Chapter XVII: Introduction: Bravery (11)

Her name has been honored in every possible way—in sculpture, in painting, in verse, in prose, in the sermons of the clergy, in the oratory of statesmen, and after the armistice England received home her body with such ceremonies as are reserved for those who have served the country greatly. An imposing ceremony in the ancient Westminster Abbey was attended by royalty and nobility, and the throng within and without the Abbey represented every class of English life. The funeral procession, in which marched hundreds of nurses, was witnessed by vast throngs along the route, and was in itself a memorable spectacle. The body of the martyr-heroine was taken to her native town for burial, where a monument portrait of herself, in the town square, will perpetuate to the eye a memory that will never perish from the English heart.

A PICARDY HEROINE

The Story of Marcelle Semmer, Who Held Up the Advance of a German Army Corps

French heroines were not few; indeed to be a woman of France was to be a heroine in those slow grinding years of the war that tired the soul, as it trampled the life of that country. But none of them was of greater courage or of more resolutely self-sacrificing purpose than a young woman of Picardy, a mere girl, Marcelle Semmer. She was the daughter of a phosphate factory owner, an Alsatian, who had quitted Alsace in 1871 rather than remain as a subject of Germany.

The story of her deeds was first given to the public by a lecturer at the Sorbonne, Paris, and was repeated by the Paris correspondent of the _Times_, but her fame had already run throughout the armies of France, and the Republic had honored her.

After the defeat of the Allies at Charleroi, the French tried to make a stand along the Somme, but being unable to resist the overwhelming mass of the invaders, they fell back across a canal in the vicinity of Marcelle Semmer’s home. The enemy were in close pursuit. As the last group of the French crossed the bridge, Marcelle rushed forward and raising the drawbridge, threw into the canal the control key, without which the draw could not be lowered. This remarkable evidence of presence of mind and coolness was hardly to have been expected from a girl in such terrifying circumstances. The act was a daring one, as the advancing Germans did not hesitate to fire at her as well as at the retreating soldiers; but realizing that it would hold up the advance of the Germans she unhesitatingly confronted the danger. It was the saving grace for the French, for it was not until the next morning that the Germans were able to get together boats enough to form a pontoon across the canal. The retreat had the advantage of those precious hours of the hold-up.

Though the risks were great, Marcelle remained in the village during the German occupation in order to be of possible assistance to the French. And she did render assistance. There was near the village Eclusier a subterranean passage used in the working of a phosphate mine, and in this passage Marcelle managed to conceal at different times sixteen French soldiers who had got separated from their command in the retreat from Charleroi and Mons. There she fed them, furnished them with civilian clothes and aided their escape into the French lines. It was not until she was helping the seventeenth to escape that she was caught and dragged, with a French soldier, before the local commandant. Asked if she meant deliberately to aid the soldier to escape, she replied firmly:

“Yes. He is not the first. I helped sixteen others to get away. Do what you please with me. I am not afraid to die.”

With little ceremony she was ordered to be shot. She was taken out for the purpose. The firing squad was drawn up and only waited the order to fire when suddenly there was a roar of French artillery bombarding the town and the position of the Germans around Eclusier. It was an unexpected French advance, and without thought of the girl the firing squad joined the confusion of men hurrying to the shelter of their defenses. Marcelle made her escape to the friendly subterranean passage. The French occupied Eclusier.

TWICE SAVED FROM THE GERMANS

The Somme lay between the opposing armies, and in the vicinity of Eclusier it forms a marshy lake. At flood the water covered the lines so that soldiers often lost their way, and here Marcelle found another means of serving France.

The correspondent says:

“Being thoroughly acquainted with the neighborhood, she used to pilot parties of soldiers. This brought her again close to death. While leading a squad of men who wanted to dig an advanced trench in the village of Frise she fell into the hands of a party of Germans.

_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._

Corporal Fred C. Stein

_32nd Division, 125th Infantry, Company “F”_

Close to Romagnes, on October 9, 1918, Stein captured a strong enemy machine-gun nest. He received two wounds while endeavoring to operate the machine gun, and then received another wound which was in the arm and almost disabled him.]

“They locked her up in the little village church of Frise. On the morrow, she felt sure, they would shoot her.

“But once more luck and the French artillery were her salvation. The French across the Somme began a lively bombardment of Frise. One shell blew a large hole in the church wall. Through this hole, unperceived by her captors, Marcelle crawled. Creeping past the Germans scattered through Frise, she soon tumbled, safe and sound, into the nearest French trench.

“By this time her fame had spread and rewards began to shower upon her. She got the Cross of the Legion of Honor, and some time later the War-Cross. In spite of all she had gone through, she persisted in staying in the Somme country and continued to work for the cause of France. For fifteen months she remained, despite shot and shell, in her little Somme village, taking care of wounded soldiers. Also among her charges was a woman of 90, too feeble to travel to a safer place. Marcelle looked out for her night and day with unflagging devotion.

“Everywhere soldiers knew and admired her. One English General ordered his soldiers to salute when she passed and refrain from addressing her unless she spoke first.”

