Chapter III: Part 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*MY FIRST FLIGHT OVER THE LINES*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still another risk is encountered when flying in the clouds. A cloud is dangerous at any time because there may be an enemy--or, in fact, any machine--in it. If you enter the mist you may be going head on into another aeroplane without having the slightest warning of its presence. Your own motor makes so much noise that you never under any circumstances hear that of another machine until too late. You are in consequence deprived of both your eyesight and your hearing. At the front the risk of meeting an enemy aeroplane under such circumstances can never be overlooked, for often fighting machines use the mist to cover their presence.

Shells also have to be carefully avoided, for, though destined for some far-away target below you, they sometimes in their flight destroy aeroplanes unintentionally. As I have already explained, we devoted much time to this subject at Chateauroux, learning the trajectories of the different calibers. Still, at the front, the theory is not so easily put into practice. It seems almost impossible to keep track of all the artillery massed by your own side, especially in such a sector as Verdun, where the guns often were placed so close together that their wheels almost touched. On more than one occasion when flying quietly through the air my machine has given a sudden lurch, and I have heard the dull "tung" of a passing shell. There is none of the whistling we are accustomed to on the earth; merely the dulled sound caused by the sudden displacement of the air.

My own machine finally arrived, after delays that seemed interminable, and my two mechanics immediately set to work installing the various instruments, and painting it. These two men were personally responsible to me for the condition of the motor and planes, but, as pilot, I was the master of the machine, which was reserved for my own use. In fact, each aeroplane has painted on its body and rudder the name and distinguishing marks of its pilot and escadrille.

After a few short flights I became aware of the fact that my biplane, in spite of all my efforts to correct it, showed a strong tendency to lean to the right. At times I could hardly make a turn to the left. This was a serious matter at the front, as an enemy might at any moment appear on my "weak" side and I would be placed in a serious position. I therefore mentioned the matter to my captain. To my surprise, he immediately ordered a new machine for me and gave directions that the one I was using should be sent back to the factory. The defect in this particular case was one mechanics could not remedy, and it seems that it was nothing out of the ordinary to send a machine back to the shops. At the front a pilot must have a perfect machine to work with or none at all. The life of a good aeroplane seldom is more than fifty hours of actual flying.

During this time the organization of the escadrille was perfected. The pilots were divided into two "watches," one-half being on duty while the other was "standing by" ready for service in case of emergency. All the pilots except myself were "disponibles." I was exempt because I had no machine, and was therefore for the time being my own master, even when it came to rising in the morning. When the others on duty were awakened, at early dawn, I would be awakened with the rest. My turn had not yet come, however, and I could just turn over and sleep to my heart's content.

Our camp looked like a little tented city; there were seven enormous canvas hangars, and grouped about these six other tents, each serving a particular purpose: captain's office, wireless plant, telephone central, repair-shop, photographic division, and kitchen. At one end of the field were the living-quarters of the captain and the observers, while at the other were parked the thirty automobiles of our two escadrilles. On the opposite sides of the field were the quarters of the pilots of the two escadrilles. The mechanics slept in the hangars with their machines.

Considering everything, we were fairly comfortable. The pilots of each escadrille shared two large tents, and in addition each group had a large mess-tent. Inside each sleeping-tent each one of us had a little alcove. Our cots were raised on wooden platforms. At one end we fitted up a shower-bath, for which purpose a gasolene tank punctured with holes proved ideal. Of course, every time you wanted a bath some one had to empty pails of water into the "tank" above you. Our mess--"popotte" they call it in the French army--was very good. We had a regular daily allowance from the government, but this was not always enough to buy all the supplies we needed. We therefore instituted a system of fines, and our treasurer provided our table with a small tin box in lieu of a centrepiece.

Bad language or talking "shop" before coffee involved a ten-centime fine, which had to be dropped into the bank at once. This regulation proved a godsend to the mess--and to our conversation.

