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THE FLEDGLING

by

CHARLES BERNARD NORDHOFF







[Illustration: Logo]

Boston and New York
Houghton Mifflin Company
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1919

Copyright, 1917 and 1918, by the Atlantic Monthly Company
Copyright, 1919, by Charles Bernard Nordhoff
All Rights Reserved




CONTENTS


  I. A WATCHER OF THE SKIES      1

 II. THE FLEDGLING              70

III. FULL-FLEDGED               94




THE FLEDGLING




I

A WATCHER OF THE SKIES


_January 22, 1917_

We were put on active duty at the front about the first of the year; in
fact, I spent New Year's night in a dugout within pistol-shot of the
Germans. It was quite a celebration, as the French Government had
provided champagne, cakes, and oranges for all, and every one was
feeling in a cheery mood. When dinner was over, each of us chipped in
his day's ration of army wine (about a pint), and with a little brandy,
some oranges, sugar, and a packet of spices I had been commissioned to
get, we brewed a magnificent bowl of hot punch, or mulled wine. First
"The Day of Victory" was toasted, then, "France"; then, with typical
French consideration, "The United States." After that, each man's
family at home received a health; so you may be interested to know that
your health and happiness for 1917 were drunk in a first-class abri by a
crowd of first-class fellows, as all French soldiers are.

The next day was a typical one, so I will sketch it for you, to give an
idea of how we live and what we do. When the party broke up it was late,
so we turned in at once, in a deep strong dugout, which is safe against
anything short of a direct hit by a very heavy shell. Once or twice, as
I dropped off to sleep, I thought I heard furtive scamperings and
gnawings, but all was quiet until just before daybreak, when we were
awakened by a terrifying scream from a small and inoffensive soldier who
does clerical work in the office of the médecin chef. The poor fellow
has a horror of rats, and usually sleeps with head and toes tightly
bundled up. I flashed on my electric torch at the first scream and
caught a glimpse of an enormous rat--fully the size of a small fox
terrier, I assure you!--streaking it for his hole. The next minute I
made out the unfortunate little soldier holding with both hands one ear,
from which the nocturnal visitor had bitten a large mouthful, while he
did a frantic dance around the floor. First came a titter, then a choked
laugh, and finally the whole dugout howled with uncontrollable mirth,
until the victim wound on his puttees and stalked out, much offended, to
get some iodine for his ear.

As we had laughed ourselves wide awake, I passed around some cigarettes,
while another fellow went down for a pot of coffee. Dressing consists of
putting on one's shoes, puttees, and tunic--when I feel particularly
sybaritic I take off my necktie at night.

For once the sun came up in a clear blue sky and shone down frostily on
a clean white world--a metre of snow on the ground, and pines like
Christmas trees. It was wonderfully still: far away on a hillside some
one was chopping wood, and beyond the German lines I could hear a cock
crow. After stopping to ask the telephonist if there were any calls, I
took towel and soap and tooth-brush and walked to the watering trough,
where a stream of icy water runs constantly. As I strolled back, a
thumping explosion came from the trenches--some enthusiast had tossed a
grenade across as a New Year's greeting to the Boche. Retaliatory thumps
followed, and suddenly a machine-gun burst out with its abrupt stutter.
Louder and louder grew the racket as gusts of firing swept up and down
the lines, until a battery of 75's took a hand from the hills half a
mile behind us. _Crack-whang-crack_, they went, like the snapping of
some enormous whip, and I could hear their shells whine viciously
overhead.

An orderly appeared shortly, to inform me that I must make ready to
take out a few wounded. My load consisted of one poor fellow on a
stretcher, still and invisible under his swathing of blankets, and two
very lively chaps,--each with a leg smashed, but able to sit up and talk
at a great rate. We offered them stretchers, but they were refused with
gay contempt. They hopped forward to their seats, smiling and nodding
good-bye to the stretcher-bearers. Despite my efforts one of them bumped
his wounded leg and a little involuntary gasp escaped him. "Ça pique,
mon vieux," he explained apologetically; "mais ça ne fait rien--allez!"

At the hospital, several miles back, there was the usual wait for
papers, and as I handed cigarettes to my two plucky passengers, I
explained that hospital book-keeping was tiresome but necessary.
Suddenly the blood-stained blankets on the stretcher moved and a pale,
but calm and quizzical face looked up into mine: "Oh, là là! C'est une
guerre de papier; donnez-moi une cigarette!" You can't down men of this
caliber.

Just before bedtime another call came from a dressing-station at the
extreme front. It was a thick night, snowing heavily, and black as ink,
and I had to drive three kilometres, without light of any kind, over a
narrow winding road crowded with traffic of every description. How one
does it I can scarcely say. War seems to consist in doing the impossible
by a series of apparent miracles. Ears and eyes must be connected in
some way. Driving in pitchy blackness, straining every sense and calling
every nerve to aid one's eyes, it seems that vision is impaired if ears
are covered.

At the posts, just behind the lines, where one waits for wounded to come
in from the trenches, I spend idle hours, chatting or playing dominoes.
Our little circle comprises a remarkable variety of types: one hears
French of every patois, from the half-Spanish drawl of the Mediterranean
to the clipped negatives and throaty _r_ of Paris.

As inventors of racy slang we Americans are miles behind the French.
Your pipe is "Mélanie" (also your sweetheart, for some unknown reason).
One's mess is "la popote," a shrapnel helmet is a "casserole," a
machine-gun is a "moulin à café." Bed is ironically called "plumard";
and when a bursting shell sends out its spray of buzzing steel, the cry
is "Attention aux mouches!" [Look out for the flies!] Government tobacco
is known, aptly, as "foin" [hay]. If one wants a cigarette, and has a
paper but no tobacco, one extends the paper toward a better-provided
friend saying, "Kindly sign this." And so on.


_February 18_

I had an interesting day yesterday. The commandant asked for a car--he
is the head medical officer--to visit some posts, and I was lucky
enough to land the job. He is a charming, cultivated man, and made it
very pleasant for his chauffeur. We visited a number of posts,
inspecting new dugout emergency hospitals, and vaccinating the
stretcher-bearers against typhoid--a most amusing process, as these
middle-aged fellows have the same horror of a doctor that a child has of
a dentist. Reluctant was scarcely the word.

Finally we left the car (at the invitation of the artillery officer) and
walked a couple of miles through the woods to see a new observation
post. The last few hundred yards we made at a sneaking walk, talking
only in whispers, till we came to a ladder that led up into the thick
green of a pine tree. One after another the officers went up, and at
length the gunner beckoned me to climb. Hidden away like a bird's nest
among the fragrant pine-needles, I found a tiny platform, where the
officer handed me his binoculars and pointed to a four-inch hole in the
leafy screen. There right below us were two inconspicuous lines of
trenches, zigzagging across a quiet field, bounded by leafless pollard
willows. It was incredible to think that hundreds of men stood in those
ditches, ever on the alert. At a first glance the countryside looked
strangely peaceful and unhampered--farm-houses here and there, neatly
hedged fields, and, farther back, a village with a white church. Look
closer, though, and you see that the houses are mere shells, with
crumbling walls and shattered windows; the fields are scarred and pitted
with shell-holes, the village is ruined and lifeless, and the belfry of
the church has collapsed. Above all, there is not an animal, not a sign
of life in the fields or on the roads. Not a sound, except the distant
hornet buzzing of an aeroplane.

On clear days there is a good deal of aeroplane activity in our
section, and one never tires of watching the planes. The German machines
do not bomb us in this district, for some reason unknown to me, but they
try to reconnoiter and observe for artillery fire. It is perfectly
obvious, however, that the French have the mastery of the air, by virtue
of their skillful and courageous pilots and superb fighting machines,
and their superior skill in anti-aircraft fire. To watch a plane at an
altitude of, say, nine thousand feet under shrapnel fire, one would
think the pilot was playing with death; but in reality his occupation is
not so tremendously risky.

Consider these factors: he is a mile and a half to two miles from the
battery shooting at him, he presents a tiny mark, and his speed is from
eighty to one hundred and twenty-five miles per hour. Above all, he can
twist and turn or change his altitude at will. The gunner must
calculate his altitude and rate of speed, and after the lanyard is
pulled, considerable time elapses before the shell reaches its mark.
Meanwhile, the aviator has probably come down or risen or changed his
course. It is like trying to shoot a twisting snipe with very
slow-burning powder--the odds are all in favor of the snipe.

All the same, the spectacle never quite loses its thrill. High and
remote against the sky you see the big reconnaissance machine going
steadily on its way, its motor sending a faint drone to your ears.
Keeping it company, darting around it like a pilot-fish around a shark,
is the tiny, formidable appareil de chasse, a mere dot against the blue.

_Crack! Whang! Boom!_ goes a battery near by, and three white puffs
spring out suddenly around the distant machines, above, behind, below.
Another battery speaks out, another and another, till the sky is filled
with downy balls of smoke. Suddenly the firing ceases, and the big
German aero slants down swiftly toward its base. A sharper droning hits
your ears. There, directly above us, a French fighting machine is
rushing at two hundred kilometres an hour to give battle to the little
Fokker. Close together, wheeling and looping the loop to the rattle of
their mitrailleuses, they disappear into a cloud, and we can only guess
the result.


_One day later_

I finished the paragraph above just as a wave of rifle and machine-gun
fire rolled along the lines. Running out of the abri to see what the
excitement was about, I saw two French aeros skimming low over the
German trenches--where every one with any kind of a fire-arm was blazing
away at them. Fortunately, neither one was hit, and after a couple of
retaliatory belts, they rose and flew off to the south. The Germans
began to waste shrapnel on the air, and indiscreetly revealed the
location of a battery, which the French promptly bombarded with heavy
guns. Pretty soon all hands were at it--a two-hour Fourth of July.

I was on the road all day yesterday, afternoon and evening, getting back
to the post at 10 P.M. One of the darkest nights I remember--absolutely
impossible to move without an occasional clandestine flash of my torch.
Far off to the right (twenty or thirty miles) a heavy bombardment was in
progress, the guns making a steady rumble and mutter. I could see a
continuous flicker on the horizon. The French batteries are so craftily
hidden that I pass within a few yards of them without a suspicion. The
other day I was rounding a familiar turn when suddenly, with a
tremendous roar and concussion, a "380" went off close by. The little
ambulance shied across the road and I nearly fell off the seat. Talk
about "death pops"--these big guns give forth a sound that must be heard
to be appreciated.


Another break here, as since writing the above we have had a bit of
excitement, in the shape of a raid, or coup de main. In sectors like
ours, during the periods of tranquillity between more important attacks,
an occasional coup de main is necessary in order to get a few prisoners
for information about the enemy. We are warned beforehand to be ready
for it, but do not know exactly when or where. I will tell you the story
of the last one, as related by a slightly wounded but very happy poilu I
brought in beside me.

"After coffee in the morning," he said, "our battalion commander called
for one platoon of volunteers to make the attack--each volunteer to have
eight days' special leave afterwards. It was hard to choose, as every
one wanted to go--for the 'permission,' and to have a little fun with
the Boches. At noon we were ordered to the first line. Our rifles and
equipment were left behind, each man carrying only a little food, a
canteen of wine, a long knife, and a sack of grenades. Our orders were
to advance the moment the bombardment ceased, take as many prisoners as
possible, and return before the enemy had recovered from his surprise.
At the point of attack the German trench is only twenty yards from
ours--several nights before, they had rolled out a line of portable
wire-entanglements. At 4.30 in the afternoon our 75's began to plough up
the Boche trench and rip their wire to shreds. It was wonderful--along
the line in front of us hundreds of our shells, bursting only twenty
metres off, sent earth and wire and timbers high into the air--while
not one of us, watching so close by, was hurt.

"At 5.15 the guns ceased firing and the next instant we were over the
parapet, armed with knives, grenades, and a few automatic pistols. After
the racking noise of the bombardment, a strange quiet, a breathless
tranquillity, seemed to oppress us as we ran through the torn wire and
jumped into the smoking ruins of the enemy trench. In front of me there
was no one,--only a couple of bodies,--but to the right and left I could
hear grenades going, so it was evident that a few Germans had not
retreated to the dugouts. Straight ahead I saw a boyau leading to their
second lines, and as I ran into this with my squad, we came on a German
at the turn. His hands were up and he was yelling, 'Kamerad, Kamerad!'
as fast as he knew how. Next minute, down went his hand and he tossed a
grenade into our midst. By luck it struck mud, and the time-fuse gave
us a moment's start. The corporal was killed and my pal, Frétard, who
lies on the stretcher behind, got an éclat through the leg. We did not
make a prisoner of the Boche.

"The abris of the second line were full of Germans, but all but one were
barricaded. A few grenades persuaded the survivors to come out of this,
with no fight left in them; but how to get into the others? In vain we
invited them to come out for a little visit--till some one shouted, 'The
stove-pipes!' Our barrage fire was now making such a fuss that the
Boches farther back could not use their machine-guns, so we jumped on
top of the dugouts and popped a half-dozen citrons into each chimney.
That made them squeal, mon vieux--oh, là là! But it was time to go
back--our sergeant was shouting to us; so, herding our prisoners ahead,
we made a sprint back to our friends."

One of the prisoners was wounded, and he was hauled to the hospital by
the chap with whom I share my quarters. I went to have a look at the
German--always an object of curiosity out here. Had to shoulder my way
through a crowd to get there. He lay on a stretcher, poor devil,
hollow-eyed, thin, with a ragged beard--an object of pity, suffering and
afraid for his life. His gray overcoat lay beside him and near it stood
his clumsy hobnailed boots. German or no German, he was a human being in
a bad situation--a peasant obviously, and deadly afraid.

Suddenly, a half-baked civilian--always the most belligerent
class--reached up and plucked contemptuously at his leg, with an
unpleasant epithet. Then a fine thing happened. A French soldier, lying
near by on a stretcher, severely wounded, raised up his head and looked
sternly at the crowd. "Enough," he said, "he is a Boche, I grant you;
but first of all remember that he is a soldier, wounded and in your
power!"

We were at lunch yesterday when a friend rushed in to say that an
aeroplane fight was starting, almost directly overhead. A big French
reconnaissance plane was diving for safety, with a Fokker close behind
and German shrapnel bursting all around, when a tiny French fighting
machine appeared far above, plunging down like a falcon on its quarry.
The Fokker turned too late: the Nieuport, rushing downward at one
hundred and fifty miles an hour, looped the loop around the German. Two
bursts of machine-gun fire came down faintly to our ears, and the next
moment it was evident that the German was hit. Slowly at first, the
Fokker began to fall--this way and that, like a leaf falling in still
air, growing larger each moment before our eyes, until it disappeared
behind a hill. High over the lines, scorning burst after burst of
German shrapnel, the tiny Nieuport sailed proudly back and forth, as if
daring any Boche pilot to rise and try his luck. In the thrill of the
superb spectacle, one forgot that the poor chap (a good sportsman, if he
was a German!) had lost his life.


_April, 1917_

I have met some interesting types lately. One is Jean B----, a sergeant
of infantry. Jean has been about the world a good bit, and when the war
broke out was just finishing a contract in Spain. He promptly came to
France and volunteered, and had only fifteen days of training before
being sent to the front for a big attack. Knowing nothing of military
matters and having distinguished himself in the first day's fighting, he
was made a corporal at once; and next day, when the attack began again,
he and his squad were the first to jump into a section of German
trench. There, abandoned in the hasty retreat, was a brand-new German
machine-gun and forty sacks of ammunition. Jean is a canny boy, and
before the officers had got to where he was, he had his men hide gun and
cartridges in a clump of bushes.