Under the strain of her volunteer work she finally came near to a breakdown and was persuaded to go to Paris. There she entered a nurses’ school to qualify for the care of the wounded, work being necessary to her to shut away her personal sorrows, as everything she possessed or held dear the war had taken from her.

All this and more was told at the Sorbonne Conference, and then, says the _Times_ correspondent, the narrator made a dramatic gesture and exclaimed:

“‘This little heroine of Picardy, this admirable girl, this incarnation of the qualities of the woman of France, this girl of simple origin, flawless dignity, of serious mind, and gentle ways, this girl of indomitable will-power, is here, ladies and gentlemen, here among you, in this room! And I feel that I am the spokesman for every one of you when I now extend to her the expression of our respect, our gratitude, our admiration!’

“The auditors, every man, woman and child of them, leaped to their feet, mad with enthusiasm. They craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the heroine. Unable to escape them, the young girl stood up, blushing. Through the great hall of the Sorbonne, where the most famous people of the world had been honored by France, swept a storm of cheers. A reward more splendid than the Cross of the Legion of Honor, than the War-Cross, than the salutes of soldiers at the front, had come to Marcelle Semmer.”

GIRLS OF THE “BATTALION”

Russian Women Who Gave Splendid Proof That Soldierly Valor Knows No Sex

When first reports of the Battalion of Death—the regiment of Russian women—were read in the western world they were regarded as the fiction of correspondents hard pressed for material. Fighting Amazons belonged to the legendary past. But the authentic confirmations of the story and the official recognition of the battalion’s services presently roused a curious interest in these women doing heroes’ work, and there was demand for information concerning the redoubtable “Madam Butchkareff” and the circumstances leading to the organization of the regiment of which she was given command.

The story when told more than gratified the expectant interest. The London _Daily Telegraph_ was the first to give the particulars as they are here presented.

“Vera Butchkareff, or simply Yashka, as she has been christened by the men of the regiment to which she belonged, got much of her war-like spirit from her father, who fought through the whole of the Turkish war and was left a cripple for life. Her mother was a hard-working woman, with five children, of whom Yashka was the eldest, and she had to go out washing and cooking to earn enough to clothe and feed this flock.

© _Underwood & Underwood._

Marie Botchkareva, Commander of the Battalion of Death]

“At the age of five Yashka was sent out as nurse to a baby of three. And from that time she has never stopped working. She looks none the worse for it. Finely yet strongly built, with broad shoulders and healthy complexion, she can lift 200 pounds with the greatest of ease. She has never known what fear is.

“Not long ago she remarked that during the last two years she had lived through so much that there remained but one danger yet to experience, that of flying. Just as she was saying that an aviator came up and offered to take her for a flight, and before the day was out she had exhausted her list of perils.

MARRIED AN UNKNOWN

“When she was sixteen years old her parents seized the first opportunity of getting her married. She never knew the man, but luckily as time wore on they grew very fond of each other, and were very happy. At first they both served in a shop, and thanks to their perseverance and frugality they were soon able to open a small shop of their own. But just as they began to prosper the war broke out, and he was one of the first to be called up.

“She was very keen on accompanying him as a soldier, but he begged her to stay behind and work for her parents, whom they had been keeping.

“She was always ready for any daring venture, and it was with great reluctance that she stayed at home in compliance with her husband’s wish. Time passed, and after long waiting she got the news that he had been killed in action in May, 1915. At once she went to her parents and said: ‘I have decided to go to the front, and you will either hear of my death or I shall return to you in honor and glory. I trust in God.’ And no persuasions were of any use.

“For two years she lived in the trenches and fought like a man. She was wounded three times—in her arm, leg, and back. In the Lake Naroch battles there was a time when all the officers were killed and the men lost courage and lay down, too frightened to attack. Then she rose up and dashed forward calling on them to follow her. Every one obeyed her command, and the trench was captured. She has received two St. George’s medals and two St. George’s crosses for various feats of bravery. At the end of the two years she was legally admitted into the 28th Polozk Regiment.

RAISES HER BATTALION

“She was presented to Mr. Kerensky for her bravery, and after hearing all her experiences, the Minister of War asked what wish she would like to have granted. She straightway said: ‘I want to form a woman’s volunteer battalion, which is to lead men into battle if they will not go of themselves.’ The idea was approved by Kerensky, and, with the sanction of the commander-in-chief, the battalion was formed.”

There were 300 girls, most of them being recruits from the higher educational academies and secondary schools, with a few peasants, factory girls and servants. There were a few married women, but none with children were accepted. They ranged from 18 to 28 years in age and were of good physique, most of them pretty and of refined appearance. They wore their hair short, or their heads entirely shaved. They wore as uniform a soldier’s khaki blouse, short breeches, stockings, heavy soled shoes and forage cap. It was a mixed battalion in the matter of class; with the peasant and the factory girl marched the daughters of noble families, society women, writers, etc., for it was in the universities and schools that the Russian revolution found its most earnest advocates.

These were the women who in action near Vilna that terrible July day exhibited great courage and coolness, and did such heroic service in the midst of a wavering and weakening, cowardly, panic-stricken body of troops that they have hardly a parallel in all history. Marie Golokbyova, a member of the battalion but eighteen years old, who enlisted from the high school, has told of the first engagement of the fighting girls.