As I was not "disponible," I was sent on several trips with the staff automobile. Its most frequent runs were to the artillery headquarters to deliver photographs of the enemy's positions. These were situated in a near-by village, within sight of the German trenches. All the roads approaching this place were masked, and the town itself was in ruins. Everywhere sand-bags reinforced the stone walls. The telephone central was a veritable fortress, and continually within the zone of the German artillery "strafes." The life of the officers of the Etat-Major was certainly not an enviable or an easy one.

*CO-OPERATING WITH THE ARTILLERY*

By the time my second machine arrived I had been at the front long enough to appreciate the role played by each of the different types of aeroplanes used in this great conflict. Camped near us was a bombarding unit. Every night when the heavens were clear these machines would go up, turning great circles over our heads until they reached the desired altitude. They would then vanish with their destructive bombs in the direction of the enemy. We could always tell when they passed over the lines, for the German search-lights would become very active, and the sky would become dotted with sparks, which in reality were exploding shrapnel. Then, in the early hours of the morning, they would return, having flown far into the enemy's country to drop their bombs. This is tiresome and disagreeable duty, but not by any means as dangerous a one as the other branches of aviation, for bombers are practically free from interruption by enemy aeroplanes in the dark.

Camped with us was the famous N-64, the crack fighting unit of the French Aviation Corps. Among its pilots were such famous aviators as Navarre, Nungesser, and Vialet, known familiarly as the "aces." Every evening just before sunset these men would take their machines up in the twilight and do "stunts" for the benefit of hundreds of admiring "poilus" gathered from neighboring camps. These were the self-same "stunts" which on many occasions had enabled them to escape from sure death at the hands of some superior enemy force. As I have said before, the fighting work, although in reality the safest, requires the most experienced and accomplished pilots. The chief duty of the Nieuports is "barrage," or sentry duty. There are always several of them flying over the lines, on the lookout for some "Boche." It is their task to swoop down like a hawk upon them and destroy or else drive them away. Of course, our own "avions de chasse" are as liable to be attacked by the enemy, and they must in consequence be continually on the "qui vive."

When one of the larger reconnoissance machines is compelled to go far into the German lines on special-mission work, it is usually accompanied by a body-guard of several Nieuports. Spies, on the other hand, are carried only in the fast-flying Nieuports, which in this case are double-seated. It seems that it is comparatively easy to take a man over and leave him far in the rear of the German trenches, but going back for him is another matter. After several days the pilot returns to a prearranged place, but, as sometimes happens, his compatriot may have been caught. In this case a like fate usually awaits him at the hands of the watchful enemy.

For reconnoissance work the large bi-motor Caudrons are generally used. They are fitted with a small wireless apparatus; but this means of communication cannot be used very often. The machines, on many occasions, have to go beyond the effective radius of their radio, and at other times its use is inadvisable, as its messages might become known, or else blocked by the enemy. Resort has been had, therefore, to carrier-pigeons. These are released the moment any important information has to be conveyed to headquarters, and these swift little messengers have proved extremely useful and reliable. Their use has, in consequence, become general.

The bimotor Caudrons are employed also by the photography section of the army, though much of this work is actually done by artillery machines detailed for this service. Photography is a dangerous duty, because the flights have to be made at low altitudes to obtain the best results. On the other hand, it is not at all tedious. The mission upon which the machine has been sent is usually accomplished in a brief space of time, and the machine often stays out less than an hour. In comparison with the amount of flying required of the aviators in the other branches of the service, which varies in length from three to five hours a day, photography is easy work.

"Reglage," or fire-control, on the other hand, is the most difficult and the most dangerous work to be performed by the Flying Corps at the front. The machines used are large and unwieldy, built to carry the weight of two men and all sorts of equipment. They are fairly fast, but their spread of wing is so large that it is almost impossible for them to make a turn quickly when attacked. They are armed with a machine gun, it is true, but they are always at a great disadvantage in the presence of an enemy fighting-machine which can out-manoeuvre them at every turn.