The French made a gain of about two miles at this point, and owing to
the nature of the ground,--artillery emplacements, and so forth,--the
new lines were nearly a mile apart. Under these conditions, both sides
were constantly making daylight patrols in the broken country between
the trenches; and as Jean's captain was a good judge of men, he let him
take his squad out daily, to do pretty much as he pleased. Pledging his
men to absolute secrecy, Jean had them hide machine-gun and ammunition a
little way in front of the new French lines, and then gave them a brief
drill, in mounting and dismounting the gun, tripod, and so forth. (He
had worked in an ordnance factory, by the way.) Each man carried either
a part of the gun or a few belts of cartridges.

One morning, just before dawn, they crawled up close to the Germans and
hid themselves in a brushy watercourse--mitrailleuse set up and ready
for action. Presently there were sounds of activity in front, and as day
broke, they made out thirty or forty Germans, who, so far away and out
of sight of the French, were out in the open, working on a new trench.
Jean's men began to get excited and wanted action, but he calmed them,
whispering to be patient. He himself is the most excitable man in the
world--except in emergencies; a jovial type, with black hair and a pair
of merry gray eyes set in a red, weather-beaten face.

Hour after hour they bided their time, until the Germans, only
seventy-five yards away, assembled in a group for a rest. Lying on his
belly behind the gun, Jean sighted and pulled the lever, spraying lead
into the unfortunate Boches until the last belt of two hundred
cartridges had raced through. Then it was all hands dismount the gun and
retreat at top speed. Sneaking "home" by devious ways, they smiled to
see shells begin to smash into the position they had so lately left.

At supper that evening (the meal known universally as "la soupe"), the
colonel came strolling down the trench with Jean's subaltern. The
lieutenant nodded and pointed, then called Jean over.

"Ah," said the colonel, smiling, "so this is the type who was on patrol
this morning--hum. I was in an advanced observation post on the hill
above you and saw the whole affair with my glasses. And how many of
those poor Germans did you kill?"

"I did not wait to count, my colonel."

"I will tell you, then; six escaped, out of thirty-eight--most
remarkable rifle-fire I remember seeing. It sounded almost like a
mitrailleuse at work. How many in your patrol? Five? Remarkable!
Remarkable! Eh bien, good day, _sergeant_."

"He was a type not too severe," remarked the ex-corporal, in telling the
tale; "in short, un bon garçon."

This is the highest compliment a poilu can pay his officer; in fact, I
once heard an ancient Territorial say it irreverently of Marshal Joffre,
whom he had known in younger days, somewhere in the Orient.

Jean is at home in several languages, speaking perfectly French, German,
Italian, and Spanish. I usually chat with him in the last, as in it I
get the fine points of his narrative better than in French. His German
was the means of getting him into an adventure such as very few men in
the war have experienced. I cannot, of course, vouch for the truth of
what follows, but I have no reason to doubt his word, and know him to be
capable of any foolhardy rashness. Such a thing would be impossible at
the present time.

One dark night, shortly after midnight Jean--on a solitary patrol--was
lying just outside the wire, about ten metres from the German trench,
listening to locate the sentries. There was a faint starlight. Suddenly
a whisper came from beyond the wire, a low voice speaking in broken
French.

"Why do you lie so quiet, my friend? I saw you crawl up and have watched
you ever since. I don't want to shoot you; I am a Bavarian."

"Good-evening, then," Jean whispered back in his perfect German.

"So," said the sentry, "you speak our language. Wait a moment, till I
warn the rest of my squad, and I will show you the way through the
wire; there are no officers about at this hour."

Probably not one man in a thousand would have taken such a chance, but
he did, and ten minutes later was standing in the trench in a German
cloak and fatigue cap (in case of passing officers), chatting amiably
with a much interested group of Bavarian soldiers. They gave him beer,
showed him their dugouts, and arranged a whistle signal for future
visits, before bidding him a regretful good-night. "We are Bavarians,"
they said; "we like and admire the French, and fight only because we
must."

With characteristic good sense, Jean went at once to his captain the
following morning and told him the whole story. The officer knew and
trusted him and said without hesitation, "Go as often as you want, and
keep your ears open."

So he made many a midnight crawl through the wires, after whistling the
soft signal. He carried with him each time a few litres of wine (a great
luxury to the German soldiers), and in return they took him on long
excursions through their trenches. Once he was in the German third line,
more than a mile back. The sector was a very quiet one, though the
trenches were close together, and one morning a crude arrow dropped into
the French trench, bearing a note to Jean.

"Get into your dugouts at five this afternoon," it read; "there will be
a bombardment, but no attack, we hope."

Another time, after a French bombardment, a similar note dropped in:
"Don't send so many torpedoes--shells are all right, but your torpedoes
have ruined some of our best sleeping-places. Remember we are not
Prussians, but Bavarians."

Jean is just now back from a permission. He went away a reckless, jolly
sort of an adventurer, and has come back sober, serious, and
tremendously in love. He told me a little about it, as we sat together
in my dugout (I have a private one now, with a stove, a tiny window
sticking up discreetly six inches above ground, and pictures on the
walls), and the tale is so typical of war-time France that I can't
resist telling it to you.

They had carried on quite a correspondence, as godmother and godson,
before the longed-for permission came; and when A----, with her parents,
of course, met him at the train, she seemed like an old friend. She is
charming, as I know from her photograph, and sturdy brown Jean, togged
out in his special permission uniform, with his neat shoes, bright
leather puttees and belt, képi de fantaisie, and gold sergeant's
wound- and service-stripes, looks every inch a soldier of France.
At the end of the second day, he was walking with A---- and could
contain himself no longer.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "I cannot, as a man of honor, stay here
longer. I love you,--there, I have said it,--but I am penniless, and
after the war shall have only what I can earn. Your father, on the other
hand, is the most important merchant in this district--so you see it
would (even if you were willing) be quite impossible for me to ask for
your hand. I can never thank you enough for your kindness to a poor
soldier; it has given me a glimpse of Paradise."

That evening, as he sat in his room, trying to make up an excuse to give
the old people for leaving, the girl's mother came in, saying that she
understood he was going, and was much hurt to think that her house had
not pleased him. Then the old gentleman rushed in, radiant with smiling
good humor.

"But hush, maman," he cried, "I know all. Also I know a man when I see
one. You love our little A----, eh, sergeant? Well, what of it? And you
are poor--well, what of that? When we old ones are gone, she will have
everything--she is all we have, since Louis was killed at the Marne. You
are a type that I love, my boy--out there at the front, helping to push
the Boche out of France; do you suppose I would not rather have you for
a son-in-law than some sacré espèce of a rich embusqué, riding by in his
limousine?"

Rather superb, I think.

So, as an engaged man, he is making a poor attempt to be cautious. Also,
he has a frightful case of cafard, that mysterious malady of the
trenches, which is nothing but concentrated homesickness and longing for
the sight of one's women folk, sweethearts, sisters, mothers. A couple
of days ago, he came to me with a brilliant idea.

"See, Charlot," he said, "I have a scheme. You know Lieutenant P----,
chief of the corps franc--tell him of me, that I can speak German and
can take prisoners, and tell him to ask my captain to detach me for the
next coup de main."

To understand this, you must know that a coup de main is a raid, made
after a brief artillery preparation, on the enemy trenches, not with the
idea of gaining ground, but simply to get a few prisoners for
information regarding regiments, and so forth. In the French army such
raids are made by special selected companies of each regiment, who have
no routine duty and get eight days' special leave after each raid that
results in prisoners. These men are termed "corps franc." As you can
see, Jean thought this a quick way to get back to his fiancée.

While we talked, by a freak of luck, who should knock at my door but
Lieutenant P----, chief of our local corps franc, a very good friend and
one I am proud to have. He is the perfect quintessence of a French
subaltern,--twenty-six years old, slight, wiry, and handsome; an
Anglophile in everything relating to sport, as exquisite in dress and
person as Beau Brummell, and as recklessly brave as Morgan's buccaneers.
He has risen from the ranks, wears a gold bracelet, and has every
decoration that a French soldier or officer can get, including the red
ribbon. His Croix de Guerre has seven citations, and he has been five
times wounded. He took to Jean at once, saying that he needed an
interpreter for a raid which was coming in two or three days, and
promised to see the captain about it at once.

"Better come with us," he said to me, whimsically. "I want to run down
to Paris next week, and if the sergeant here and I don't get a prisoner
or two, it will be because there are none left in the first line. Come
on--you'll see some fun!"

"But," I said, "what is there in it for me? I'm ruined if I'm caught in
any such escapade, and in any case I get no permission."

"Oh, we'll fix that. Maybe you'd get a nice little wound like my last
one; and if not, I'm an expert with grenades; I think I could toss one
so you would just get an éclat or two in the legs--good for a week in
Paris."

I thanked him without enthusiasm and declined.

The sequel to this came last night as I lay reading in my bunk. The
evening had been absolutely quiet, not a rifle-shot along the trenches,
until suddenly, about 10.30, the batteries set up their sullen thumping,
mingled with the thud of exploding aerial torpedoes.

To my ears, concentrated artillery fire--not too far off--has a
strangely mournful sound--heavy, dull, and fitful, like a dark
thunderstorm in Dante's hell. The bombardment lasted exactly forty
minutes, then absolute silence except for an occasional pistol-shot (no
one uses rifles in raids), and once more the sudden stammer of a
mitrailleuse. As I lay there, safe in my warm bunk, I thought of gallant
little P---- and jolly old lovelorn Jean, perhaps at that moment
stealing through torn German wire with a brace of prisoners ahead of
them, crouching low each time a star-shell sent up its warning trail of
sparks,--or perhaps--

To-morrow, when I go back to the village for two days' rest, I shall
look for them.


_April 10, 1917_

I am writing this in a new post of ours--a village several kilometres
from the lines, where there are still civilians. As the hospital is very
noisy at night, and one would have to sleep in a barrack, packed in
among the wounded, I have arranged with a motherly old woman (patronne
of the local café) to let me have her spare room. I found an old
cowbell and by an arrangement of strings and hooks have rigged it so
that it can be rung at night from the street below. Talk about luxury! I
have a real bed (about five feet long) with sheets, pillows, and a
featherbed that reaches from feet to waist. When a night call comes, the
bell tinkles, I leap out of bed, pull on breeches and coat and high felt
"arctics," and in three minutes am off.

As there are no men about, I have been (in odd moments) splitting wood
and moving the heavy beer and wine casks as required--work really far
too heavy for women. The old lady, in return, often invites me in for a
cup of steaming coffee with a dash of schnapps, and to-day she asked me
to a family dinner--a superb civilian meal of ham and boiled potatoes
and home-made choucroute. The latter must be tasted to be appreciated.
She is quite bitter about a branch of the Y.M.C.A.--called Foyer du
Soldat--just opened here, which, with its free movies, papers, and so
forth, has lured away much of her trade. "I pay a heavy license tax,"
she says, "and they pay nothing--nothing."

Useless to try to explain to the good old soul that the innocent must
suffer in order that virtue shall triumph--or in other words, that the
fantassin shall have amusement without beer. I comforted her with the
regrettable truth that her boys will all be back when the novelty is
worn off.

A great many of the men here are muleteers from the Spanish and Italian
borders. Where the country is hilly and trails constitute the shortest
route to the trenches, the French use a great many pack-mules to carry
up provisions, ammunition, and supplies. A Western packer would be
interested in their methods. Each mule has its master, who packs it,
washes it, feeds it, and on the march walks ahead, leading it by a rope.
The pack-saddles and rigging are wonderful--they must be when one
considers that the mules often carry three hundred pounds twenty miles a
day, and sore backs are unknown.

A mule's a mule, however, wherever you meet him--these are just the same
"ornery" brutes we have at home. Their effect on the explosive southern
French temperament is sometimes ludicrous. I stopped the other day to
ask the way of a mule-skinner who was limping dejectedly ahead of his
charge--the rest of the train was far ahead. After putting me on the
road, he leaned wearily against a tree and explained that in all the
world there was probably not another mule like his. It had kicked him
yesterday, it had bitten him severely this morning, and just now, while
he adjusted the pack, it had kicked him on the hip, so that in all
likelihood he would limp for life. While he talked, the mule sidled
over, with drooping eyelids and sagging ears, and planted one foot
firmly on the unfortunate Frenchman's toes. The whole thing seemed to
have been done by accident--I could almost see the dotted line of
innocence running from the mule's sleepy eye off into space. Without a
word, the man set his shoulder against the mule, forced its weight off
his foot, and tenderly inspected the injured part. Then, hands on hips,
he regarded the mule with a long stare of dramatic contempt.

"Wouldst thou kill me, sacré espèce of a camel?" he said at last; "well,
death would be better than this. Come, here I am!"

The day before yesterday, when I was out at one of our posts on the
front, an Austrian 88 mm. shell fell in a crowd of mules and their
drivers. Fortunately no one was hurt (by one of the freaks of shells),
but three mules were killed by the splinters. That night, with some
misgivings, I tried a steak from the hind-quarter of a five-year-old
mule. _It was bully._ When you come to think of it, a mule is just as
good food as a steer.

A week ago I was waiting at a front post for some wounded, when a mule
train came by, packed with the huge winged aerial torpedoes so much in
vogue just now. Each mule carried four of these truly formidable things.
As the last mule passed, he slipped on the muddy slope, his feet flew
out, and down he came with a whack, torpedoes and all. You ought to have
seen us scatter,--officers, men, and mule-drivers,--like fragments of a
bursting shell. As the mule showed signs of struggling, we had to rush
back and gingerly remove the load before helping him up.

These torpedoes play a great part in war nowadays. They are cheap to
manufacture, carry an enormous bursting charge, and--shot out of small
mortar-like guns, into which the steel or wooden "stem" of the torpedo
is inserted--have a range of six or seven hundred yards. On days of
attack you can see them, like huge black birds, soar slowly up from
behind the trenches, hang poised for an instant, and dart down to make
their formidable explosion, which sends clouds of débris, timber, and
dirt, high into the air. Their fragments are very bad--long, thin,
jagged things that come whizzing by and inflict terrible wounds. Many of
them are equipped with "trailers," which outline their course in a
shower of crimson sparks; and on nights of attack the sky is scored with
their fiery trails.

A night attack is a wonderful thing to see: the steady solemn thunder of
the guns, the sky glaring with star-shells and trails, the trenches
flaming and roaring with bursting shell. It is like a vast natural
phenomenon,--Krakatoa or Mont Pelée,--too vast and cataclysmic to be
man's handiwork; and yet, into the maelstrom of spouting flames, hissing
steel, shattering explosions, insignificant little creatures like you
and me will presently run--offering, with sublime courage, their tender
bodies to be burned and pierced and mangled. To me that is war's one
redeeming feature--it brings out in men a courage that is of the spirit
alone--above all earthly things.


_April 23, 1917_

I am sitting again in the little post I told you about in my last
letter. The old lady is tidying up the café, the early morning sun is
shining in gayly through the many-paned windows, and outside, along the
picket-line, the mules are squealing and kicking while they have their
morning bath. Pretty soon I shall go out foraging for a brace of eggs,
and with these, a piece of cheese, and some coffee shall make my
déjeuner.