THEIR FIRST ENGAGEMENT

“We went into action a fortnight after our arrival at the front under heavy German cannon fire. Given the order to advance, we rushed out of our trench. Feeling no sense of danger, we dashed toward the enemy in the wood. The machine guns began knocking over my companions. We were ordered to lie down. I noticed those at the front with me were all women. The men were further back.

“I began shooting, the gun kicking my shoulder so hard that it is still blue and stiff. I was glad when we were ordered to charge the machine guns in the woods. We paid dearly, but we held on, and by night our scouts discovered the machine gunners and we shelled them out.

“After the first attack I was attached to a machine gun, carrying ammunition to an advanced position under the fire of hidden German machine guns. We were advancing and constantly in danger of capture by the Germans. On one trip over newly captured ground I saw what I considered a wounded German officer lying on the ground. I went to help him with my gun in my right hand and the machine gun ammunition in my left.

“Seeing me, he jumped to his knees and pulled out his revolver, but before he could shoot I dropped the ammunition and killed him.

“How did I feel on taking a human life? I had no sensation except to rid my country of an enemy. There was no sentimentality. We were trying to kill them and they were trying to kill us—that is all. Any Russian girl or any American girl in the same position would have the same feeling.”

Mme. Butchkareff—Commander Butchkareff—the peasant born leader of the heroic girls, was not only endowed with the highest quality of courage but she seemed to have an instinct for military command. She was, as her soldiers testified, “here, there, everywhere,” directing the action, adding the fire of her own spirit to the enthusiasm of the members of the battalion, urging them to “fight like real Russian soldiers,” and they met the demand. Said one of them:

“None of us was afraid once we got started. We were in the midst of a great fusillade of shots. Then terrific big shells began bursting around us. We were again frightened a little when we first saw the dead about, but before very long we were jumping over the dead and quickly forgot all about them. We just forgot ourselves entirely. We were simply Russia fighting for her life.

“As we ran forward we suddenly came upon a bunch of Germans immediately ahead of us. It was only a second until we were all around them.

“They saw they were caught and threw down their rifles, holding up their hands. They were terribly frightened.

“‘Good God! Women!’ they exclaimed.”

It might have been better for Russia had all her soldiers been women.

HER AMBULANCE UNIT

An English Woman’s Contribution Was Her Fortune and the Daily Risk of Her Life

Among the decorations worn by Mrs. Hilda Wynne are the French Croix de Guerre, the Belgian order of Leopold, and the Russian Order of St. George—certificates of preëminent service in circumstances of danger that demand the high courage of utter self-devotion. Mrs. Wynne is a young English woman who gave her fortune to organize an ambulance unit and risked her life driving an ambulance on the firing line. Her organization was known as the Bevan-Wynne Unit, and it cared for some 40,000 wounded soldiers in the course of the war. Mrs. Wynne visited this country in the Autumn of 1917 for the purpose of arousing interest in the public in the needs of soldiers in France. Happily her mission was a successful one.

While she was in Denver the _Post_ of that city induced Mrs. Wynne to tell some of her experiences, which are here reproduced.

“Looking upon the human courage I have witnessed, from this distance and in the little breathing space I have taken from service I can recall thousands of heroic acts, but the bravest happened on the Russian front.

“I saw two aviators go up to certain death. They were a Russian and a Frenchman. Both were little men. They went up to meet twenty German aeroplanes. It was suicidal. But they had been ordered to go—and theirs was the spirit of the gallant six hundred. I stood near them as they made ready to go. They said nothing. That is one of the lessons you learn in war—not to waste time nor words.

Many of them received decorations for conspicuous bravery while under fire.]

“They got their machines ready as a rider tests his saddle-straps and stirrups before starting for his morning gallop through the park. A little pothering and fixing of the machinery and they had gone. They went straight up and began blazing away at the German planes. I watched and the cords of my heart tightened, for the German planes, looking like great gray birds with wings widespread, came closer and closer. They surrounded them. They formed a solid double circle about them. Then they began to fire. And I turned and covered my eyes with my hands. A few seconds later what had been aeroplanes were splintered wood and what had been men a broken mass covered by smoking rags.

“While this was the bravest act I saw in two and a half years on the firing line, I readily recall the most pathetic. It was the second line of men in the Russian trenches. They were unarmed soldiers. There were no guns for them. They took their places there expecting that the man in front might drop, and the second-line man could pick up his gun and take his place.

“I have seen many of the Allies die. They all die bravely. At Dixmude when the fusiliers arrived 8,000 and went out 4,000 there was magnificent courage in death. The Frenchman dies calling upon his God. The Englishman says nothing or feebly jests; just turns his face to the wall and is still. The Russian is mystic and secretive. The Russian lives behind a veil of reserve. You never fully know him. In the last moments you know by his rapt look that his soul is in communion with his God.

AN IMPLACABLE BREED

“One of the deepest, unalterable truths of the war is the German power of hatred. It is past measuring. An example occurred at Dixmude. When we had been there three days we were driven out. I took my car filled with the wounded across a bridge just in time. A second after we had crossed there was a roar, then a crash. A shot had torn the bridge to pieces. Three weeks later to our hospital was brought a wounded German.