The first duty to which I was assigned was "reglage," and this, I found, involves many complications. The chief source of trouble usually is the wireless apparatus, which has to be maintained in perfect working order. Before leaving the home field you usually circle over it, while your observer tests his sending apparatus. The receiving operator then answers by visual signals. Usually these are large white sheets laid on the ground in different formations, which have a prearranged meaning. When the radio is found to be in perfect order you are off to the battery you have been ordered to co-operate with. By wireless your observer then reports to the battery commander, and receives his orders by means of the same visual signals. You then head in the direction indicated to you before leaving, and, hovering over the position to be bombarded, the observer signals back "fire." The moment the shells have landed you turn quickly about and inform the artillery just how many metres their fire was long, short, or to the right or left. Your message is once more answered with the sheets. Again you fly back toward the enemy's position, circling in this way backward and forward between the battery and the target until the reglage is completed. Naturally every care must be taken not to disclose the position of your own guns to the enemy, or retaliation--"strafe," the English call it--summarily follows. Sometimes it is the battery which interrupts the work with the signal, "Avion ennemi," when the fire instantly ceases until the German aeroplane has disappeared or been driven off.

With such occasional interruptions the work continues until your observer can send back the signal "fire correct," which is generally answered by the "sheet signal" with the information that you may return home. Until this dismissal occurs, however, the ground below wholly engrosses the attention of your observer. You yourself are forced to keep a close watch for Boche fighting-machines so as not to be caught unawares by one of them. This is often a very trying task, as the models of some of the French and German aeroplanes are so very much alike that they cannot be distinguished until they are within range. The tricolor cockade and the black iron cross painted on the top and bottom of each wing serve to identify the fliers of the two belligerents, but these colors cannot be seen very far. You consequently have little warning as to whether the approaching planes are friends or foes.

Sometimes the enemy's anti-aircraft batteries become a bit too familiar. On such occasions the observer tries to signal to his batteries to drop a shell or two where these pieces are mounted. Often quiet is not restored until the machine has been more or less riddled with shrapnel bullets.

One reglage is very much like another, and when you have read the description of one you become familiar with them all. It is only in the results accomplished that the details vary.

It is a curious fact that in the first months of the war many artillery officers refused to follow the directions of their aerial observers. A colonel of artillery who has been firing big guns all his life cannot be blamed for not thinking that a young observation officer and a mere aviator know enough about the work of batteries to tell him where his shells are falling. Orders, consequently, had to be issued placing the artillery absolutely under the direction of the observers and calling upon the pilots to report any case where a battery refused to be guided by the signals it received. That put an end to the trouble.

At first I felt a strong aversion to flying over batteries in action. You are bound to get in close proximity to the trajectory of the shells, and the constant sensation and sound of the passing projectiles is none too pleasant. You get them both coming and going, and, no matter which you are trying to avoid, you are always taking a chance with the other. It is a question of choosing between the devil and the deep sea, with the devil constantly stepping into your path.

When you are observing for the artillery you must stay and die, if necessary, in the performance of your assigned duty. It is another matter with reconnoissance or photographic work. Here the main thing is to get back to headquarters with the information you have gained. If you are attacked and you see no chance of successfully fighting off the enemy, it is your business to run.

After some weeks of service with the fire-control detail I was ordered to serve as a photography pilot. This I found a most interesting duty. Whenever we received orders to photograph a position we would start out immediately, flying very low--say, from one thousand eight hundred to three thousand feet. As we reached the part of the enemy's positions to be photographed I would fly in parallel lines, while my observer took the photographs with a specially constructed telephoto camera. We would then hasten back to camp and immediately hand the plates over to the sergeant in charge of the dark room. This taciturn non-com would waste no time with words. In a few moments the photographs would be ready and on their way to headquarters. On several occasions I have seen photographs placed in the hands of the Etat-Major within an hour and a half after the order had been issued by the commanding officer there--examples of celerity and efficiency of service which have placed the photographic branch of aviation "hors concours."

*ALL IN THE DAY'S WORK*

It is strange how easily you become accustomed to being at the front. At first you sense your proximity to the vast military operations that are in progress, but after a while the newness wears off. One day passes like another without special notice, although daily something out of the ordinary is occurring somewhere along the western front. These experiences, however, generally fall to the lot of the fighting-machines. We of the artillery and photography sections share only the dangers. It is all in the day's work.

