a most unprecedented hour for me to be up, so the end approaches. Kind remembrances as usual—use your discretion and don’t forget that long tale of “Washington Social Tid-Bits” you spoke of—gossip if you prefer....
As ever,
Stuart.
The Next Day.
Addenda:
Your letter on just arriving home has been with me some time and truly brought joy to my heart in this desolate land. (The “desolate” seems to fit in though not applying to the land in question at all.)...
Chester Snow is aviating under the auspices of the U. S. Government. I last heard from him in a postal written on the last stop of the last triangle of his brevet, so he should be through training before much longer. The other Chester, Bassett, is still at Avord, so I can not deliver your note to him....
Your other question referred to the army I am in, and is easily answered by saying that the U.S.A. has as yet done nothing but talk about taking us over. “Us” now refers to upward of 200 Americans, I think, either in French escadrilles or well advanced in the French schools. Constantly all summer, we have been “going to be transferred in two weeks.”
Another quiet, non-flying, slightly rainy day has passed. This isn’t perhaps the most ideal spot in the world for a winter resort, from the point of view of comforts, but, considering the ease of conscience because one is not in the position to be called embusqué, it is really not half bad. It’s starting to rain again rather harder; I wonder if the roof will keep out water?
Yours, etc.,
B. S. W.