“‘I know you,’ he said. ‘We nearly got you at the bridge at Dixmude.’

“‘I remember,’ I said.

“That man’s eyes used to follow me in a strange way. Build no beautiful theories of his national animosity disappearing, or being swallowed up in his gratitude. There was no such thought in his mind. The eyes said: ‘I wish I had killed you. But since I didn’t I wish I might have another chance.’

“This, after I had driven away a group of zouaves who had taken everything from him, including his iron cross, and who were debating whether to toss him into the canal then or that night.

“Shells have a disturbing way about them, more disturbing to your plans than your equanimity. Shells prevented my having a nice comfortable illness. In southern Russia one can get little to eat. Coarse black bread is the chief food. It causes various disorders. I, afflicted with one of them, arranged a table in the corner of my tent, placed remedies on the table, undressed, and turned in, intending to have a cozy illness of a few days. But as I lay came an angry buzzing. A shell hissed through, carrying away a corner of my tent. That ended my illness. I had no more time to think of it.

“The greatest peril I encountered was not from shells. One becomes used to them. One of the greatest dangers I faced was on a dark night drive along a precipice in the Caucasus. It was while the plan to bring troops through Persia to Russia was expected to be successful. I went ahead with some ambulances. It was necessary to take two Russian officers across the mountain. I offered my services. The road was an oddly twisting one. On one side was a high wall, on the other a precipice whose depth no one calculated. But as I allowed myself to look into it at twilight I could see no bottom to it. We started on the all-night drive at dusk. The precipice remained with us, a foot away, most of the distance. Had my car skidded twelve inches the story would have been different.

“Then, too, I wandered once within the Turkish lines, mistaking them for our own. But amid a courteous silence I was allowed to discover my mistake and escape without harm.

TOO BUSY TO REFUSE HER

“I think I owe my opportunity to do my bit, in the way I have, to the fact that I arrived in Flanders a few hours before the fight and the officers were too busy to send me back. I had seven automobiles, and knew how to use them. I took them to Dixmude and offered the automobiles and my services to the cause. I established headquarters at Furnes, which is seven miles from Nieuport, eight from Dixmude, and twenty from Ypres. I drove along the Yser Canal to the parts of the field that were under the heaviest fire, for there, I knew, my cars and I would be most needed. For a year I worked for the relief of the wounded of the French armies. Then I went to Russia, where I found the need of help and the sacrifice of life because of lack of that help almost inconceivable. The French armies have 6,000 ambulances. The Germans have 6,200. Russia, with a firing line of 6,000 miles, has only 600 motor-ambulances.

“I established dressing-stations in the mountains. Some of these were 10,000 feet above the sea-level. There, on the canvas stretched between two horses, the wounded were brought, or so they started. For many of them died in the long journey, every step of which was torture to a wounded man.

“The most exciting experience I ever had was on the Galician border. We could approach the battle-line only along the Tarnopol road, which ran for fifteen miles directly under German guns. I was speeding along it with an ambulance full of wounded soldiers when a shell struck the roadside and exploded, tearing a great hole in the earth fifty feet away. The concussion stopped us. Then we went on. I travel on my luck. Some time, I suppose, I shall travel too far.”

A TRUE HEROINE

The Type of Woman from Which Fate Fashions Jeannes D’Arc

Had there been a Myra Ivanovna in every sector of the Russian front in the wavering days, it is not extravagant to think the troops of the Czar might have resisted the propaganda as well as the guns of the Germans and pushed on—perhaps to Berlin. Myra was but twenty years of age, a Russian Sister of Mercy. She accompanied her brother, a military doctor, to the front. She was small, and weak and nervous, but she had a resolute will, an indomitable soul, and these gave energy and endurance to her body. She was one of the most active and tireless in ministering to the sick and wounded. The soldiers marveled to see so frail a creature perform such tasks as mark the duties of an ambulance nurse. Naturally, she inspired the devotion of those she served.

It was in 1915. There had been heavy and dogged fighting and there were many wounded. The ambulances and the nurses were kept busy. Then the Germans succeeded in outflanking the regiment to which Myra was attached, and poured a deadly fire into the trenches. M. Kupchinsky, correspondent at the front for a Petrograd paper, told her story. The London _Morning Post_ translated it. Here it is:

“The ambulance near the 10th Regiment was not brought to the rear, despite the instructions of the commander. It was discovered that Sister Ivanovna was employed there in bandaging the wounded.

“‘Let the ambulance station go back,’ she said; ‘I shall stay here, where my hands are wanted.’

“The doctors and the wounded officers appealed in vain—she would not retreat until her brother ordered her to do so. No sooner, however, was the ambulance posted in a new situation than she moved back to her former position with a few volunteers. At this time the enemy’s reinforcements with machine guns opened a deadly fire from some heights commanding the position, and Ivanovna was slightly wounded by a bullet in the left arm. She bandaged the wound herself, and, without saying a word, continued her work.