I remember one curious incident that occurred while I was in the Verdun sector. Victor Chapman, who was doing combat work with the American Escadrille after a brush with four German aeroplanes, was forced to descend to our field. Not only had he received a bad scalp-wound from a bullet but his machine had been riddled and nearly wrecked. One bullet had even severed a metal stability control. By all the rules of aviation he should have lost control of his aeroplane and met with a fatal accident. But Chapman was an expert pilot. He simply held on to the broken rod with one hand, while with the other he steered his machine. This needed all the strength at his command, but he had the power and the skill necessary to bring him safely to earth. A surgeon immediately dressed his wound, our mechanics repaired his machine. The repairs completed, he was off and up again in pursuit of some more Boches. I must say that every one considered him a remarkable pilot. He was absolutely fearless, and always willing and able to fly more than was ever required of him. His machine was a sieve of patched-up bullet-holes. A few days later came his last fight. He was carrying two bags of oranges to Clyde Balsley, who lay wounded in a hospital not far away. There was an aerial combat against odds within the German lines, and Chapman lost no time in going to the aid of his hard-pressed comrades. He brought down one of the enemy airmen, but the others were still too numerous, and the fight then was only a matter of seconds. He was last seen falling behind the German lines.

Balsley had been wounded in an encounter with several Germans. He was doing well, when he was struck in the thigh by an explosive bullet which burst in his stomach. He immediately lost all consciousness. His machine began to tumble straight toward the lines. Just before reaching the ground, however, Balsley regained his senses sufficiently to realize what was happening. By a superhuman effort he managed to right his machine and make a landing in a neighboring meadow. He was carried to a near-by hospital, where for days he wavered between life and death. Two fragments of the explosive bullet were removed from his intestines. These he kept wrapped up in a handkerchief as proof that the enemy, despite their denials, do violate the rules of civilized warfare. For a long time the only nourishment he could take was the juice of oranges, and that was why Chapman was on this mission on that unfortunate day.

A sad accident occurred on a neighboring aviation-field while I was at the front. The captain of one of the escadrilles had visiting him his younger brother, a bright lad of nineteen. The boy was unusually well-informed about aeronautical matters, but he had never made a flight. His request to go up was acceded to, but the captain did not want to take him, so he asked one of his officers, the best pilot in the escadrille, to take him as a passenger. I suppose that the lieutenant was on his mettle, for before his machine was three hundred feet from the ground he began to do stunts. He was a past master in his art, but a bit too bold. Suddenly his machine slipped off on the wing, and crashed to the ground. Even the best pilot was not immune against fate.

Our escadrille also met with a heart-breaking tragedy. One of our pilots, who had only recently joined us, was making his first flight over the lines with a young artillery officer, who was also inexperienced. Unluckily they flew too low and were brought down by rifle-fire. No one yet knows whether the pilot was mortally wounded or if it was the machine that was disabled. At any rate, the aeroplane came down in no man's land, between the French and German lines. The poilus immediately made a sally to rescue the two men and save their maps and important papers. The Germans had like intentions and opened a murderous fire upon them with their machine guns, trying themselves to reach the aeroplane. The result was a hand-to-hand struggle, and then a deadlock. Each feared that the other would reach the goal under cover of darkness. For a while there was a lull on both sides. Then an inferno burst loose. Machine guns and field-pieces showered the unfortunate aviators with shell and shrapnel. In a short while the machine and its occupants were completely annihilated. The men, I believe, were alive when they landed, but it was impossible to save them. If the pilot could have steered fifty yards to the right or left, they would have been inside either line and their lives would have been spared. As it was, there never will be a monument to mark the spot where they perished at the hands of both friend and foe.