The local barrack is the only one I have found where one simply cannot
eat, as the cook and his kitchen are unspeakable. Unless he has been
caught out in a shower, he has certainly gone without a bath since the
war started. After a glance at him and at his kitchen even the most
callous poilu rebels.

We have now, attached to our section as mechanic, a French private who
is rather an unusual type--a rich manufacturer in civil life, who,
through some kink of character, has not risen in the army. He put in a
year in the trenches and then, being middle-aged, was put behind the
lines. He speaks English, is splendidly educated, and has traveled
everywhere, but is too indifferent to public opinion ever to make an
officer, or even a non-com. In his factory he had a packer, earning
seven francs a day, who was also mobilized, and who has now risen to
the rank of lieutenant. Think of the gulf between a poilu and a French
officer, with his authority, his galons and superb red-and-gold hat, and
then consider that this lieutenant's idea of a permission is to go home,
put on his oldest clothes, and spend the seven days working at his old
job of packing and heading barrels. It takes France to produce this sort
of thing.

The siege warfare to which, owing to strategic reasons, we are reduced
in our part of the lines, with both sides playing the part of besieged
and besiegers, gives rise to a curious unwritten understanding between
ourselves and the enemy. Take the hospital corps, their first-aid posts
and ambulances. The Germans must know perfectly well where the posts
are, but they scarcely ever shell them--not from any humanitarian
reason, but because if they did, the French would promptly blow theirs
to pieces. It is a curious sensation to live in such a place, with the
knowledge that this is the only reason you enjoy your comparative
safety. Likewise our ambulances. I often go over a road in perfectly
plain view of the Boche, only a few hundred yards distant, and though
shells and shrapnel often come my way, I am confident none of them are
aimed at me. The proof of it is that no one has ever taken a pot-shot at
me with rifle or machine-gun, either one of which would be a sure thing
at the range. The other day an officer invited me down to see his newly
completed observatory--a cunningly built, almost invisible stronghold on
the crest of a hill, which commanded a superb view of the trenches and
German territory behind them. It chanced to be an afternoon of unusual
interest. The trenches, about eight hundred yards distant, were spread
like a map beneath us,--a labyrinth of zigzag ditches and boyaux,--all
cunningly laid out on principles which I have been studying. With the
powerful glasses lent me, I could make out the thickets of wire before
the first lines. A heavy bombardment was in progress, and all along the
lines, as far as the eye could see, clouds of smoke and earth were
springing up and settling slowly down. Not a living being was in sight.
Far off to the south, a flock of observation balloons floated
motionless, high in air, like fat, hovering birds. Suddenly the man
beside me, who had been staring through his glasses at a twenty-acre
patch of woods a couple of miles away, gave an excited exclamation. "I
have spotted it--the new battery of heavy guns that has been annoying
us; they were too bold, for once."

Sure enough, I thought I made out a thin wisp of smoke trailing among
the tree-tops at the south end of the wood.

The officer muttered a string of cabalistic instructions into his
telephone receiver and motioned me to watch. A minute later, a battery
of French heavy guns behind us began their deep, coughing thumps,
sending enormous shells hurtling overhead with the pulsing rush of an
express train, crescendo and diminuendo. The first shell fell short,
showering the trees with earth and débris--the salvos that followed
obscured the whole wood in clouds of smoke, broken branches, and dust.
Twenty minutes of this before the battery went silent again. A final
tremendous explosion, eclipsing all that had gone before, seemed to
shake the trees to their roots.

"That will hold them for a while," said my friend exultantly, as he
telephoned the news back to his battery; "we must have hit their
magazine of propelling charges."

Next day I was sitting at lunch in our mess, distant about three
hundred yards from the observatory, when a series of heavy, racking
explosions made the windows rattle. There is a distinct difference
between the sound of a gun and that of a bursting shell. The first is a
cracking _bang_, or _boum_, as the French say. The latter is a racking,
dwelling roar--drawn out, if such a thing can be said of an explosion.
Shells were bursting somewhere close to us--many of them. When I went
outside I could hear, clear and waspish above the din, the _pinging_ of
splinters whizzing overhead, and the occasional crackle of a lopped-off
branch. After half an hour of this, a man came panting up with the bad
news that the new observatory was completely demolished. There you have
the inner workings of siege-war; the Boches, with uncanny craft, knew of
the observatory, let the French complete it, and might have let it
alone, had it not been instrumental in destroying their battery. That
led them into their indiscreet action, for the French, in retaliation,
promptly wiped off the map the most important German observatory--an
elaborate affair whose exact location they had long known. This time the
Boche did not dare retaliate. And so it goes.

There is a crack French gun-pointer near here who has brought down seven
enemy planes in the past two months--a remarkable record in this quiet
district. The last one fell close to one of our posts--its two
passengers, German lieutenants, were dead, but scarcely marked by their
drop into a snow-drift. One of them, a handsome young chap, with a
little blond mustache, wore a gold bracelet, and in his pocket was a
letter from his mother, accusing him of being an ungrateful son, who had
only written twice in six months. Rather pathetic. There is a sort of
chivalry in the air service which is a relief in the sordid monotony of
this war. A German plane was crippled a while ago, and had to volplane
down smack into a parade-ground where a French regiment was at drill.
The soldiers rushed out to make prisoners of the two German officers,
who were not a hundred yards up; but the latter, with indomitable
courage, loosed their Spandaus on the crowd, and were promptly riddled
with bullets by the reluctant French. They received a funeral in
accordance with their splendid death.

The code of the Prussian officer is never to surrender; but of course
all cannot live up to this. In a recent raid, a sergeant I know made a
prisoner of a German captain, who, as they walked to the rear, cursed
his luck in fluent French, saying that he was caught unaware--that an
officer never surrendered, but fought to the end.

"Stop here, my captain, and let us consider this," said the sergeant
seriously; "there are several articles of your equipment to which my
fancy runs--that watch, for example, those leather puttees, and that fat
purse I saw you change to your hip-pocket. Perhaps I can at once oblige
you and gratify my whim. Suppose you were suddenly to run--a quick shot
would save your honor, and me the trouble of escorting you back to the
rear. And I am an excellent shot, je vous assure." But the German was
not interested.


_April 26, 1917_

This afternoon the general of the division ordered us to present
ourselves at headquarters at four o'clock. From lunch on there was a
great shaving and haircutting, brushing and pressing of uniforms, and
overhauling of shoes and puttees. Four o'clock found us lined up at the
door of the wonderful old château, and next moment a superb officer,
who spoke English,--of the Oxford variety,--stepped out, introduced
himself all around with charming courtesy, took our names, and ushered
us in.

The general, a hawk-faced man of sixty, straight and slender as an
arrow, with sparkling dark eyes, stood surrounded by his resplendent
staff. As each name was announced, we walked forward to him, saluted and
bowed, and shook hands. This over, we stepped back and mingled with the
staff officers, who displayed a wonderful trick of making us feel at
home in the first stiffness. Presently orderlies brought in champagne
and glasses, and when every one had his glass in hand the buzz stopped
while the general spoke.

"Your country, gentlemen," he said, "has done France the honor of
setting aside this day for her. It is fitting that I should ask you
here, in order to tell you how much we appreciate America's friendship,
which you and your comrades have been demonstrating by actions rather
than words. I am an old man, but I tell you my heart beat like a boy's
when the news came that the great Sister Republic--united of old by
ideals of human liberty--had thrown in her lot with ours. I ask you to
drink with me to the future of France and America--the sure future. You
have seen France: our brave women, ready to make any sacrifices for the
motherland; our little soldiers, invincible in their determination. Let
us drink then to France, to America, and to the day of ultimate victory,
which is coming as surely as the sun will rise to-morrow."

As he ceased, he stepped forward to touch glasses with each of us,--the
invariable French custom,--and next moment a magnificent Chasseur band,
outside on the terrace, crashed into the "Star-Spangled Banner." Quite
thrilling, I assure you. Later, we strolled through the fine old
gardens, chatting with the officers while the band played. The general,
while the most military man imaginable, has a very attractive brusque
affability. We are a good-sized crowd as Americans run, and the French,
who average shorter and stockier, never cease to wonder at our height.
The old chap grabbed three or four of us by the shoulders and lined us
up.

"Mais vous êtes des gaillards," he said, smiling; "see, I am five or six
centimetres shorter than any of you. But wait, we have a giant or two."

With that he called over a grinning captain and pulled him back to back
with our biggest man, whom he topped by a full inch.

"But, my general," laughed the officer, "it is not good to be so
tall--too much of one sticks out of a trench."

The owner of the château--a stately woman of fifty, proud of her name,
her race, and her country, and an angel from heaven to the sick and poor
for miles around--is an example of the kind of patriotism of which, I
fear, we are in need. Her husband is dead; when the war broke out she
had a daughter and two sons--gallant young officers whose brief lives
had been a constant source of satisfaction and pride to their mother.
The elder was killed at the Marne, and a while ago, the younger, her
special pet, was killed here in an attack. A woman of her kind, to whom
the continuance of an old name was almost a religion, could undergo no
harder experience. At the grave-side she stood erect and dry-eyed, with
a little proud smile on her lips, as her last boy was buried. "Why
should I weep?" she asked some one who would have comforted her; "there
is nothing finer my boys could have done if they had lived out their
lives." Her heart must be very nearly broken in two, but never a sign
does she give; going about among her hospitals and peasant families as
cheerful, interested, even gay, as if her only cares were for others.
There is true courage for you!

To-day I went to a new post for some sick men, and who should be waiting
for me but my friend Jean, of whom I wrote you before! His company has
been transferred to this place. It was great to see his grinning face
and to chatter Spanish with him. As the sick men had not finished lunch,
Jean asked me to his mess, and we had a jolly meal with his pals. I have
had to give up wine, as it seems to blacken our teeth horribly (all
of us have noticed it, and we can trace it to no other source),
and the Frenchmen can't get over the joke of seeing one drink
water--extraordinary stuff to drink! All right to run under bridges or
for washing purposes, but as a beverage--a quaint American conceit,
handed down no doubt from the red aborigines--les peaux rouges
indigènes--of our continent. Jean admitted that since December, 1914, he
had not tasted water, and no one else could remember the last occasion
when he had tried it.

As word had just come from the trenches that a wounded man was on the
way in, I got my helmet and we strolled down the boyau to meet the
stretcher-bearers. It was, to me, a new section of the front and very
interesting. The country is broken and hilly, and the lines zigzag about
from crest to valley in the most haphazard way, which really has been
painfully worked out to prevent enfilading fire. There is scarcely any
fighting here, as neither side has anything to gain by an advance, which
would mean giving up their present artillery positions.

In one place the boyau ran down a steep slope, badly exposed, and Jean
said, "Follow me on the run!" We sprinted for twenty yards, and next
moment, _tat-tat-tat-tat_ came from the Boches, and little spurts of
dust shot up behind us. They can never shoot quickly enough to hurt any
one at this point, Jean said, but after all, "You can't blame a fellow
for trying."

At the next turn we came on a train of the little grenade donkeys--so
small that they make the tiniest Mexican burro seem a huge clumsy brute.
They do not show above the shallowest trench, and each one carries two
panniers full of grenades. These last are vicious little things of cast
iron, checkered so as to burst into uniform square fragments, and about
the size and shape of lemons. They make an astonishingly loud bang when
they go off, and if close enough, as in a narrow trench, are pretty bad.
At a little distance, of course, they are not very dangerous. In the
trench warfare--raids, infantry attacks, and so forth--they seem to have
supplanted rifles, just as the knife has supplanted the bayonet.


_May 11, 1917_

Sunday, another lovely day. It is 7 A.M., and already the indefinable
Sunday atmosphere has come over the camp. The shower-baths are open and
strings of men are coming and going with towels on their arms. Under the
trees little groups are shaving and cutting one another's hair, amid
much practical joking and raillery.

One becomes very fond of the French soldier. Large floods of rhetoric
have been poured out in describing him, and yet nearly every day one
discovers in him new and interesting traits. Let me try to sketch for
you a composite picture of the French infantryman--the fantassin who is
winning the war for France. On the whole, I do not see him as a boy,
but as a sturdy middle-aged man--the father of a family. He is short and
solidly built, with thick calves and heavy shoulders. His round head, on
which the hair is short, crisp, and black, is surmounted by a battered
blue helmet. He wears a long overcoat, looped up and buttoned at the
sides, showing evidence, in several places, of home-made patching. It
was once horizon blue, but has now faded to an ideally protective shade
of blue-green-gray. About his middle is a worn cartridge-belt, and from
either shoulder, their straps crossing on breast and back, hang his
musettes--bags of brown canvas for carrying extra odds and ends,
including everything from a bottle of wine to a dictionary. On his back
is his square pack, an affair of formidable weight, to which he has
lashed his rolled blanket in the form of a horseshoe, points down.
Perched on top of this, he carries his gamelle and quart--the saucepan
and cup which serve for both cooking and eating; and beside them you
perceive with astonishment that he has strapped a large German trench
torpedo--a souvenir for the home folks. From his belt hangs the tin box,
painted horizon-blue, which contains his gasmask, and on the other side
his long slender bayonet rattles against his thigh.

A large calloused hand, not too clean, holds his shouldered rifle at a
most unmilitary angle. The gun has seen hard service, the wood is
battered, and in places bright steel shows through the bluing; but look
closely and you will see that it is carefully greased, and in the muzzle
a little plug of cloth keeps out dust and moisture. In spite of a load
which would make a burro groan, he walks sturdily, whistling a march
between puffs of a cigarette. Glance at his face. The eyes are dark
gray, deep-set, and twinkling with good humor; they are the clear
decisive eyes of a man who knows what he wants and has set about getting
it. The nose is aquiline, the mouth strong and ironically humorous, the
unshaven chin positive and shapely. It is the face of a breed that has
been settling to type for many centuries, a race old in cultivation and
philosophy.

What is he in civil life? That is hard to say. A lawyer, a farmer, a
customhouse clerk, a cook--probably a cook; most of them seem to be
cooks, and mighty good ones. Ours at the mess was assistant chef at the
Savoy, in London, and when he has the material (for example a
hind-quarter of mule, a few potatoes, some dandelions, a tin of lobster,
and an egg) he can turn out a dinner hard to equal anywhere--delicious
hors d'oeuvres, superb soup, roast, sauté potatoes, salad, and so on.

The French soldier's one great joy and privilege is to grumble. Back in
billets where he goes to rest, he spends the whole day at it--hour after
hour, over a bock or a litre of wine, he complains of everything: the
food, the uniforms, the trenches, the artillery, the war itself. To hear
him, one would suppose that France was on the verge of ruin and
disintegration. Let some unwise stranger make the slightest criticism of
France, and watch the change. The poilu takes the floor with a bound.
There is no country like France--no better citizens or braver soldiers
than the French.

"Dis donc, mon vieux," he ends triumphantly, "where would Europe be now
if it were not for us?"

To be a French general is a terrible responsibility. Their ears must
burn continually, for every act is criticized, picked to pieces, and
proved a fatal mistake, daily, in a thousand roadside wine-shops. Some
celebrity once remarked, that every French soldier was a potential
general. He knew them; he was right. They are no carping destructive
critics who tear things down but suggest no method of building up. On
the contrary, any chance-met poilu will tell you exactly how any
maneuver or bit of strategy should be carried out--from a trench-raid to
an enveloping movement, which will--he is sure of it!--net fifty
thousand prisoners. In last night's coup de main they caught only three
Germans. "Do you know why, my friend? I will tell you. Our artillery cut
the wires all right, and tapped on the front trench. Good. After that
they raised their guns for the barrage, but pouf! the Boches had already
run back to their dugouts in the second or third lines. Had the gunners
made a barrage on the second line from the beginning, the Germans would
have been forced to remain in the first line, and instead of three, we
would have bagged thirty. Oh, well, we get our extra leave anyhow, and
you should have heard them squeal when we dropped grenades down their
stove-pipes!"