“The position of the regiment was a perilous one. Every moment the strength of the enemy was increasing, and the Russian ranks were decimated by their long exposure to heavy fire. It was necessary to strike a rapid blow, sharp and decisive; but officer after officer was brought in wounded, and at last word came that the commander himself had been killed. Men began to drop back from the front trenches. Indecision in the ranks threatened a panic.

SWORD IN HAND, SHE LED THE ATTACK

“Seeing that the men were wavering, and actuated by indignant horror at the unequal fight, Sister Myra Ivanovna drew a sword from the sheath of a dead officer and ran from the station. She was followed by some of the wounded soldiers, who, with tears in their eyes, implored her to return, and even tried to detain her by holding her arms, but she freed herself.

“Then, her eyes burning with excitement, she went forward. She was not alone, for the soldiers were anxious to defend this frail woman who was leading them back to the trenches, her sword raised in the air.

“The soldiers of the 10th Regiment were wavering in the trenches when, at the critical moment, Sister Myra, surrounded by a group of wounded soldiers, with uplifted sword, rushed toward the trench. At once there was a resounding ‘Hurrah!’ and the rifles of the exhausted soldiers commenced once more their deadly clicking.

“For a moment Sister Myra bent toward the occupants of the trench, and they heard the word ‘_Golubebiki!_’ (Dear ones). Then, rising to her feet, she ran forward, her sword flashing in the air. All the men followed her. But all the time the enemy machine-guns were steadily spitting forth their leaden pellets of death, and, though losing men with every step, the remnants of the company made a wild dash for the enemy’s trench, which they occupied after furious work with the bayonet. The enemy fled precipitately, but in the recesses of the trench, on the bloody ground trodden by the feet of the eager combatants, lay Sister Myra Ivanovna.

“Rough soldiers bent over her, and now that the excitement of the fray was over they wept as they tried vainly to arrest the flow of blood from a wound in her throat. She was carried out of the fire, but before she had proceeded far another bullet struck her, and she fell dead among the group of soldiers.”

“A true heroine,” writes Mr. Kupchinsky, “a type of the Russian woman who is guiding us to victory.”

Alas! that was in 1915.

A HEROINE OF HUMANITY

This Young Englishwoman Risked Death in a Hideous Form to Save the Lives of Others

The serene courage of self-devotion to the service of humanity does not have the acclaim of the world very often. We have not learned how to measure the values of quiet heroism—the heroism that works in the solitude. We thrill to feats of daring, we are rather complacent to the bravery of scientific experiment, though the risk of life be great.

There is the story of a young Englishwoman, Miss Mary Davies, who, far behind the front with its stimulating excitement and without the inspiration of approving and emulous comrades, calmly, deliberately challenged death in one of its most horrible forms. She had seen the victims of one of the most terrible of war scourges—gaseous gangrene—suffering a loathsome death, and knew how hopelessly the surgeons in the laboratories of the American Ambulance where she served, worked to combat the plague. She realized that if inoculation with the bacilli of the disease could be successfully employed, thousands of wounded men would be saved, and she resolved to make the experiment.

She had seen many examples of the horrible results of this infection and had observed the invariably fatal course of the disease in animals inoculated with the bacilli. She watched and assisted in the experiments in which guinea-pigs were inoculated with gangrene bacilli. She had become convinced of the efficacy of injections with quinine hydrochlorid and had concluded that the experiments on small animals had given all the results of which they were capable and that the time had come for an experiment on a normal human body, and not one from the battlefield, fatigued and wounded and possibly infected by other bacilli.

Well aware that her plan would be prevented if it became known, she determined without a word to any one, to risk her life in an attempt to demonstrate the efficacy of the treatment, which she was convinced would cure the victims of this dread disease.

Her preparations deliberately and completely made, she waited until she was about to leave for a holiday, so that her absence would not disturb the work in the laboratory. She chose the deadliest strain of bacilli in the laboratory, obtained from the latest fatal case, of which two drops of culture sufficed to kill a guinea-pig. Then she inoculated herself in a manner most certain to produce the disease in animals, injecting fifty times the amount used to kill a guinea-pig, making one injection deep into the muscles of her thigh, the other just beneath the skin. Two hours later she quietly came to the laboratory and asked to be treated in the same manner as the animals under experiment.

The surgeons and attendants were greatly alarmed for her. Their experience had taught them the rapidity and horribleness of the effects of gangrene, the most dreaded and the most baffling of the diseases produced by the war. They began treatment of her at once, apprehensive and doubtful of results.

Injections with a quinine solution were made at the points where she had inoculated the deadly bacilli. She was sent to the nearest hospital for observation and further treatment. Quinine injections were given a second time. Symptoms of a slight degree of infection developed within twenty-four hours, but they subsided without operation becoming necessary, and it is more than gratifying to know that recovery was rapid and complete.

Miss Davies has been named a “heroine of science” and her brave and self-sacrificial deed will be properly recognized in medical science; but surely she has won a place in the world’s esteem and memory as a heroine of humanity.