Occasionally the bombarding escadrilles have thrilling experiences to narrate. I remember one case in particular. The raiders were returning from a long flight into the enemy's territory when they were attacked by a group of German fighting-planes. An incendiary bullet pierced the gasolene-tank of one of the French machines and ignited it. The pilot knew that he was sure to be "grille" and that he did not have time even to reach the ground. His minutes were numbered. Without a moment's hesitation he turned his machine sharply about and headed straight for one of his pursuers. The German tried to avoid the head-on collision, but he was too late. There was a sickening crash and both machines fell to earth.

Another case of desperate courage that attracted wide-spread comment occurred about the same time. This also related to a bomber who had been over the German trenches. The pilot was about to spiral down for the landing, when his passenger looked out to see if everything was in good order. To his horror, he noticed that two of the bombs were still unreleased, having become caught on the chassis or running-gear of the machine. If they landed in this condition, there was every likelihood that there would be nothing to mark their landing-place but a deep crater in the ground. The two men were desperate. To climb down and unhook the bombs seemed impossible. No one had ever been known to do it. It was like clambering up to the main truck of a sailing vessel in the teeth of a hurricane. It was the only alternative left to them. The passenger mustered up his courage and climbed out on the wing and then down on the running-gear. Holding on with only one hand, he leaned down and carefully loosed the bombs with the other. It was a splendid exhibition of nerve and courage, and it saved the lives of both men.

Now and then you meet a pilot who has had a real adventure, but this is something only the most venturesome have to their credit. Not long ago, during an extensive reconnoissance behind the German lines, one of the pilots found himself flying parallel with an important railroad line. Presently he overtook a troop-train going in the same direction. Flying very low, he raked the cars with his machine gun until his magazine was empty. He then caught up with the engine and shot the engineer and fireman with his revolver. A little farther there was a sharp turn in the road, which the train took at full speed. Every car left the rails, and hundreds of soldiers perished when the train crashed down into the ravine below. The pilot confessed that he was sickened by the sight of the disaster, but it was war and he simply had to do it.

As far as my own experience at the front is concerned, it was unusually uneventful. My machine was never once hit by shrapnel nor was it attacked by the enemy. In fact, the work was very monotonous, one day being exactly like another. After six weeks I applied to my captain for permission to pass into a fighting escadrille, where the experience I had gained on the slower machines would be very useful and the work more agreeable. To my delight, my request was granted, and forty-eight hours later I received my orders to proceed without delay to the Ecole de Combat at Pau for further training.

It seemed rather strange, after weeks of actual service, to be leaving the front to go again to school. I had become so used to the life that the muddy fields and the little tents began to seem like home to me. Now that it was over, the "popotte" served to us in the mess-tent was most palatable, and I knew that I would miss the restraining influence of our system of fines.

The captain took me to Bar-le-Duc in his own automobile. As we left the field of our activities I looked back at our little camp. The mechanics were busy in the great canvas hangars, cleaning and repairing the aeroplanes and motors. Others loitered outside waiting for the return of their "patron" or for their pilot to go up. No one complained of the work or of the danger. It was indeed a privilege to be with such men. I felt a pang of regret at leaving them. Though they called out a cheery "Au revoir!" and "Bonne chance!" I knew that the parting was not so light-hearted.

*JULY 14TH, 1916*

My trip back to Paris was very much like the one I had made in the opposite direction about six weeks before. Bar-le-Duc seemed unchanged as far as the outward signs were concerned. The movement of troops was just as great as during the previous weeks, only this time the regiments were leaving Verdun. The German efforts to take the fortress had failed signally and the offensive had passed to the French in the region of the Somme.

My train was very late in starting. Although scheduled for five in the afternoon, it did not actually get off until after midnight. It was filled to overflowing with permissionnaires and the crowded cars reminded me of a New York City rush hour in the subway. Fortunately there was a dining-car attached to the train. As this was kept open all night, we did not have to go hungry, and every one kept in the best of humor. It was interesting to see how quickly the men forgot what they had been through at the front. Within a few hours the permissionnaires were thinking only of the holiday which they were going to enjoy, of the good times they were going to have on the boulevards, and of home. The horror of battle was entirely left behind.