The French infantryman would drive a foreign officer mad until he began
to understand him and appreciate his splendid hidden qualities. The only
thing he does without grumbling is fight; and, after all, when you come
to think of it, that is a rather important part of a soldier's duty.

An officer wants a new boyau dug--you never _heard_ such grumbling and
groaning and kicking. Finally, a bit put out, he says,--

"All right, don't dig it, if you are all sick and tired, and think I
make you work simply to keep you busy. It was only a whim of mine
anyhow--the Boches put up a new machine-gun last night, which enfilades
the old boyau, and when day breaks and you go back to the third lines,
they will doubtless put a dozen of us out of our misery."

As if by magic the new zigzag trench is dug, and the chances are that
the officer finds a supply of extra-good firewood in his abri next day.

In an army like France's, one finds many odd birds among the simple
soldiers. I was playing "shinny" (we introduced it and it has become
very popular in our section) the other evening, and, when a soldier took
off his coat, four thousand francs in bills dropped out of the breast
pocket. Another evening, in a café, a roughly dressed soldier stood up
to give us a bit of music--and for an hour the world seemed to stand
still while one of the greatest violinists of France (two years at the
front, twice wounded, Croix de Guerre, with several citations) made us
forget that anything existed except a flood of clear throbbing sound.
It was a rough, drinking crowd--a moment before there had been a
pandemonium of loud voices and clattering plates; but for an hour the
listeners were still as death--not a whisper, not even a hand-clap of
applause. It was, I think, the finest tribute I ever saw paid a
musician. And so it goes: one never knows what variety of man is hidden
beneath the uniform of faded horizon-blue.


_June 17, 1917_

At last I am free to sit down quietly for a letter to you. It has been a
week of rather frenzied running about--passing examinations, and the
like. I arrived here in the expectation of taking the first boat,
crossing the continent, and seeing you.

A talk with some American officers changed the whole aspect of affairs
and showed me that, if I was to be of any use, my job was to remain
here. At home, it seems, men are a drug on the market--the rub is to
train them and fit them in. Here, on the other hand, they fairly welcome
healthy young men--and will train us and put us where we will do the
most good, with the least possible delay. Don't let yourself think that
flying over here is unduly hazardous--a skillful pilot (as I hope to be)
has as good a chance of living to a ripe old age as his comrades in the
infantry. Numbers of them have been at it since 1914. The school where I
hope to be is the finest in the world, and the machines are beyond
praise.


Since writing the above, I have received my papers of acceptance in the
Foreign Legion, conditional on passing the French physical tests. I have
already passed the tests of the Franco-American Committee. Before
cabling I took all the tests.


_Later_

I have passed the French examination and am to leave for the school in a
day or two. I have been lucky!

It was interesting at the Paris recruiting office. I stood in line with
dozens of other recruits for the Foreign Legion--all of us naked as so
many fish, in the dirty corridor, waiting our turns. Each man had a
number: mine was seven--lucky, I think! Finally the orderly shouted,
"Numéro sept," and I separated myself from my jolly polyglot neighbors,
marched to the door, did a demi-tour à gauche, and came to attention
before a colonel, two captains, and a sergeant.

"Name, Nordhoff, Charles Bernard--born at London, 1887--American
citizen--unmarried--no children--desires to enlist in Foreign Legion for
duration of war--to be detached to the navigating personnel of the
Aviation," read the sergeant, monotonously. In two minutes I had been
weighed, measured, stethoscoped, ears and eyes tested, and passed.

The colonel looked at me coldly and turned to the captain.

"Not so bad, this one, hein? He has not the head of a beast."

I bowed with all the dignity a naked man can muster, and said
respectfully, "Merci, mon colonel."

"Ah, you speak French," he rejoined with a smile; "good luck, then, my
American."




II

THE FLEDGLING


Here at Avord there are about seventy-five Americans of every imaginable
sort--sailors, prize-fighters, men of the Foreign Legion, and a good
scattering of University men. As good a fellow as any is H----, formerly
a chauffeur in San Francisco. He is pleasant, jolly, and hard-working,
with an absurdly amiable weakness for "crap-shooting," in which he
indulges at all times, seconded by an American darky who is a pilot
here--and a good one.

I can hear them as I write, snapping their fingers as the dice roll:
"Come on 'leben--little seben, be good to me! Fifty days--little
Phoebe--fever in the South! Read 'em and weep! Ten francs--let 'er ride.
I'll fade you!" The crap-shooting circle is always either stuffed with
banknotes or reduced to a few sous--which latter predicament is a bit
serious here, where we have to pay eight to ten francs a day to get
sufficient nourishing food.

We sleep in barracks, about twenty to the room, on cots with straw
mattresses. All days are pretty much alike. At 3 A.M. a funny little
Annamite Chinaman, with betel-blackened teeth, comes softly in and
shakes you by the shoulder in an absurdly deprecating way. You reach for
your tin cup, and he pours out a quarter-litre of fearful but hot
liquid, somewhat resembling coffee. Then a cigarette in bed, amid drowsy
yawns and curses; a pulling on of breeches, golf-stockings, and leather
coats; a picking up of helmets, and a sleepy march to the bureau, under
the wind-gauges, barometers, and the great red balls that show the
passing side (right or left) for the day.

"Rassemblement! Mettez-vous sur quatre!" barks the adjutant, and off we
go to the field. There till nine, or till the wind becomes too
strong--each man taking his sortie of ten minutes as his name is called.
Back about ten; then a lecture till eleven, a discussion after that, and
the first meal of the day. Sleep afterwards till three or three-thirty;
then a bath, a shave, brush teeth, and clean up in general. At five,
assembly again, the same march, the same lessons till nine; then a meal,
a smoke, and to bed at eleven.

It has been a bit strenuous this past month, getting accustomed to this
life, which is easy, but absurdly irregular. Up at 3.30 A.M., and never
to bed before 11 P.M. Meals snatched wherever and whenever possible.
Some sleep by day is indispensable, but difficult in a barrack-room with
twenty other men, not all of whom are sleepy. This, together with fleas
and even more unwelcome little nocturnal visitors, has made me rather
irregular in my habits, but now I have got into a sort of régime--four
and a half hours of sleep at night, some sleep every afternoon, and
decent meals. Also I have discovered a sort of chrysanthemum powder,
which, with one of the "anti" lotions, fairly ruins my small attackers.
Baths, thank Heaven! I can get every day--with a sponge and soap. There
is no real hardship about this life--it is simply a matter of
readjusting one's self to new conditions and learning where and what to
eat, how to sleep, how to get laundry done, and so forth.

This school is superb. I shall have the honor of being one of the last
men in the world trained on the famous Blériot monoplane--obsolete as a
military plane, but the best of all for training, because the most
difficult. In spite of the fact that from the beginning to the end one
is alone, it is said to be the safest of all training, because you
practically learn to fly in the "Penguins" before leaving the ground;
and also because you can fall incredible distances without getting a
bruise.


In practically all of the French planes the system of control is the
same. You sit on cushions in a comfortable little chair--well strapped
in, clothed in leathers and helmet. At your left hand are two little
levers, one the mixture, the other the throttle. Your right controls the
manche-à-balai, or cloche--a push forward causes the machine to point
downward (pique) and a pull back makes it rise. Moving it sideways
controls the ailerons, or warps the wings--if you tip left, you move the
cloche right. Your feet rest on a pivoted bar which controls the rudder.

To rise, you head into the wind, open the throttle (steering with great
care, as a little carelessness here may mean a wrecked wing or a turn
over), and press forward the cloche: you roll easily off; next moment,
as the machine gathers speed, the tail rises, and you pull back the
stick into the position of ligne de vol. Faster and faster you buzz
along,--thirty, thirty-five, forty miles an hour,--until you have flying
speed. Then a slight backward pull on the cloche, and you are in the
air.

I made my first flight in a small two-place machine of the fighting
type--a Nieuport. It is a new sensation,--one which only a handful of
Americans have experienced,--to take the air at seventy-five or eighty
miles an hour, in one of these little hornets. The handling of them is
incredibly delicate, all the movements of the stick could be covered by
a three-inch circle. A special training is required to pilot them, but
once the knack is acquired they are superb, except for the necessity of
landing at sixty or seventy miles an hour. In the air you can do
anything with them--they will come out of any known evolution or
position.

Lately I have been making short low flights in a Blériot, and enjoying
it keenly. All I know (a mere beginning) I have learned entirely alone,
and the first time I left the ground, I left it alone. They simply put
you in the successive types of machines, with a brief word of
instruction, and tell you to fly--if you haven't the instinct, you are
soon put out of the school. After your month of preparation in
"Penguins" and "grass-cutters," the first short flight is a great
experience.

My name was at the end of the list, so for two hours of increasing
tension I watched my mates make their débuts. We were about a dozen, and
there were some bad "crashes" before my turn came. At last the monitor
called me and I was strapped in behind the whirling stick. The monitor
waved his arm, the men holding the tail jumped away, and I opened the
throttle wide, with the manche-à-balai pushed all the way forward. Up
came the tail; I eased back the control bit by bit, until I had her in
ligne de vol, tearing down the field at top speed. Now came the big
moment, mentally rehearsed a hundred times. With a final gulp I gingerly
pulled back the control, half an inch, an inch, an inch and a half. From
a buoyant bounding rush the machine seemed to steady to a glide, swaying
ever so little from side to side. A second later, the rushing green of
grass seemed to cease, and I was horrified to find myself looking down
at the landscape from a vast height whence one could see distant fields
and hangars as if on a map. A gentle push forward on the manche brought
her to ligne de vol again; a little forward, a reduction of gas, a pull
back at the last moment, and I had made my first landing--a beauty,
without a bounce. To-night I may crash, but I have always the memory of
my beginner's luck--landing faultlessly from fully twelve feet!

Lack of sleep is our main foe--a hard one to combat, as all sorts of
other things develop as its followers; one has simply to learn to sleep
in any odd moments of the day or night.

I may still "fall down" and be "radiated" to an observation or bombing
plane (which is of course no disgrace); but on the whole I have good
hopes of making a fighting pilot. Flying (on a Blériot monoplane) is by
no means as easy as I had supposed. It took us four weeks to learn to
run one at full speed, _in a straight line_, on the ground. The steering
and handling of the elevators (which regulate height of tail) are
extremely tricky, and many men are thrown out or sent to other schools
(Caudron, Farman, or Voisin) for inaptitude or "crashes" at this stage.

Then comes the stage of low straightaway flights, when you leave the
ground fast and in correct line of flight, and have to land smoothly.
Make no mistake--landing any kind of an aeroplane is hard, and to land
the fast fighting machines is a very great art, which forty per cent of
picked young men never acquire. They are so heavy for their supporting
area, that the moment they slow down to less than seventy-five or eighty
miles an hour they simply fall off on a wing (or "pancake"). Even a
Blériot requires a good eye and a steady delicate touch and judgment to
land in decent style. You are flying, say, three hundred feet up, and
wish to land. Forward goes your stick, the machine noses down as you cut
the motor. The ground comes rushing up at you until the moment comes
when you think you should "redress"--precisely as a plunging duck levels
before settling among the decoys. If you have gauged it to a nicety,
you skim over the ground a few yards up, gradually losing speed, and
settling at last without a jar or break in the forward motion. If you
redress too late, you turn over (capoter), or else bounce and fall off
on a wing. (I have seen men bounce fifty feet!) If you redress too high,
you lose speed too far above the ground, and either pique into the
ground and turn over, fall flat, or crash on one wing.

The secret of the whole game of learning to fly is, I believe, never to
get excited. I have seen beginner after beginner smash when he was first
sent up to fly. They run along the ground, pull back the stick, as told,
and a moment later are so astounded to find themselves twenty or thirty
feet off the ground that they can think of nothing but shutting off the
throttle. Many crash down tail first, with controls in climbing position
to the last. If they would simply think,--

"Ha, old boy, you're in the air at last--some thrill, but the main
thing now is to stay here a bit and then ease down without a crash. Ease
the stick forward--now we have stopped climbing. Feel that puff--she's
tipping, but a little stick or rudder will stop that. Now pique her
down, and reduce the gas a notch or two. Here comes the
ground--straighten her out; too much, she's climbing again; there, cut
the gas--a little more--there--not a bad landing for the first try."

Really there is no system in the world like learning alone, but it costs
the Government, I am told, from $30,000 to $40,000 to turn out a
fighting pilot. Three, six, ten machines--costly, delicate things--are
smashed daily in the school. Never a word is said, until a man smashes
one too many, when he is quietly sent to the easier double-command
school of bombardment or observation flying.

Some of the fellows are in bad shape nervously. Any night in our
barracks you can see a man, sound asleep, sitting up in bed with hands
on a set of imaginary controls, warding off puffs, doing spirals,
landings, and the like. It is odd that it should take such a hold on
their mental lives.

I enjoy hugely flying the old monoplane, especially when I fly home and
nose her down almost straight for a gorgeous rush at the ground. As you
straighten out, a few yards up, lightly as a seagull, and settle on the
grass, it is a real thrill.

I have purchased, for twenty-five francs, a beautiful soft
Russia-leather head-and-shoulder gear, lined with splendid silky fur. It
covers everything but one's eyes,--leaving a crack to breathe
through,--and is wonderfully warm and comfortable.

I have finally finished the Monoplane School, which is the end of
preliminary training. There remain spirals, etc., an altitude, and a few
hundred miles of cross-country flying, before I can obtain my brevet
militaire and have the glory of a pair of small gold wings, one on each
side of my collar. After that I shall have seven days' leave (if I am
lucky), followed by two or three weeks perfectionnement on the type of
machine I shall fly at the front. If I smash nothing from now on, I
shall have practically my choice of "zincs"--a monoplace de chasse, or
anything in the bombing or observation lines. If I break once, I lose my
chasse machine, and so on, down to the most prosaic type of heavy
bomber. Only one compensation in this very wise but severe system--the
worse the pilot, the safer the machine he finally flies.

In spite of all my hopes, I had the inevitable crash--and in the very
last class of the school. Landing our Blériots is a rather delicate
matter (especially to a beginner), and last week I had the relapse in
landings which so few beginners escape, with the result that I crashed
on my last flight of the morning. I felt pretty low about it, of course,
but on the whole I was not sorry for the experience, which blew up a lot
of false confidence and substituted therefor a new respect for my job
and a renewed keenness to succeed. After that I did better than ever
before, and made a more consistent type of landing.


Guynemer, the great French "Ace," has disappeared, and from accounts of
the fight one fears that he is dead. What a loss to France and to the
Allies! the end of a career of unparalleled romantic brilliancy. I shall
never forget one evening in Paris last spring. I was sitting in the Café
de la Paix, under the long awning that fronts the Boulevard des
Capucines. All Paris was buzzing with Guynemer's mighty exploit of the
day before--four German planes in one fight, two of them sent hurtling
down in flames within sixty seconds. It took one back to the old days,
and one foresaw that Guynemer would take his place with the legendary
heroes of France, with Roland and Oliver, Archbishop Turpin, Saint
Louis, and Charles Martel.