ONE OF THE GREAT “ACES”

Raoul Lufbery, the Connecticut Boy Who Roamed the World to Die a Hero in France

The Great War brought into bold relief no more romantic figure or daring spirit than that of Major Raoul Lufbery, from Wallingford, Conn. The bare facts of his life have the flavor of incidents taken from the adventure story of a highly imaginative fiction writer. There is no need of invention or added color to make his history a thrilling tale. No presentation of it, however bald and commonplace the narrative, can cheat it of its romance and heroism. That he was one of the chief of the American “Aces” is in itself an epitome of adventure that might easily be elaborated into a volume.

Lufbery was an adventurer in the dashing sense of the word. His blood was filled with the essence of unrest, the energy of motion that would not let him stay fixed to place. When he was seventeen years old Wallingford held him too much cabined and confined. He ran away from home as an explorer of the unknown world. Drawn, perhaps, by the spell of ancestral affinities, he made his way to France and wandered from place to place in the land of legend and romance, working at any job that would provide his keep and supply him with funds for his next excursion.

From France he sailed to Algiers, where he remained till he had satisfied his interest, when he set off for other scenes—Egypt, the Balkans, Germany, South America and then back to Wallingford for a peep at the home folks. He chuckled appreciatively on learning that his father was off doing a bit of globe-vagabonding on his own account.

© _Press Illustrating Service._

Major Raoul Lufbery, an American, Who Was Loved by Fellow-Flyers]

He stopped at home for a year, when the wander-bubbles of his blood got into ferment again, and trotting down to New Orleans he was tempted by military possibilities and enlisted in the Regular Army. He was sent to the Philippines, where he displayed such proficiency as rifleman that he won all the regimental prizes for the best marksmanship. That skill in getting bullets into the right spot was one of his great assets when he came to battling in the air over the fields of France.

But even the Army waxed tame for Lufbery, and when his term of enlistment expired he was ready and eager to nose out what the still strange parts of the world had to offer him. He sailed for Japan, sampled the beauties and novelties of that country and then dipped into China. From China he went into India. A characteristic anecdote is told of him as ticket-seller in one of the railway stations of India. It has been said that he sustained himself with any kind of odd job as he roamed the world, and ticket-selling was one of the tedious sort of occupations least to his liking. A pompous type of native one day stood at the wicket.

“Want a ticket?” Lufbery asked.

“Say ‘Sir’ when you speak to me,” said the native, loftily.

THE PRICE OF A JOB

With never a wink, Lufbery left his place, approached the offended person, took him by the back of the neck and with neatness and dispatch ejected him from the station. Under English civil law one is promptly summoned for assault, and as the person Lufbery had treated so summarily in accord with his own ideas of fitness chanced to be the richest and most influential merchant of Bombay, the summons cost the ticket-seller his place. Cochin-China was his resort, Saigon his haven, and there, if you please, he viewed with envious admiration the aerial antics of Marc Pourpe, the famous trick flyer.

There came a day when Pourpe lost his mechanic, and his exhibitions came to a stop while he made vain quest among the natives for a substitute. None cared for the office, preferring infinitely the understood foundation of Mother Earth to antics in the air. Quite right—Lufbery applied for the job. Was he a mechanic? No. Did he know anything about an aeroplane motor? Not a thing.

“Why the deuce, then, do you come bothering me?” demanded the irritated Pourpe.

“I don’t know the job now,” Lufbery said, “but I can learn. You only have to show me once. Take me on. You won’t regret it. I’m not afraid of work.”

Marc Pourpe is quoted as saying to some friends later in relating the incident:

“His reasoning was full of logic. His method was original. I agreed, and I will say that never have I seen a person more devoted, more intelligent and more useful. He is already better informed about a motor than most of the so-called mechanics of Paris. Moreover, this boy has hung his hat in every country in the world. He is not a man, he is an encyclopedia. He can tell you what the weather is in a given season in Japan, in Egypt, in America, or in France. He observes everything and once he has noticed it, it is engraved on his memory.

“He told me that in all his travels he had never been more than a week without working. He was hospital interne at Cairo, a stevedore in Calcutta, station master in India, a soldier in America. I am glad he is now a mechanic.

“If he likes it, I will take him back with me at the end of my tour and will keep him with me. It is rare to find a good mechanic. His name is _Raoul Lafberg_, and he spent his childhood in the vicinity of Bourges. If I return with him, you will see what a sympathetic character chance has thrown in my way. So once more in my life everything goes well.”

This shift of name on the sudden from Lufbery to Lafberg was due to a hope that the Frenchified turn would the more favorably determine Pourpe to engage his services, especially as Lufbery spoke French fluently, having learned it in his three years’ stay in France.

JOINS THE FOREIGN LEGION

So it was that Lufbery, as Pourpe’s mechanic, found himself in France when the war storm burst. Pourpe, who had a new type of plane, promptly enlisted as a flyer for his beloved France. As an American Lufbery could not be accepted except as a member of the Foreign Legion, which he hastened to join in the expectation that he could be transferred thence to service with his friend, which was done. But they were not long together at the front. Pourpe was killed the first or second of December, 1914.

Thereupon Lufbery applied for admission to the regular French air service, which was granted and in a short time he was on the front with the Escadrille of bombardment, V. 102.