When we arrived at the Gare de l'Est it was barely five o'clock. The quais, however, were crowded with women who had apparently waited all night to greet their loved ones. Every one seemed so happy. The men made no attempt to control their feelings. Tears veiled many a pair of eyes. How strange the contrast between this return and the departure for the front that I had witnessed not very long before!

Before leaving the station I had to have my papers stamped by the military authorities. This done, I hurried to a hotel. I was so tired after the journey that I could hardly keep my eyes open. It was not long before I was fast asleep.

When I awoke it was already late. I dressed and went out on the streets. To my surprise, large crowds lined the sidewalks. All seemed so gay. This was almost too sudden a transition from the type of crowds I was used to seeing in the Verdun sector. Then I remembered. It was the fourteenth of July, the "Fete nationale," always a great day for the French people, but especially so this year. Some one soon informed me that there was to be a great review of the Allied troops, and that every one was in consequence "en fete." At the front, however, I had heard little of this.

At the Place de la Concorde the throng was immense. The more enterprising had provided themselves with boxes and ladders to stand and sit on. Others good-naturedly climbed up on the lamp-posts. The rest craned their necks in an effort to miss nothing of what was going on.

Earlier in the day the statues of the cities of Strasbourg and Lille had been bedecked with flowers. At the Petit Palais the President of the Republic had decorated, as is now the custom, the wives and children of those who had fallen on the "champ d'honneur" before their gallantry and patriotism could be rewarded.

As I reached the place the head of the parade swung out from the Champs-Elysees. It was the most impressive spectacle I have ever witnessed. Every one in the crowd showed his emotion. The women could not conceal their tears, and the men only with difficulty restrained their feelings. First came the Dragoons, followed by the Belgian Bicycle Corps. Then the khaki-clad French African troops, with only their red fezes to remind one of their once showy uniforms. Their mitrailleuses came next, brought back from the front to accompany the gallant regiment on this occasion. The crowd then commenced to roar. A battery of 75's then came into view, the "soixante-quinzes," which to the Frenchman symbolize victory. Suddenly the crowd became attentive and quiet. The Russians were singing their deep battle-hymn as they marched. They were fierce-looking giants, and as they swung by to the wild, measured beats of their chants, the people were silent with admiration.

After the "barbarians," as the Germans call them, followed the Anglo-Saxons, clad in their khaki uniforms, the perfection of utility and smartness. There were the English, the Australians, and the Canadians, and, following them, a regiment of Indian cavalry. Then came the Scotch, headed by their pipers. They marched perfectly, swinging their legs in unison. Each time their right feet came forward a hundred white tartans rose together and exposed to the view of the astonished populace a hundred kilts and a hundred bare knees.

After the Allies came the French. The first regiment was from the Twentieth Corps. These were the men who had saved Verdun. There were many other units represented, many other regiments and brigades, but none received the welcome and the enthusiasm caused by the appearance of "Petain's Iron Brigade" as they marched by in their quick, business-like step, with bayonets fixed to their rifles.

There have been many parades in Paris during the past decade, but there never was one like this. It was not a review--it was a war. Yesterday all these men were at the front. To-morrow they would be back there again. For them this was only a momentary drop of the curtain on the tragedy in which they had been called upon to be participants. I could not help thinking of these poor fellows, some of whom I had very likely seen before, passing me in ambulances and motor-buses, muddy from head to foot and benumbed by the shock of battle. How many of these that I was seeing to-day would be in the ranks at the next review? I doubt whether these thoughts were in their minds. To-morrow they would be on their way to take part in the battle of the Somme, but with refreshed spirits and light hearts.

There was very little gayety or color in the parade. All the troops were in their service uniforms. This was an hour of heroism and suffering, an hour of fixed determination which impressed upon one the feeling that the Germans could never win the war.

After the troops had filed by I joined some friends on the boulevards. It seemed difficult to believe that only a few miles away the hostile lines were linked in a death-grapple. Paris seemed normal. Of course there was not the animation that we formerly associated with the French capital, but there was little to remind one of the great conflict--only the aeroplanes patrolling overhead and the hundreds of permissionnaires wandering about the streets in their weather-stained and battle-stained uniforms.