Presently I looked up. A man was standing in the aisle before me--a
slender youth, rather, dressed in the black and silver uniform of a
captain in the French Aviation. Delicately built, of middle height, with
dark tired eyes set in a pale face, he had the look of a haggard boy who
had crowded the experience of a lifetime into a score of years. The
mouth was remarkable in so young a man--mobile and thin-lipped,
expressing dauntless resolution. On his breast the particolored ribbons
of his decorations formed three lines: Croix de Guerre, Médaille
Militaire, Officer of the Legion of Honor, Cross of St. George, English
Military Cross, and others too rare for recognition.

All about me there arose a murmur of excited interest; chairs were
pushed back and tables moved as the crowd rose to its feet. Cynical
Swiss waiters, with armloads of pink and green drinks, halted agape. A
whisper, collective and distinct, passed along the terrace: "It is
Guynemer!"

The day before, over the fiery lines, he had done battle for his life;
and this evening, in the gay security of Paris, he received the homage
of the people who adored him.

He had been looking for a table, but when it became no longer possible
to ignore the stir, he raised his right hand in embarrassed salute and
walked quickly into the café.

I spent my ten days' leave in a trip to Nice, and used up about half of
it in getting there.

The trip south was a martyrdom--a long stifling ride to Paris, three
days' wait there for a reserved place to Marseilles, a day and a night
standing up in a corridor from Paris to Marseilles (had to give up my
seat to an unfortunate woman with two youngsters), and twenty-three
hours more in a corridor to get to Cannes. On the whole, the worst
journey I recollect. No stops for meals, so we all nearly starved, till
I finally obtained an armful of bottled beer and some sandwiches.

I sat down on a trunk in the corridor and nodded off to sleep, only to
be awakened half an hour later by H---- F---- (S----'s cousin), who
stole up with a gesture for silence, and pointed at me with a shake of
his head and a broad grin. It must have been rather a rakish tableau.
On the floor to my left were half a dozen empty bottles; on one end of
the trunk I sat, heavy-eyed and half awake, and beside me, sound asleep,
with her head on my shoulder, was a respectable, very attractive, and
utterly unknown young woman! C'est la guerre! I motioned H---- away and
promptly went to sleep again.

In Marseilles I had time for the Corniche, to see Monte Cristo's castle,
and eat a bouillabaisse, which I cannot recommend without reserve. With
an enormous floating population of sailors, shipping booming, and
streets ablaze at night, Marseilles seems far away from the war, after
the hushed gloom of nocturnal Paris.

The trials for my military brevet were by far the most interesting thing
I have done in aviation. On finishing the sixty horse-power Blériot
class, I was told that I would have to do my brevet work on a small
Caudron biplane, as there were no Blériots available. A few short
flights in the Caudron gave me confidence that I could handle it; so one
rather cloudy morning the officer told me to make my official
altitude--which is merely one hour's stay at heights of over seven
thousand feet. I pulled on my great fur combination and fur-lined boots,
adjusted mittens, helmet, and goggles, and stepped into my machine,
number 2887, which the mechanic had been tuning up. "Coupe, plein gaz,"
he shouted, above the roar of a score of motors, and gave the stick half
a dozen turns. Then, "Contact reduit"; and as I yelled back, "Contact
reduit," after the old starting formula, he gave a quick half turn to
the blades. Off she went with a roar, all ten cylinders hitting
perfectly, so I motioned him to pull out the blocks from before the
wheels. A quick rush and a turn headed me into the wind, and the next
moment the starter's arm shot forward.

Old 2887 is a bully 'bus. I was off the ground and heading up in forty
yards. It was rather an occasion for a beginner who had never before
flown over twenty-five hundred feet. The little Caudrons, of course, are
not high-powered, but she climbed splendidly. In ten minutes I was
circling over the camp at thirty-eight hundred feet, and in twenty, I
had reached six thousand, just under the roof of the clouds. There was
only one blue hole through, so up this funnel I climbed in decreasing
circles, till I finally burst out into the gorgeous upper sunlight. At
eight thousand feet I began to float about in a world of utter celestial
loneliness--dazzlingly pure sun, air like the water of a coral atoll,
and beneath me a billowy sea of clouds, stretching away to infinity.
Here and there, from the cloudy prairies, great fantastic mountain
ranges reared themselves; foothills and long divides, vast snowy peaks,
impalpable sisters of Orizaba or Chimborazo, and deep gorges, ever
narrowing, widening, or deepening, across whose shadowy depths drove
ribbons of thin gray mist.

Once, as I was sailing over a broad cañon, I saw, far off in the south,
a dark moving dot, and knew with a sudden thrill that another man like
myself, astride his gaunt buzzing bird, was exploring and marveling at
this upper dream-world.

At last the hour was up. I shut off the motor and drove downward in a
series of long easy glides. Going through the clouds, one loses all
sense of balance and direction. It is bizarre and sometimes dangerous.
You plunge out into the old gray world beneath, to find yourself in a
nose-dive, or off on a wing, or upside down--it is all the same in a
cloud.

The balance of the military trials consists in spirals, and so forth,
and a lot of cross-country flying by map and compass. First you make
two round trips to a place fifty miles away, and then two triangular
trips of about one hundred and fifty miles each. It is very easy, if you
keep your wits about you and have no hard luck. Roads, railroads,
rivers, woods, and canals are the principal guides to follow; towns and
cities you can only recognize by having counted their predecessors,
unless there is some very prominent building, cathedral or factory. A
road, from three thousand feet, shows as a very straight white line,
occasionally making angular turns. A railroad is a dark gray line,
always curving gently when it turns. Canals are ribbons of water, very
straight, between twin lines of trees. And so on. You watch your
compass, to check up the tend of roads and railroads, watch your
altimeter and tachometer (which tells the speed of your engine), and
above all watch always ahead for suitable landing fields, in case of
motor trouble. The wind also must be borne in mind; its direction can be
told from smoke. I was lucky and had no trouble at all.

At Nice I ran into many Americans, and there were a good many Britishers
about, recovering from the recent severe fighting around Passchendaele.
They are a quiet and agreeable lot--very interesting when they talk
about their work, which is seldom.

One captain had strolled into some heavy fighting with no weapon but a
heavy cane, and with this, walking astride of a deep narrow enemy
trench, he had killed eight Germans! An Australian captain, with the
rare ribbon of the V.C. on his breast, had gone into a crowded German
dugout with one companion, who was wounded at the first exchange of
bombs. Single-handed, he had bombed out the Boches, taken forty
prisoners back single-handed, and returned to bring out his wounded
brother officer. An epic feat!




III

FULL-FLEDGED


Soon after my stay at Nice I went for a month to the Combat and
Acrobatic School of Pau, which completes the most dangerous of all the
flying training. A wonderful experience--somersaults, barrel-turns,
corkscrew dives, every conceivable aerial caper, and long flights daily:
skimming the highest peaks of the Pyrenees at three hundred feet above
the snow--trips to Biarritz and along the coast, flying ten feet above
the waves, etc.

It is hard to say enough in praise of the school at Pau--the hundreds of
splendid machines, the perfect discipline and efficiency, the food, the
barracks, the courteous treatment of pilots by officers and instructors.
We were twenty Americans, in a clean airy barrack, with an Annamite to
make the beds and sweep up. The school covers an enormous area in the
valley of the Gave, just under the Pyrenees, and is ideal for an
aviation center so far as weather conditions go, its one drawback being
that motor-trouble, out of range of the aerodromes, means almost
inevitably a smash. All along the Gave they have the smallest fields and
the highest hedges I ever saw. The climate is superb--like the foothill
climate of California: cool nights, delicious days, wonderful dawns and
sunsets.

They started us on the eighteen-metre machine, doing vertical spirals,
which are quite a thrill at first. You go to a height of about three
thousand feet, shut off the motor, tilt the machine till the wings are
absolutely vertical, and pull the stick all the way back. When an
aeroplane inclines laterally to over forty-five degrees, the controls
become reversed--the rudder is then the elevator, and the elevator the
rudder, so that, in a vertical spiral, the farther back you pull the
stick, the tighter the spiral becomes. You are at the same time dropping
and whirling in short circles. I once did five turns in losing a
thousand feet of altitude--an unusual number, the monitor told me with
satisfaction. Usually, one loses about three hundred feet to each turn,
but on my first attempt, I lost twenty-one hundred feet in three fourths
of a turn, because I did not pull back enough on the stick.

After the eighteen-metre spirals we were given a few rides on the
fifteen-metre machine--very small, fast and powerful, but a delicious
thing to handle in the air; and after left and right vertical spirals on
this type, we went to the class of formation-flying, where one is
supposed to learn flying in squadron formation, like wild geese. This is
extremely valuable, but most men take this chance for joy-riding, as
they have petrol for three hours, and are responsible to no one.

On my first day in this class I found no one at the rendezvous, so I
rose to about four thousand feet, and headed at a hundred miles an hour
for the coast. In thirty-five minutes I was over Biarritz, where my eyes
fairly feasted on the salt water, sparkling blue, and foam-crested. I do
not see how men can live long away from the sea and the mountains. My
motor was running like a clock and as I was beginning to have perfect
confidence in its performance, I came down in a long coast to the
ground, and went rushing across country toward the mountains, skimming a
yard up, across pastures, leaping vertically over high hedges of poplar
trees, booming down the main streets of villages, and behaving like an
idiot generally, from sheer intoxication of limitless speed and power.

In a few moments I was at the entrance of one of the huge gorges that
pierce the Pyrenees--the sort of place up which the hosts of Charlemagne
were guided by the White Stag: deep and black and winding, with an icy
stream rushing down its depths. Why not? I gave her full gas and whizzed
up between black walls of rock that magnified enormously the motor's
snarl, up and up until there was snow beneath me and ahead I could see
the sun gleaming on the gorgeous ragged peaks. Up and up, nine, ten,
eleven thousand feet, and I was skimming the highest ridges that
separate France and Spain. Imagine rising from a field in Los Angeles,
and twenty-five minutes later flying over the two-mile-high ridges of
Baldy and Sheep Mountain, swooping down to graze the snow, or bounding
into the air with more speed and ease than any bird.

At last, as my time was nearly up, I headed back for Pau. A few minutes
later, just as I sighted the pygmy groups of hangars, my motor gave
forth a loud bang and a sheet of flame, and several chunks of metal tore
whizzing through the aluminum hood. Automatically, I pulled at the lever
which closes the gasoline flow and tilted the machine forward to keep my
speed. Another bang, accompanied by black smoke. "Holy mackerel!" I
thought; "this is the end of me! Let's see--in case of fire, shut off
petrol, open throttle, and leave the spark on. Then go into a
nose-dive."

Somehow you can't seem to get very excited at such moments,--everything
seems inevitable,--good or bad luck. I nose-dived, came out at five
thousand feet, killed my propeller, and was gratified to see, on looking
behind, that there was no more smoke. Starting the motor was of course
out of the question, as it would have promptly taken fire; so I shut
off throttle and spark, struck an easy glide, and began an anxious
search for a field. Most of them were no larger than postage-stamps, and
I knew they were hedged by the beastly poplars, but at last I spotted a
long one, in the direction of the wind, though not long enough to afford
more than a bare chance of avoiding a crash. It was the only hope, at
any rate; so down I coasted in glides and serpentines, jockeying to lose
height just over the trees. As luck would have it, I was a few feet low
and had to chance jumping the trees with none too much speed. The
splendid stability of the Nieuport saved me from a wing-slip, and a
moment later I landed with a bang in a ditch, breaking one wheel and
stopping within ten yards of a formidable line of willows.

I crawled out of my seat and lay down in the long grass to rest, as my
head ached villainously from the too rapid descent. Somehow I dozed off
and was awakened by the friendly tongue of a huge Basque shepherd dog.
His mistress, a pretty Spanish-speaking peasant girl, appeared a minute
later, and her family were very decent to me. After some hot coffee with
brandy, and a piece of goat cheese, I attended to the formalities and
went back to camp.


After formation-flying we went to the acrobatic class or "Haute École du
Ciel," where you are taught to put a machine through the wildest kinds
of maneuvers. This is the most dangerous class in any aviation training
in France--many excellent pilots, whose nerves or stomachs would not
stand the acrobatics, rest in the little cemetery at Pau. Wonderful
sport, though, if nature intended one for that sort of thing! The most
dreaded thing one does is the spinning nose-dive, or vrille (gimlet),
which formerly was thought invariably fatal. They have now discovered
that the small, very strong machines will come out of it safely, if the
rudder is put exactly in the middle and the stick pushed forward.

The instructor in this class was a very dandified lieutenant, in a Bond
Street uniform, and wearing a monocle, who lay in a steamer-chair all
day, gazing up into the sky at the antics of his pupils. Around him
stood assistants with field-glasses, who watched the heavens anxiously,
and would suddenly bark out, "Regardez, mon lieutenant--l'Américain
Thompson en vrille." The lieutenant would then languidly look up at the
machine pointed out (they are distinguished by broad stripes, or
checker-boards, or colors), and, if the "type" up above had done well,
would remark, "Pas mal, celui-là." If some unfortunate plunged into the
ground and killed himself, the officer would rise gracefully from his
chair, flick the dust from his sleeve, and call for the "Black Cat,"
his special "taxi." Jumping in with remarkable speed, he rose in a
series of the most breakneck evolutions, and flew to the scene of the
accident. In reality, his pose is the best in the world, as it keeps the
pilots gonflés, that is, courageous and confident, as opposed to
dégonflés, or scared and nervous.

I was watching all this from the ground, when a monitor unexpectedly
called out, "Nordhoff, Nordhoff!"

"Present!" I yelled, as I ran toward him.

"You will take the checker-board," he ordered, "rise to twelve hundred
metres, and do one vrille and two upside-down turns."

I admit that I had a slight sinking spell as I walked to the machine, a
little thirteen-metre beauty. (Think of it, only thirteen square yards
of supporting surface!) It was all right as soon as I was strapped in
and had the motor going. Up we went, the "Bébé" climbing like a cat, at
incredible speed, while I anxiously repeated, again and again, the
instructions. Two turns of the field gave me my thirty-six hundred feet.
This was no time to hesitate, so, as I reached the required spot, away
from the sun, I shut off the motor, took a long breath, and pulled back
a bit on the stick. Slower and slower she went, until I felt the rather
sickening swaying that comes with a dangerous loss of speed. The moment
had come. Gritting my teeth, I gave her all the left rudder and left
stick, at the same moment pulling the stick all the way back. For an
instant she seemed to hang motionless--then with unbelievable swiftness
plunged whirling downwards. "Remember, keep your eyes inside--don't look
out, whatever happens," I thought, while a great wind tore at my
clothing and whistled through the wires. In a wink of time I had
dropped six hundred feet: so I carefully put the rudder in the exact
center, centered the stick, and pushed it gently forward. At once the
motion grew steadier, the wind seemed to abate, and the next moment I
dared to look out. It was over--I was in a steep glide, right side up,
safe and sound. I had done a vrille and come out of it! A gorgeous
sensation! I loved it, and queerly enough my first bewildered thought
was, "M---- would adore that!"

Just to show the lieutenant that I was having a good time, I buzzed up
again and did two more vrilles, looking out the whole time at the
panorama of Pyrenees, villages, and river, whirling around with the most
amazing rapidity. Not a thing for bilious or easily dizzy people though,
as it means horses at the walk if you fail to do the right thing at
exactly the right moment.