But it was not until he joined the newly organized Escadrille Lafayette that his career of distinction began. His first victim was brought down, over Etain, July 30, 1916, the second five days later. He was cited by the French Government thus:

“A model of address, of coolness, of courage. He has distinguished himself by numerous long distance bombardments and by the daily combats he has had with enemy aeroplanes. On July 30 he unhesitatingly attacked at close range four enemy machines. He shot one of them down near our own lines. He successfully brought down a second on the 4th of August, 1916.”

His record grew apace. He got his third August 8, his fourth August 12, his fifth October 12, and became an “Ace.” In December he brought down two in one day after a fight that nearly cost him his life as his jacket was torn with bullets. That victory gained him the award of the Legion of Honor. Incidentally, he was the first American to receive from England the British Military Cross which was conferred on him June 12, 1917, when his record had mounted to ten enemy planes.

That tenth plane exploit, by the way, was memorable. Lufbery was alone at an altitude of 18,000 feet when, at a distance, he saw a formation of seven Boche machines. Two of them were two-seater observation machines, the others were the protective escort. He flew into the sun to wait for a chance to attack. Soon one of the seven cut loose from the others, and immediately Lufbery dived for it and began firing, taking the enemy by surprise. After thirty shots or so his gun jammed, but no more shots were necessary. The enemy machine wobbled, shifted and began its downward plunge, and as Lufbery volplaned away he saw the wrecked machine crash into the German trenches.

In an article written for the French publication _La Guerre Aérienne_, Lufbery describes an encounter he had one day when he was sent scouting over the Vosges, the panoramic beauty of which had so enthralled him he flew in sheer delight of the vision, nevertheless “all the time on guard.”

Suddenly an enemy appeared a little below and behind him. He wrote:

“It is a little one-seater biplane of the Fokker or Halberstadt type. A glance around assures me that he is alone. I am surprised at this, for it is certainly the first time that a machine of this sort has deliberately placed itself in a position so disadvantageous for fighting. Perhaps it is a trap. One never knows! If it only may prove to be a beginner, lacking experience, who listens to nothing but his courage in his purpose to become one of the great Aces of his country.”

ATTACKS A MASTER OF HIS ART

“However that may be, the wind keeps blowing from the west and carries me farther and farther into the lines. It will not do to allow the Boche to have this advantage too long: I decide to begin the attack without losing another second.

“An about face, followed by a sudden double spin, carries me a little behind my adversary. Profiting by this advantage I dive upon him, but with a remarkable skill he gets out of range of my machine gun. He has anticipated my maneuver and parried the blow before it was struck. I am now aware that I have to do with a master of his art. This first encounter has proved it to me.

“Making my machine tango from right to left, I saw him again below me but much nearer than before by at least forty yards.

“Suddenly he noses up as if to begin a looping, and in this awkward position fires a volley at me which I dodge by a half turn to the right. A second time I attack but with no more success. The wind carries us to the north of Mulhouse, and I begin to ask myself if I am not playing my adversary’s game for him in delaying longer.

“At this moment I chanced to glance in the direction of Belfort, which was about twelve miles within our lines. I perceived in the air little white flakes. Evidence of the presence of a Boche.

“A lucky chance! I had now an excuse for abandoning without loss of honor the match, which I confess I am not at all sorry to leave. Only before leaving my adversary I feel that I must show him that I appreciate that he is a valiant foe and respect him as such. Drawing my left arm out of the fuselage I wave him a sign of adieu. He understands and desires to show courtesy on his part, for he returns my farewell.

“All my attention is turned toward him whom I already consider as my new prey, a big white two-seater of very substantial appearance.

“I draw nearer and nearer to him. Good luck! For the first time since I have been a chaser I am going to have the good fortune to battle within our lines. Also this increases my confidence until it makes me disregard measures of caution, even the science of tactics.

“Another motive impels me to take more than ordinary risks. I am determined that he shall not escape me, and I make up my mind to shoot at him until I have won the victory.

“What joy if I can only lodge a ball in his motor, or in his gasoline tank, which would oblige him to make a landing on French soil! Then I should be able to speak with the conquered and ask them their impressions of the aerial duel in which they had just taken part. But there is an old French proverb which says ‘You must not sell the skin of the bear before you have killed him.’ I had occasion that day to prove the wisdom of this as you shall soon see.”

“POOR COUCOU”

“Enough of dreaming! The moment for action has arrived. Quickly I place myself in the rear and on the tail of my enemy from whom I am separated by a distance of about fifty yards. Then I open fire with my machine gun, and continue firing up to the moment when my plane, his superior in speed, arrives so near the big two-seater that a collision seems inevitable.

“Quickly I pull up, leap over the obstacle, and fall in a glide on the right wing. Increasing my speed I re-establish my equilibrium and prepare to tempt fortune a second time.

“Curse the luck! It is of no use. The motor, the soul of my aeroplane, has received a mortal wound and is about to draw its last breath.