That night I had to leave Paris for Dijon, to report at headquarters before going to Pau. By a strange coincidence I arrived at the same hour as on my first appearance to enlist. Now I viewed everything with different eyes. Instead of being a mere "petit bleu," as they call the young soldier, I was now a "pilote" who had been at the front. I felt privileged therefore to walk right up to the buffet, and before long I was sharing a bottle of wine with a captain, a sergeant, and a second-class poilu. Such is the democracy of war.

*THE FINISHING TOUCHES*

Great changes had taken place at Pau since my first visit six months before. The school had been improved and enlarged. Permanent sheds had replaced the canvas hangars, and the German prisoners had built a narrow-gauge railway from the town out to the field. The trains ran out to the aviation school every morning and afternoon, and returned before luncheon and again in the evening. This was a great convenience for many of us and in bad weather saved us many a long, weary walk. When the days were clear, however, we often made the journey on foot, as in this way we had sufficient exercise to keep us in good physical condition.

Only men who had already qualified as pilots or who had had previous experience at the front were allowed at the Ecole de Combat. We enjoyed practically the same liberties as at the front. We were free to go where we pleased, except during the working hours, when strict attendance and discipline were enforced.

I thought that my previous experience with the heavier machines would enable me to omit some of the more elementary courses, but this was not the case. I had to start at the very bottom. The management of a monoplane or of a small Nieuport is more delicate than anything I had ever tried, and the pilots have, therefore, to acquire a new "sense of touch" which is not required when flying in the larger biplanes.

My first assignment was to a Penguin, so called because it is nothing more than a Bleriot monoplane with its wings cut down so that it cannot fly. The Penguins, however, are just as difficult to manage as a full-fledged flying-machine, for on the ground your movements have to be more rough than when flying in the air. There are so many irregularities and air currents to affect your course that you have to be very quick with the controls. The Penguin, besides, does not answer the rudder as easily as the other types. I found that it was very difficult to keep a straight course when tearing across a field at the rate of about forty miles an hour. It was comical to see how the clumsy contraption behaved, turning circles, making "chevaux de bois," rolling over on its wing, and behaving in every way like a drunken sailor trying to walk on a chalk line. You have to keep your head all the time, because the slightest misjudgment may result in an accident. When engaging a "chevaux de bois," you must turn off your motor instantly, for neglect to do so will probably cause your machine to fall over sideways on its wing. When moving you must constantly keep the tail of the Penguin in the air in an imaginary line of flight, and if the tail is lifted too high you run the risk of sticking the nose of the machine into the ground and turning an unpleasant somersault. It was really interesting to discover how much skill it takes to manage a Penguin. It was several days before I could make the six straight lines required before you are allowed to pass into the next higher class.

In the second course a thirty-horse-power Bleriot is used. I was made to fly in straight lines at very feeble altitudes, varying from twenty-five to fifty feet. The object of this instruction, it seems, is to teach the aviator how to take small, fast machines off the ground and bring them down properly. These smaller machines are able to climb much faster than the larger artillery types. This advantage is counterbalanced by the fact that they volplane much less, and are much more prone to slip off the wing. You have to handle them with the utmost care and gentleness. This point is very much emphasized in the instruction which you receive when flying in the 30-Bleriots. Their motors are so small that you have to be very careful with them. You have to go about everything very gradually, except when making a landing. Then you must dive, and dive quickly, in order to retain your momentum.

As soon as I had been pronounced "apt" on the "ligne droite," I was assigned to the 50-Bleriot. This, to my joy, included real flying. The difference between this machine and the ones I had flown in at the front was astonishing. There was practically no effort required of the pilot. The slightest move on the controls produced an instant response in the aeroplane. As in the case of the 30-Bleriot, I found that the moment the motor was shut off, on account of the lack of volplaning qualities, to descend I had to point the machine straight at the ground. With the Farman I used to glide from unbelievable distances, but now I had to change my tactics completely and learn everything over again.