After the acrobatics, we went to classes in machine-gun shooting and
combat-flying--very interesting and practical, but not to be talked
about.

After Pau, I had forty-eight hours' leave in Paris, bought a few things
I needed for the front, and was then sent to a place it is forbidden to
mention, expecting soon to get to flying over the lines.


On New Year's morning, as it was snowing hard and there was no flying, I
sat by a cozy fire, in the house of some English people. Curious thing,
running into them here. They are of the tribe of English who wander over
the face of the earth, and make England what she is. The man of the
house is an expert on ----, and has pursued his unusual vocation in
Cuba, Jamaica, Honduras, Guiana, "Portuguese East" and other parts of
Africa, as well as in Ceylon and a few other places I forget. Here he is
now, as expert for the French. His wife and seven children, who speak
French, Portuguese, Spanish, and Zulu, I think, follow him everywhere,
and are everywhere equally at home. I have tea with them after work,
and, needless to say, they are a Godsend in this desolate place. Let us
all pray that next New Year's day we shall be thanking God for a
victorious peace and returning to civilian life, never to put on
uniforms again. The finest uniform of all is the old civilian
suit--brass buttons and gold braid to the contrary.

For this winter air-work, which is the coldest known occupation, I
think, this is the way we dress. First, heavy flannels and woolen socks.
Over that, a flannel shirt with sleeveless sweater on top, and uniform
breeches and tunic. Boots and spiral puttees (very warm things, if not
put on too tightly) go on next, and over all we pull on a great
combination, or fur-lined "teddy-bear" suit--waterproof canvas outside.
Over our boots we pull fur-lined leather flying boots, reaching half-way
up to our knees. For head-gear, a fur-lined leather cap, and around the
neck, several turns of gray muffler. A variety of mask and a pair of
"triplex" goggles to protect one's face from the icy breeze. With all
this, and heavy fur gloves, one can keep reasonably warm.

As the 16th of January was the first good flying day for some time,
there was much activity. After lunch I went to the aerodrome just in
time to see the combat patrol come swooping down. An excited crowd was
gathered about the first machine in, and I learned that one of our best
pilots had just been brought down by a German two-seater, and that
H----, a nineteen-year-old American in our sister escadrille here, had
promptly brought the Hun down. I was proud to think that an American had
revenged our comrade. This makes H----'s second German within a week--a
phenomenal record for a beginner. He is an unusual youngster, and
handles a machine beautifully. He seems to have the mixture of dash,
cold nerve, and caution which makes an "ace."

The German fell ten thousand feet directly over the trenches, but at the
last moment managed to straighten out a bit and crashed two hundred
yards inside his lines. H---- followed him down, and gliding over the
trenches at one hundred feet, saw one German limp out of the wreck and
wave a hand up at the victor.

Another American boy had quite an exciting time lately when his motor
went dead far inside the enemy lines. Luckily he was high at the time;
so he flattened his glide to the danger-point, praying to be able to
cross into friendly country. Down he came, his "stick" dead, the wind
whistling through the cables, until close ahead he saw a broad belt of
shell-marked desolation, crisscrossed by a maze of meaningless trenches.
The ground was close; automatically he straightened out, avoiding a pair
of huge craters, touched, bumped, crashed into a thicket of wire, and
turned over. A jab at the catch of his belt set him free; but the really
important thing was whether or not he had succeeded in crossing the
German lines. Wisely enough, he crawled to a shell-hole, and from its
shelter began to reconnoiter warily. Muddy figures began to appear from
various holes and ditches, and at length a soldier who, so far as
appearances went, might have belonged to any army, leaned over the edge
of the hole and said something in _French_. Young S---- at that began to
breathe for the first time in at least a quarter of an hour. His
discoverer led him to a spacious dugout where two generals were at
lunch--a wonderful lunch, washed down with beverages forbidden to any
but generals. The great ones made the corporal welcome, laughed
themselves ill over his voluble but wonderful French, plied him with
food and good Scotch whiskey, and sent him home in one of their superb
closed cars.


Now that so many young Americans are beginning to fly in France, I fancy
that the people at home must wonder what sort of a time their sons or
brothers are having--how they live, what their work is, and their play.
Most people who have an immediate interest in the war must by now
possess a very fair idea of the military aviation training; but of the
pilot's life at the front I have seen little in print.

I can speak, of course, only of conditions in the French aviation
service; but when our American squadrons take their places at the front,
the life is bound to be very similar, because experience has taught all
the armies that, to get the best results, pilots should be given a
maximum of liberty and a minimum of routine, outside of their duty,
which consists in but one thing--flying.

Let us suppose, for example, that an American boy--we will call him
Wilkins, because I never heard of a man named Wilkins flying--has passed
through the schools, done his acrobatics and combat-work, and is waiting
at the great dépôt near Paris for his call to the front. Every day he
scans the list as it is posted, and at last, hurrah! his name is there,
followed by mysterious letters and numbers--G.C. 17, or S.P.A. 501, or
N. 358. He knows, of course, that he will have a single-seater scout,
but the symbols above tell him whether it will be a Spad or a Nieuport
and whether he is to be in a groupe de combat ("traveling circus," the
British call them) or in a permanent fighting unit.

Wilkins is overjoyed to find he has been given a Spad, and hastens to
pack up, in readiness for his train, which leaves at 6 P.M. When his
order of transport is given him, he finds that his escadrille is
stationed at Robinet d'Essence, in a fairly quiet, though imaginary,
sector. Before leaving the dépôt he has issued to him a fur-lined
teddy-bear suit, fur boots, sweater, fur gloves, and a huge cork safety
helmet, which Wisdom tells him to wear and Common Sense pronounces
impossible. Common Sense wins; so Wilkins gives the thing to the keeper
of the "effets chauds pour pilotes," and retires.

His flying things stuffed into a duffle-bag, which he has checked
directly through to far-off Robinet, our hero boards the train with
nothing but a light suitcase. He is delirious with joy, for it is long
since he has been to Paris, and at the dépôt discipline has been severe
and luxury scant. Every journey to the front is via Paris, and the
authorities wink a wise and kindly eye at a few hours' stopover. Outside
the station, an hour later, Wilkins is conscious of a sudden odd feeling
of calm, almost of content, which puzzles him until he thinks a bit.
Finally he has it--_this_ is what he is going to fight for, what all the
Allies are fighting for: this pleasant, crowded civilian life; the
dainty Frenchwomen going by on the arms of their permissionnaires, the
fine old buildings, the hum of peaceful pursuits. In the schools and at
the waiting dépôt he had nearly lost sight of real issues; but now it
all comes back.

At his hotel he calls up Captain X---- of the American Aviation,--an old
friend, who is in Paris on duty,--and is lucky enough to catch him at
his apartment. They dine at the Cercle des Alliés--the old Rothschild
palace, now made into a great military club, where one can see many
interesting men of all the Allied armies lunching and dining together.
Dinner over, they drop in at the Olympia, watch the show a bit, and
greet a multitude of friends who stroll about among the tables. A great
deal of air-gossip goes on: A---- has just bagged another Boche; B----,
poor chap, was shot down two days ago; C---- is a prisoner, badly
wounded. At a table near by, Wilkins, for the first time, sets eyes on
Lufbery, the famous American "ace," his breast a mass of ribbons, his
rather worn face lit up by a pleasant smile as he talks to a French
officer beside him.

At eleven our young pilot says good-bye to his friend and walks through
the darkened streets to his hotel. What a joy, to sleep in a real bed
again! The train leaves at noon, which will give him time for a late
breakfast and a little shopping in the morning. After the first real
night's sleep in a month, and a light war-time breakfast of omelet,
bacon, broiled kidneys, and coffee, he is on the boulevards again,
searching for a really good pair of goggles, a fur-lined flying cap to
replace the hopeless helmet, and a pair of heavy mittens. Old friends,
in the uniforms of American subalterns, are everywhere; many wear the
stiff-looking wings of the American Flying Corps on their breasts. All
are filled with envy to hear that he is leaving for the front; their
turn will come before long, but meanwhile the wait grows tiresome.

At length it is train time, and so, hailing a taxi and picking up his
bag on the way, Wilkins heads (let us say) for the Gare de l'Est,
getting there just in time to reserve a place and squeeze into the
dining-car, which is crowded with officers on their way to the front.
These are not the embusqué type of officers which he has been
accustomed to in the schools,--clerkish disciplinarians, insistent on
all the small points of military observance,--but real fighting men and
leaders; grizzled veterans of the Champagne and the Somme, hawk-nosed,
keen-eyed, covered with decorations.

Back in his compartment, our pilot dozes through the afternoon, until,
just as it has become thoroughly dark, the train halts at Robinet. On
the platform, half a dozen pilots of the escadrille, smart in their
laced boots and black uniforms, are waiting to welcome the newcomer, and
escort him promptly to the mess, where dinner is ready. Dinner over, he
is shown to his room--an officer's billet, with a stove, bathtub, and
other unheard-of luxuries.

Next morning, one of his new comrades calls for Wilkins, presents him to
the captain, who proves very chic and shows him his machine, which has
just been brought out from the dépôt. The armorer is engaged in fitting
a Vickers gun on it, so Wilkins spends the rest of the day at the
hangar, sighting the gun, adjusting his belt, installing altimeter,
tachometer, and clock.

An hour before sundown all is ready; so the American climbs into his
seat for a spin, fully aware that many appraising eyes will watch his
maiden performance. Off she goes with a roar, skimming low, over the
field, until her full speed is attained, when the pilot pulls her up in
a beautiful "zoom," banking at the same time to make her climb in a
spiral. Up and up and up, her motor snarling almost musically--and
suddenly she stops, quivers, and plunges downward, spinning. A hundred
yards off the ground she straightens out magically, banks stiffly to the
left, skims the hangars, and disappears. The mechanicians watching,
hands on hips, below, nod to one another in the French way. "Il marche
pas mal, celui-là," they say--high praise from them.

Wilkins, meanwhile, has flown down the river, to where a target is
anchored in a broad shallow. Over it he tilts up and dives until the
cross hairs in his telescopic sight center on the mark. "Tut-tut-tut,"
says the Vickers, and white dashes of foam spring out close to the
canvas. He nods to himself as he turns back toward the aerodrome.

At dinner there is much talk, as the weather has been good. A---- and
L---- had a stiff fight with a two-place Hun, who escaped miraculously,
leaving their machines riddled with holes. M---- had a landing cable cut
by a bullet; J---- had a panne, and was forced to land uncomfortably
close to the lines. At eight o'clock an orderly comes in with the next
day's schedule: "Wilkins: protection patrol at 8 A.M."

The French have not the English objection to "talking shop," and over
the coffee the conversation turns to the difficulties of bringing down
Huns and getting them officially counted--"homologue" the French call
it. The great airmen, of course,--men like Bishop, Ball, Nungesser, and
Guynemer,--get their thirty, forty, or fifty Boches; but nevertheless it
is a very considerable feat to get even one, and growing harder every
day. Nearly all the German hack-work--photography, reglage of artillery,
observation, and so forth--is now done by their new two-seaters, very
fast and handy machines and formidable to attack, as they carry four
machine-guns and can shoot in almost any direction. Most of the fighting
must be done in their lines; and far above, their squadrons of Albatross
single-seaters watch ceaselessly for a chance to pounce unseen.

Add to this the fact that, to get an official count, the falling
Hun must be checked by two independent observers, such as
observation-balloon men, and you can see that it is no easy trick.

Just before bedtime, the leader of the morning's patrol explains the
matter to Wilkins. The rendezvous is over a near-by village at three
thousand feet. Wilkins is to be last in line on the right wing of the V,
a hundred yards behind the machine ahead of him. Signals are: a wriggle
of the leader's tail means, "Open throttles, we're off"; a sideways
waving of his wings means, "I'm going to attack; stand by"; or, "Easy, I
see a Boche."

After a not entirely dreamless sleep and a cup of coffee, our hero is at
the hangars at 7.30, helping his mechanic give the "taxi" a final
looking over. At 8 he takes the air and circles over the meeting-place
till the V is formed. Just as he falls into his allotted station the
leader, who has been flying in great circles, throttled down, wriggles
his tail, opens the throttle wide, and heads for the lines, climbing at
a hundred miles an hour.

Wilkins is so busy keeping his position that he has scarcely time to
feel a thrill or to look about him. Suddenly, from below comes a vicious
growling thud, another, and another: _Hrrrump, hrrrump, hrrrump._ He
strains his head over the side of the fuselage. There below him, and
horribly close, he thinks, dense black balls are springing out--little
spurts of crimson at their hearts. The patrol leader begins to weave
about to avoid the "Archies," banking almost vertically this way and
that in hairpin turns, and poor Wilkins, at the tail end, is working
frantically to keep his place. He has never seen such turns, and makes
the common mistake of not pulling back hard enough when past forty-five
degrees. The result is that he loses height in a side-slip each time,
and gets farther and farther behind his man.

Meanwhile, far up in the blue, their shark-like bodies and broad short
wings glimmering faintly in the upper sunlight, a patrol of Albatross
monoplaces is watching. Thousands of feet below, close to the trenches,
they see the clumsy photographic biplaces puffing back and forth about
their business. Above these, they see the V of Spads turning and
twisting as they strive to stay above the photographers they are
protecting. But wait, what is wrong with the Spad on the right end of
the V--a beginner surely, for at this rate he will soon lose his patrol?
As if a silent signal had been given, five Albatrosses detach themselves
from the flock, and reducing their motors still more, point their sharp
noses downward, and begin to drift insensibly nearer.

Wilkins has been having a tough time of it, and at last, in a
three-hundred-foot wing-slip, has lost his comrades altogether, and is
flying erratically here and there, too intent and too new at the game to
watch behind him. Suddenly, two sparks of fire like tiny shooting stars
whizz by him, a long rip appears in the fabric of his lower wing, and
next moment, clear and unmistakable, he hears, "Tut, tut, tut, tut." He
nearly twists his head off, and perceives with horror that five sinister
forms, gray, sharp-snouted, and iron-crossed, are hemming him in, above,
below, behind. His thoughts, which occupy possibly a second and a half,
may be set down roughly as follows: "Five Boche single-seaters--too
many--must beat it--how? Oh, yes--climb in zigzags and circles, heading
for our lines."

Leaving Wilkins for a moment, I must tell you a curious thing which
shows that men have much in common with dogs. You know how, in his own
yard, a fox-terrier will often put a mastiff to flight--and a
fox-terrier, at that, who fears for his life when he ventures on the
street? The same thing applies to flying--over the German lines you have
a sort of a small, insignificant feeling, look at things
pessimistically, and are apt to let your imagination run too freely. The
minute you are over friendly country, that changes: your chest
immediately expands several inches, you become self-assertive, rude, and
over-confident. Thus Wilkins.

In a wild series of zooms and half-spirals, to throw off his pursuers'
aim, he reaches his own lines safely, and finds that all but one
Albatross have given up the chase. One of them, possibly a beginner
anxious for laurels, is not to be thrown off; so the American resolves
to have a go at him.

They are at twelve thousand feet. The German is behind and slightly
below, maneuvering to come up under the Spad's tail. A second's
thought, and Wilkins banks sharply to the left, circles, and dives
before the Boche has realized that it is an air-attack. With the wind
screaming through his struts, he sees the enemy's black-leather helmet
fair on the cross hairs of the telescope, and presses the catch of the
gun. A burst of half a dozen shots, a pull and a heave to avoid
collision. As he rushes past the Albatross, he sees the pilot sink
forward in his seat; the machine veers wildly, begins to dive, to spin.
Good God--he's done it--what luck--poor devil!