“Turning my head I discover that the ailerons are also seriously injured. My enemy fortunately does not seem to wish to profit by the situation. He continues his flight in the direction of his own lines. Perhaps I have wounded him very seriously. I hope so. Anyway, his flight leaves me master of the field. But that is a very small consolation. And also of short duration; for I am coming down faster and faster. At last I safely take the ground on the nearest flying field within gliding distance.

“Pilots, observers, mechanics surround me and besiege me with questions. They have seen the fight and want the details. For the moment I do not explain much but that I have encountered a Boche who does not understand joking! Besides, I was in a hurry to examine the wounds of my little aeroplane. It is very ill, poor thing! Three bullets in the motor, the gasoline tank ruined, a strut out of commission, many holes in the hood, finally the left aileron was cut and broken off by the bullets. It had made its last flight! Poor Coucou!”

An admirable story of Lufbery in _Heroes of Aviation_ says in conclusion:

“To recount all the aerial successes of this American champion is but to repeat the usual details of his sober inspection of his aeroplane and his arms before dawn; his calm scrutiny of the skies for the black crosses of the enemy planes; his adroit maneuvering for the best position from which to surprise the foe; his determined and patient attack; his exactness in machine gun marksmanship; his jubilant return to his comrades with another certain victory on his score.

“During months of his service in France Lufbery suffered from acute seizures of rheumatism which frequently necessitated his return to the hospital. Quiet and unassuming in his conversation, Lufbery won universal respect from the mechanics and affectionate loyalty from his comrades. Every one who met him felt as Marc Pourpe wrote, ‘He is not a man, he is an encyclopedia.’

“When America entered the war and began her preparations for her own Air Service in France, certain of the experienced fighting pilots who had been fighting for France were given charge of the new American escadrilles. Lufbery and William Thaw, both original members of N. 124, the Escadrille Lafayette, were commissioned Majors. To them fell the task of organizing the eager youths who were to assist in clearing from the skies of France the invading Huns.

“Possessed of all the honors that his army could bestow upon a noble Soldier, and wracked with physical pains that were daily increased by inclement weather, an ordinary man would have been satisfied to seek his ease and fill his required duties with the instructions to his pilots. But Major Lufbery instructed by example, not by speech. Not unmindful of his value to his comrades as their mentor and commander and impelled by an ardor that knew no rest, Lufbery continued his active patrolling, exposed himself to every risk.”

THE LAST FLIGHT

“On Sunday, May 19th, the American Ace went aloft over Toul with his fighting squadron. Enemy fighting machines were flying over the American line. The latest designed Fokker aeroplane, a single-seater triplane, appeared deep enough within our territory to be cut off before he could escape. Lufbery darted swiftly to the attack.

“Exact details of any air combat are known only to the combatants. Fighting machines of to-day move with a speed of 140 miles per hour. Approaching each other they lessen the distance between them at the rate of over 400 feet each second. Let some one calculate the fraction of an instant given to the pilot in which he plans his maneuver, alters his position, takes his aim, and presses the trigger!

“Lufbery’s machine fell in flames. He was seen to jump from the blazing mass when 2,000 feet from the ground. A parachute attachment might have saved his life as his body was found to be uninjured from the enemy’s fire. A non-inflammable fuel tank might have permitted him to continue his attack until the Fokker triplane dropped as his nineteenth victory.

“Deprived of these improvements, Lufbery died. With his lamented loss the title of the American Ace of Aces passed to Sergeant Frank L. Baylies, of New Bedford, Massachusetts, who after eight months at the front, had amassed a total of twelve enemy machines. Upon the gallant death of Baylies, Lieutenant Putnam of Brookline, Massachusetts, with ten official victories, headed the American list of Aces.”

Though officially credited with only eighteen planes brought down in single combat, Lufbery was, in fact, the victor over twice that number of enemy planes. The rule for official recognition requires that a fall must be attested by eye-witnesses in addition to the flyer. Many of Lufbery’s “downs” were inside the enemy lines beyond the observation of any of his comrades, and others fell in such a way that it could not be said positively that they were destroyed.

THE LAFAYETTE ESCADRILLE

An Air Squadron Made Famous by American Youth Before America Entered the War

In the first years of the war, when the war was yet a European War, when America as a nation was not ready to act, a group of American boys—roused by the righteousness of the war against Germany, and longing to help France—finally enlisted in the French aviation service. They had come to repay the debt America owed to the people who had sent Lafayette in her time of need. Therefore their section was given the name of Lafayette Escadrille. Americans glory in the homage paid to the daring deeds of Kiffin Rockwell, Victor Chapman, Norman Prince and Jim McConnell, of Thaw, Lufbery, Hall, Masson and Cowdin. Jim McConnell wrote a little book called _Flying for France_ (Doubleday, Page & Company), in which he describes with a vividness born of the gallant affection he felt for his friends and comrades the deeds of that glorious group, and the deaths of three of them. Then he too fell.

McConnell first joined the American ambulance service in the Vosges, and was mentioned several times for conspicuous bravery in saving wounded under fire. It was in the ambulance service that he won the Croix de Guerre.

Gradually, however, this heroism drew on a deeper feeling. The spirit of adventure gave way to the spirit of liberty. France’s struggle took on a new aspect. McConnell gave up the ambulance service and enlisted in the French flying corps.