And that night at mess, Wilkins stands champagne for the crowd.

Young H---- has had another wild time. He ran across a very fast German
two-seater ten miles behind our lines, fought him till they were twenty
miles inside the Boche lines, followed him down to his own aerodrome,
circled at fifty feet in a perfect hail of bullets, killed the Hun
pilot as he walked (or ran) from machine to hangars, riddled the
hangars, rose up, and flew home.

He shot away over four hundred rounds--a remarkable amount from a
single-seater bus, as the average burst is only five or six shots before
one is forced to maneuver for another aim.


On a raw foggy day, in the cozy living-room of our apartment, with a
delicious fire glowing in the stove, and four of the fellows having a
lively game of bridge, one is certainly comfortable--absurdly so. Talk
about the hardships of life on the front!

The mess is the best I have seen, and very reasonable for these times--a
dollar and a half per day each, including half a bottle of wine, beer,
or mineral water at each meal. A typical dinner might be: excellent
soup, entrée, beefsteak, mashed potatoes, dessert, nuts, figs, salad.
While no man would appreciate an old-fashioned home-type American meal
more than I, one is forced to admit that the French have made a deep
study of cookery and rations designed to keep people in the best shape.
There is a certain balance to their meals--never too much concentrated,
starchy, or bulky food. The variety, considering the times, is really
wonderful. Breakfasts my pal and I cook ourselves, occasionally breaking
out some delicacy such as kidneys en brochette.

We have an amusing system of fines for various offenses: half a franc if
late for a meal; a franc if over fifteen minutes late; half a franc for
throwing bread at the table; half a franc for breaking a tail-skid (on a
"cuckoo"); a franc for a complete smash; a franc and a half if you hurt
yourself to boot; and so on. A fellow hit a tree a while ago, had a
frightful crash, and broke both his legs. When he leaves the hospital,
the court will decide this precedent and probably impose on him a
ruinous fine.

Of course no one ever pays a fine without passionate protests; so our
meals are enlivened by much debate. As we have a very clever lawyer and
a law student almost his equal, accuser and accused immediately engage
counsel, and it is intensely entertaining to hear their impassioned
arraignments and appeals to justice and humanity: deathless Gallic
oratory, enriched with quotations, classical allusions, noble gestures;
such stuff as brings the Chamber to its feet, roaring itself hoarse; and
all for a ten-penny fine!

A good bit of excitement lately, over uniforms. In aviation, one knows,
there is no regulation uniform: each man is supposed to wear the color
and cut of his previous arm. The result is that each airman designs for
himself a creation which he fondly believes is suited to his style of
soldierly beauty--and many of these confections haven't the slightest
connection with any known French or Allied uniform. One may see
dark-blue, light-blue, horizon-blue, black, and khaki; trousers turned
up at the bottom; open-front tunics (like a British officer), and every
variety of hat, footwear, and overcoat.

I, for instance (being in the Foreign Legion), wear khaki, open-fronted
tunic, a very unmilitary khaki stock necktie, Fox's puttees, and United
States Army boots. Naturally, I have to duck for cover whenever I see
the general loom up in the offing; for he is a rather particular, testy
old gentleman, very military, and can't abide the "fantaisies" of the
aviator tribe. Lately he has caught and severely reprimanded several of
the boys; so I guess that I shall have to have the tailor make certain
unfortunate changes in my garments.

The weather of late has been wretched for flying. A low, frosty mist
hangs over the countryside; the trees, especially the pines, are
exquisite in their lacy finery of frost. The few days we have of decent
weather are usually interesting, as the Hun ventures over chez nous to
take a few photographs, and with a little luck the boys are able to
surprise him into a running fight. At night, when the tired war-birds
buzz home to roost, a crowd of pilots and mechanics gathers before the
hangars. All gaze anxiously into the northeastern sky. The captain paces
up and down--though he has flown four hours, he will not eat or drink
till he has news of his pilots. Jean is missing, and Charlot, and
Marcel. Night is drawing on--the sky flushes and fades, and faces are
growing just a trifle grave.

Suddenly a man shouts and points--Jean's mechanician,--and high up in
the darkening east we see three specks--the missing combat patrol. Next
moment the hoarse drone of their motors reaches our ears; the sound
ceases; in great curving glides they descend on the aerodrome. We hear
the hollow whistling of their planes, see them, one after another, clear
the trees at ninety miles an hour, dip, straighten, and rush toward us,
a yard above the grass. A slight bumping jar, a half-stop, and each
motor gives tongue again in short bursts, as the pilots taxi across to
the hangars, snapping the spark on and off.

Then a grand scamper to crowd around our half-frozen comrades, who
descend stiffly from their "zincs," and tell of their adventures, while
mechanics pull off their fur boots and combinations. Other "mecanos" are
examining the machines for bullet- and shrapnel-holes--often a new wing
is needed, or a new propeller; sometimes a cable is cut half through.
Snatches of talk (unintelligible outside the "fancy") reach one; we, of
course, know only the French, but the R.F.C. stuff is equally cryptic.

"Spotted him at four thousand eight, 'piqued' on him, got under his
tail, did a chandelle, got in a good rafale, did a glissade, went into a
vrille, and lost so much height I could not catch him again."

An R.F.C. man would say, "Spotted him at forty-eight hundred, dove on
him, got under his tail, did a zoom, got in a good burst, did a
side-slip, went into a spin," etc. I may say that "chandelle" or "zoom"
means a sudden, very steep leap upward (limited in length and steepness
by the power and speed of the machine). Some of our latest machines will
do the most extraordinary feats in this line--things that an old
experienced pilot in America would have to see to believe. A "glissade"
is a wing-slip to the side, and down; a "vrille" is a spinning
nose-dive.

Among the younger pilots are several who entertain spectators with all
sorts of acrobatic feats over the aerodrome. A fine exhibition of skill
and courage, but foolish at times--especially after a fight, when vital
parts may be dangerously weakened by bullet-holes. Too much acrobacy
strains and weakens the strongest aeroplane. I believe in doing just
enough to keep your hand in, as in fights you are forced to put enough
unusual stresses on your bus.


I hope to know very soon whether or not we are to be transferred to the
American army. The long delay has worked hardships on a good many of us,
as of course no pilot could begin to live on the pay we get. The
Franco-American Flying-Corps fund (for which, I believe, we must thank
the splendid generosity of Mr. Vanderbilt) has helped immensely in the
past, but some of the boys are in hard straits now. I hope we shall be
transferred, because the pay will make us self-supporting, and any
American would rather be in United States uniform nowadays, in spite of
the bully way the French treat us, and our liking for our French
comrades, with whom it will be a wrench to part.

The point regarding our present pay is this: all French aviators are
volunteers, knowing conditions in the air-service beforehand. Before
volunteering, therefore, they arrange for the necessary private funds;
if not available, they keep out of flying. We get two and a half francs
a day (as against five sous in the infantry), but on the other hand, we
are lodged, and forced by tradition to live, like officers. It is fine
for the chap who has a little something coming in privately, but tough
for the one who is temporarily or permanently "broke."

Our boys are going to do splendid things over here. Everywhere one sees
discipline, efficiency, and organization that make an American's chest
go out. The first slackness (unavoidable at the start of a huge and
unfamiliar job) has completely disappeared. People at home should know
of all this as quickly and as much in detail as expedient: they are
giving their money and their flesh and blood, and prompt and racy news
helps wonderfully to hearten and stimulate those whose duty is at home.

For myself, there is nowhere and nobody I would rather be at present
than here and a pilot. No man in his senses could say he enjoyed the
war; but as it must be fought out, I would rather be in aviation than
any other branch. A pleasant life, good food, good sleep, and two to
four hours a day in the air. After four hours (in two spells) over the
lines, constantly alert and craning to dodge scandalously accurate
shells and suddenly appearing Boches, panting in the thin air at twenty
thousand feet, the boys are, I think, justified in calling it a day. I
have noticed that the coolest men are a good bit let down after a dogged
machine-gun fight far up in the rarefied air. It may seem soft to an
infantryman--twenty hours of sleep, eating, and loafing; but in reality
the airman should be given an easy time outside of flying.

I was unfortunate enough to smash a beautiful new machine yesterday. Not
my fault; but it makes one feel rotten to see a bright splendid thing
one has begun to love strewn about the landscape. Some wretched little
wire, or bit of dirt where it was not wanted, made my engine stop dead,
and a forced landing in rough country full of woods and ditches is no
joke. I came whizzing down to the only available field, turned into the
wind, only to see dead ahead a series of hopeless ditches which would
have made a frightful end-over-end crash. Nothing to do but pull her up
a few feet and sail over, risking a loss of speed. I did this, and
"pancaked" fairly gently, but had to hit ploughed ground across the
furrow. The poor "coucou"--my joy and pride--was wrecked, and I climbed,
or rather dropped, out, with nothing worse than a sore head, where the
old bean hit the carlingue. Now all the world looks gray, though our
captain behaved like the splendid chap he is about it: not a word of the
annoyance he must have felt.

The very finest motors, of course, do stop on occasions. Better luck, I
hope, from now on.


As the days go by, I find much that is novel and interesting about the
aerial war, which in reality is quite different from any idea of it that
I had had. I will try to give a rough idea of how the upper war is
carried on.

The trenches, sometimes visible, often quite invisible from the heights
at which one flies, form the dividing line between us and the Boche.
Behind them, at distances of from seven to fifteen miles, are the
aerodromes--a few acres of tolerably flat land, three or four or half a
dozen hangars (often cleverly camouflaged), barracks, and sheds for
automobiles. Each side, of course, knows pretty well the locations of
the enemy aerodromes. This gives rise to a certain amount of give and
take in the bombing line, which, in the end, accomplishes very little.

It is a curious fact that in certain sectors the aviator's life is made
miserable by this ceaseless bombing, while in other places a species of
unwritten understanding permits him to sleep, at least, in peace. I have
a friend in a far-off escadrille who has to jump out of bed and dive for
the dugouts nearly every clear night, when the sentry hears the
unmistakable Mercedes hum close overhead, the shutting off of the
motor, and the ominous rush of air as the Huns descend on their mark. He
knows that the Germans get as good as, or better than they give--but the
knowledge does not make up for lost sleep. In my sector, on the other
hand, we could blow the Boche aerodromes to atoms and they could
probably do as much for us, but neither side has started this useless
"strafing." Just before an attack, such bombing might be of military
value; otherwise it only harasses vainly men who need what sleep they
get, and destroys wealth on both sides, like exchanging men in checkers
without profiting in position. I have heard parlor warriors at home say,
"By all means make war as unpleasant as possible--then it won't happen
again." But there is a limit to this, when nothing of tactical value is
accomplished.

The aerodromes are the headquarters of the different squadrons, each of
which is specialized in some type of work. Military aviation divides
itself into certain groups, requiring different types of machines and
different training for pilot or observer. These groups are day-bombing,
night-bombing, observation, photography, artillery fire-control, and
chasse. I would like to tell you all about the different buses used, but
of course one is not at liberty to do so. In general, bombing-machines
are rather large two-seaters or three-seaters, designed to rise to great
heights, where they are very fast, and capable of carrying heavy loads
for long distances. They are, naturally, well armed, but depend (for
safely carrying out their missions) principally on their speed at
altitudes of eighteen thousand feet or more. Photography, observation,
and artillery control machines, on the other hand, must be fast at lower
altitudes, handy in a fight, and speedy climbers. They are, so far as I
know, always two-seaters, and are really the most important of all
aeroplanes. I believe that all the allied designers should work together
to produce a single uniform type of two-seater--small, quick to
maneuver, and very fast up to fifteen or sixteen thousand feet. Such
machines, flying about their work in small groups, are truly formidable
things for single-seater scouts to attack, as they are nearly as fast
and handy, and have the enormous advantage of being able to shoot
backward as well as forward. With light double-controls for the
machine-gun man or observing officer (who would take a few lessons in
emergency flying), they could not be brought down by killing the
pilot--a most valuable feature.

The Boches have such machines,--particularly the Rumpler,--which are
tough nuts to crack, even when outnumbered. Two of our boys had a
running fight with a Rumpler recently, and dove at him alternately for
thirty minutes over forty miles of country. Both were nearly brought
down in the process--and they failed to bag the enemy machine, though at
the last they did for the observer. This shows the great value of the
fast two-place bus. I doubt if people at home are aware of the
difficulties of designing a two-seater which one could pronounce,
without hesitation, the best. It must have four major qualities: speed,
climbing ability, diving speed, and handiness. The need of strength, or
high factor of safety, goes without saying. Speed is simply a matter of
power and head resistance, and is comparatively easy to attain alone;
the rub comes in combining with it the requisite climbing power, and
factor of safety. The Germans, in general, seem to believe in a very
heavy, substantial motor, which cuts their climbing to a certain extent,
but gives them a very fast dive. The Allies' machines, I should say,
are slightly faster climbers, but cannot follow a diving Hun. And so it
goes--to have one quality in perfection, another must be sacrificed.

Last of all come the single-seaters, whose sole purpose is to fight.
Many different types have been tried--monoplanes, biplanes, and
triplanes, with different kinds of fixed and rotary motors. At present
the biplane seems to have it (though I have seen an experimental
monoplane that is a terror), as the monoplane is by nature too weak, and
the triplane (magnificent otherwise!) is too slow in diving for either
attack or escape.

The work the different groups perform seems to be roughly the same in
the Allied and enemy armies. The day-bombers fly at great heights,
sometimes escorted and protected by single-seaters. The night-bombers
fly fairly low, never escorted. Photographers, observers, and artillery
regulators have a nasty job, as they must fly rather low, constantly
subjected to a galling attention from old Archibald. When their mission
requires it, they are escorted by chasse machines--a job that
single-seater pilots do not pine for, because they often go twenty or
thirty miles into "Bochie," where motor-trouble means a soup diet till
the end of the war; and because, at low altitudes, hovering over a slow
"cuckoo," the anti-aircraft gunners have too good a time.

The single-seaters may be divided into two classes: the first does
escort work about half the time, the second does nothing but parade up
and down the lines, hunting for trouble. The last are the élite among
airmen. Unfortunately I am not one of them, as they are recruited only
from tried and skillful pilots. As to fighting, there is a good deal of
popular misconception. One imagines picturesque duels to the death,
between A (the great French or English ace) and X (his German
competitor)--the multitude of straining, upturned eyes, the distant
rattle of shots, the flaming spin of the loser. As a matter of fact, a
duel between two monoplaces, handled by pilots of anything like equal
skill, who are _aware of each other's presence_, is not unlikely to end
without bloodshed. Bear in mind that they can shoot only forward, that
the gun must be aimed by aiming the whole machine (to which it is fixed
immovably), and that a twisting, climbing, banking aeroplane, traveling
at over one hundred miles per hour, is no joke to hit in its small
vitals, and you can see that this must be so.

The truth is, that the vast majority of fights which end in a victory
are between scouts and two-seaters, and that it needs two scouts to
attack one biplace with anything like even chances of winning. Think a
moment. The two-seater is nearly as fast and handy as you are; he can
therefore avoid you and shoot forward almost as well, and in addition,
he has a man astern who can shoot up, sideways, and backwards with most
superior accuracy. This disconcerting individual, it is true, cannot
shoot straight down when the wings are horizontal, but to enable him to
do so, the pilot has only to tilt the machine to the necessary angle.

Now, suppose two French monoplaces sight an Iron-Crossed two-seater.
Flying at sixteen thousand feet, they see French shrapnel in white puffs
bursting below them at two thousand feet, and several miles away. They
change their course, and presently, dodging in and out among the fleecy
balls, they espy a fast biplace, heavily camouflaged in queer splotches
of green, brown, and violet. Coming nearer, they make out the
crosses--ha, a Boche! Nearer and nearer they come, till they are four
hundred yards behind and six hundred feet above the enemy, who has seen
them and is making tracks for home. Three hundred yards, by the way, is
the closest one may safely approach a machine-gun in the air. At this
point A dives on the Boche to about two hundred and fifty yards, shoots
a short burst, and veers off. The German machine-gunner lets him have a
rafale, but meanwhile B has dived under and behind the enemy's tail.
There he stays, at a fairly safe distance, with his eye on the rudder
above him, ready to anticipate the banks which might enable the gunner
to get in a burst. As soon as A sees that B is beneath the Boche, he
dives and shoots again. The gunner is in a quandary--if he aims at A, B
will slip up and forward, rear his machine into position, and deliver a
possibly deadly burst. If he devotes his attention to B, A will be safe
to make a dive to dangerously close quarters. There you have the theory
of the most common of all attacks--but in reality it is more difficult
than it sounds. The three machines are traveling at great speed, and
constantly twisting, rearing, and diving. It is the easiest thing in the
world to pass another plane, turn to follow it, and see nothing, no
matter how you strain your eyes. In passing, your combined speed might
be roughly _one hundred and twenty yards per second_, and you are both
moving in three dimensions. The object for which you search may be to
the side, ahead, above, below; and every second of your search may be
increasing its distance at enormous speed.

It is bitterly cold, and I am sitting in our cozy mess-room waiting for
lunch, which is at twelve. A dense fog hangs over the aerodrome, and the
trees are beautifully frosted.

Just had word that a boy who was at Avord in my time has bagged one of
the "Tangos"--no mean feat. It is the crack escadrille of all
Germany--Albatross DIII's, driven by the pick of the Hun fighting
pilots, and commanded, I believe, by Von Richthofen--the most famous of
German aces. They are a formidable aggregation, recognizable by rings of
tango red around their Iron Crosses, and stripes of the same color along
the fuselage. For a young pilot to bring one of these birds down in one
of his first flights over the lines is a wonderful piece of luck and
skill.

On days (like to-day) when the weather makes flying impossible, the
fellows sleep late, make a long, luxurious toilet, breakfast, and stroll
down to the hangars, where they potter around their "zincs," feeling
over the wires, adjusting the controls, tinkering their machine-guns, or
perhaps fitting on some sort of new trick sight. Sights are a hobby with
every pilot and nearly every one has different ideas on the subject,
advocating telescopic or open, one or two-eye outfits. Then, if one is
extra careful, he takes out the long belt of cartridges, feels each
bullet to make sure it is tightly crimped in the shell, and pushes and
pulls the shells until all are exactly even. "Jams" are the curse of
this game, and no amount of trouble is too much, if it insures a smooth
working gun. Some jams can be fixed in the air, but others render you
defenseless until you can land.

Each pilot has his own mechanic, who does nothing but look after his
bus, and is usually a finished comedian in addition to being a crack
mechanic. In truth, I never ran across a more comical, likable,
hard-working crew than the French aviation mechanics. They are mostly
pure Parisian "gamins"--speaking the most extraordinary jargon, in which
everything but the verbs (and half of them) is slang, of the most
picturesque sort. Quick-witted, enormously interested in their work,
intelligent and good-natured, they are the aristocrats of their trade,
and know it. You should see them when they go on leave. Jean or Chariot,
ordinarily the most oily and undignified of men, steps out of the
squadron office arrayed in a superb blue uniform, orange tabs on his
collar, a mirror-like tan belt about his waist--shaven, shorn, shining
with cleanliness, puffing an expensive-looking, gilt-banded cigar. Is it
fancy--or is there a slight condescension in his greeting? Well, it is
natural--you can never hope to look so superbly like a field-marshal. A
little crowd of pals gathers around, for it is just after lunch; and
presently the motorbus draws up with a scream of brakes and a cloud of
dust. The motor has "AV" in big letters on the side, and its driver (not
to be confounded with any mere ambulance or lorry chauffeur) would feel
it a disgrace to travel under forty miles an hour, or to make anything
but the most spectacular of turns and stops. The driver produces a
silver cigarette case, passes it round, takes a weed, taps it on his
wrist, and chaffs the permissionnaire about a new godmother on whom he
is planning to call in Paris.

Presently the captain steps out of his office; the departing one spins
about, head back and chest out, cigar hidden in his left hand;
"click"--his heels come together magnificently, and up goes his right
hand in a rigid salute. Smiling behind his mustache, our extremely
attractive captain salutes in return, and shakes Chariot's hand warmly,
wishing him a pleasant leave. He is off, and you can picture him
to-morrow strolling with princely nonchalance along the boulevards. What
if he earns but five cents a day--he saves most of that, and his pilot
presents him with a substantial sum every Saturday night, all of which
is put away for the grand splurge, three times a year.

In Paris, you will recognize the type--well dressed in neat dark blue,
orange collar with the group number on it, fingernails alone showing the
unmistakable traces of his trade, face, eyes and manner registering
interest and alert intelligence. As likely as not you see him on the
terrace of some great café--a wonderfully smart little midinette (his
feminine counterpart) beside him, with shining eyes of pride--and at the
next table a famous general of division, ablaze with the ribbons of half
a dozen orders.

The "mecanos" dress as nearly like pilots as they dare, and after flying
is over in the evening are apt to appear about the hangars in the
teddy-bear suits and fur boots of the "patron." Some funny things happen
at such times. There is a class of officers, called "officers of
administration," attached to squadrons and groups of aviation, who do
not fly, but look after the office and business end of the équipe. They
are worthy men and do absolutely necessary work, but somehow are not
very swank.

One day it became known that the revered Guynemer was to visit a certain
escadrille, and naturally all the officers were on fire to shake the
hero's hand--a reminiscence to hand down to their children's children.
The administration officer--a first lieutenant--was late in getting away
from the bureau, and when he got to the field, Guynemer had landed, left
his machine, and gone to have the sacred apéritif of five o'clock.
Meanwhile, the chief comedian of all the mechanics, dressed by chance in
his pilot's combination and boots, and proud to tinker (with reverent
fingers) the famous Spad, had run out to where it stood, filled it with
gas and oil, touched up the magneto, and cleaned a couple of plugs. The
officer, as he came to the hangars, perceived the well-known "taxi,"
with the stork on its side, and a furry figure strolling towards him. A
snap of heels, the position of attention, and he was saluting (as he
thought) one of the most glorious figures of France. The comedy
mechanician--taking in the situation at a glance--strolled magnificently
by, with a careless salute and a nod. The officer never inquired who it
was he had saluted--but what a tale to pass around the barrack stove on
winter evenings! Mistaken for Guynemer! Saluted by a two-striper!

In clothes and get-up the mechanics follow the pilots' lead, but in
language the situation is reversed--we take pride in memorizing,
chuckling over, and using at every opportunity the latest word or phrase
invented by these gifted slangsters. An aeroplane is never "avion" or
"appareil," but "zinc," "taxi," or "coucou." Motor is "moulin"--to start
it, one "turns the mill." In the aviation, one does not eat, one
"pecks." One is not killed--one "breaks one's face," though face is not
the inelegant word in use. Gasoline is "sauce"; to open the throttle,
you "give her the sauce." A motor breakdown is not, as in the automobile
service, a "panne," but a "carafe"--heaven knows why! and so on.

Life out here is in many ways a contrast to the last six months. Though
only a beginner, a bleu, I am Somebody, through the mere fact of being a
pilot, and most of all a pilote de chasse--a most chic thing to be. I
must dress well, shave daily, wear my hair brushed straight back and
long,--in contrast to all other branches of the army,--have my boots and
belt polished like a mirror, and frequent only the best café in town.
These are, of course, unwritten rules, but sternly lived up to--and I
confess that the return of self-respect, after months of dirt and
barrack life, is not unpleasant.

Our escadrille, composed of ten French pilots, two Americans, and the
officers, is really a very decent crowd of chaps of good family and
education. Frenchmen of this kind are good fellows and pleasant
companions, differing from us only on certain racial points of outlook
and humor. Among them are two lawyers (with all the French lawyer's
delicate wit, irony, and love of play on words), a large wine-grower (if
you can grow wine), a professional soldier from Morocco, a medical
student, and my room-mate, a most attractive chap, an English
public-school man, whose family are French importers in London. He has
been nearly everywhere, is absolutely bi-lingual, and is the sort of man
who is at home in any kind of company.

From time to time, of course, some one is brought down, and though I
dislike it intensely, one feels that decency demands one's presence at
the funeral. Elaborate, rather fine ceremony usually, where the Gallic
emotional nature appears at its best. At the last one, for instance, the
captain (brave as a lion, and a man to his finger-tips) was overcome in
the midst of his speech of eulogy and burst into tears. Impossible to an
Anglo-Saxon, but to me there was something very fine in the sight of
this splendid officer, frankly overcome with grief at the loss of one of
his men. When the ceremony is over, each pilot and friend comes to pay
respect to the departed comrade, takes up in turn an implement shaped
like an Indian-club, dips it in holy water, makes a sign with it over
the coffin, draped in the Tri-color, and sprinkles a few drops of water
on the flag.

At our mess, we have queer little things of glass to rest knife and fork
on, while the dishes are being changed; and last night at dinner, when
the captain's orderly assigned one pilot to a particularly ticklish
mission, an irrepressible American youth who was dining with us picked
up one of these knife-rests (shaped exactly like a holy-water
sprinkler), stood up very solemnly, made the sign over his victim, and
sprinkled a few drops on his head. Amid roars of laughter every one at
the table stood up in turn and did likewise. A harmless joke to us, but
I am not sure of its good taste to a Frenchman.

If I had known France before the war I could decide better a question
that constantly occurs to me: "Has France grown more religious with
war?" The educated Frenchman is certainly the most intelligent, the most
skeptical, the least inclined to take things on trust of all men, yet on
the whole I am inclined to believe that religious feeling (by no means
orthodox religion) has grown and is growing. In peace times, death seems
a vitally important thing, to be spoken of with awe and to be dreaded,
perhaps as the end of the game, if you chance to be a materialist.

All that is changed now. You go to Paris on leave, you spend two or
three days delightfully with Bill or Jim or Harry, a very dear friend,
also in on leave from his battery, regiment, or squadron.

A week later some one runs up to you with a long face. "Bill got crowned
on Thursday," he says; "joined a Boche patrol by mistake and brought
down before he saw the crosses. Poor old cuss." You sigh, thinking of
the pleasant hours you have passed with Bill--your long talks together,
his curious and interesting kinks of outlook, the things which make
personality, make one human being different from another. Somehow your
thoughts don't dwell on his death as they would in peace-times--a week
or a month later your mind has not settled into taking for granted his
non-existence. Next time you visit Paris, you hasten to his former
haunts--half expecting to find him absorbing a bock and expounding his
peculiar philosophy.

Is there a life after death? Of course there is--you smile a little to
yourself to think you could ever have believed otherwise. This, I am
confident, is common experience nowadays. The belief that individuality
ceases, that death is anything but a quick and not very alarming change,
is too absurd to hold water. It is a comforting thought and gives men
strength to perform duties and bear losses which in ordinary times would
come hard.


I have just been made popotier--I don't know what you call it in
English, but it means the individual who attends to the mess: buys
provisions, wine, and so forth, makes out menus, keeps accounts, and
bosses the cook. A doubtful honor, but one of which I am rather proud
when I think that a crowd of French officers have entrusted to me the
sacred rites of the table. I was never much of a gourmet, but what
little I know stands me in good stead.

To-day was the occasion of the first considerable feast under my
régime--a lunch given by the officers of our squadron to some
distinguished French visitors. The cook and I held long and anxious
consultations and finally turned out a meal on which every one
complimented us: excellent hors d'oeuvres, grilled salmon steaks, roast
veal, asparagus, and salad. A dry Chablis with the fish and some really
good Burgundy with the roast. Not bad for the front, really.

I give the cook each night enough money for the next day's marketing.
The following evening he tells me the amount of the day's expenses,
which sum I divide by the number present, giving each man's share for
the day. Very simple.

Since I got my new machine I have become a genuine hangar-loafer. It is
so delicate and complicated that my unfortunate mechanics have to work
practically all the time to keep me going. The only way to get the work
done well is to know about it yourself; and so, against my instincts, I
have been forced for the first time to study the technical and
mechanical side of my bus.

Some say, "The pilot should never know too much about his machine--it
destroys his dash." Perhaps they are right--certainly a plunge into this
maze of technicalities destroys his sleep--there is an unwholesome
fascination about it: hundreds of delicate and fragile parts, all
synchronized as it were and working together, any one of which, by its
defection, can upset or even wreck the whole fabric. A simple
motor-failure, even in our own lines and at a good altitude, is no joke
in the case of the modern single-seater. Small and enormously heavy for
its wing-surface, it first touches ground at too high a speed for
anything but the longest and smoothest fields. In pannes of this sort,
the pilot usually steps out of the most frightful-looking wreck smiling
and quite unhurt; but you can scarcely imagine the chagrin and
depression one feels at breaking a fine machine. I did it once, and it
made me half sick for a week, though it was not really my fault at all.

After lunch, instead of taking a nap as one does when on duty at
daybreak, I go to the "bar" to read letters and papers and see friends
from the other squadrons. As I go in the door, five friends in flying
clothes go out.

"See you in two hours," says Lieutenant D----. "Let's have a poker game;
I've got a patrol now."

"All right," I say, "I'll be here"--though I'm not very keen on French
poker, which is somewhat different from ours.

The two hours pass in a wink of time as I lie in a steamer-chair,
reading and reveling in the warm drowsy May afternoon. A sound of
motors, the hollow whistling rush of landing single-seaters, and I
glance out of the door. Here they come, lumbering across the field--but
only four. I get up hastily and run to where the flight-commander is
descending stiffly from his bus. His face is long, as we crowd around.

"Where's D----?" I ask anxiously.

"Brought down, I'm afraid," he answers. "We chased some two-seaters
twenty-five miles into the Boche lines, and nine Albatrosses dropped on
us. Got two of them, I think; but after the first mix-up, I lost track
of D----, and he didn't come back with us."

A melancholy little procession heads for the bar, and while the affair
is being reëxplained, the telephone rings.

"Lieutenant D---- has been found at X----. He was shot through the
chest, but managed to regain our lines before he died. He was on the
point of landing in a field when he lost consciousness. The machine is
not badly smashed."

At a near-by table, a dice game, which started after lunch and has been
interrupted to hear the news, continues. I resume my place in my chair
and spread out the Paris "Herald"--unable to focus my mind on the
steamship arrivals or the offensive. Poor old D----!

We have had lovely weather for the past fortnight--long warm days have
made the trees burst into leaf and covered the meadows with
wild-flowers. The quail have begun to nest--queer little fellows, quite
unlike ours, whose love-song is, "_Whit_, twit, whit," with a strong
emphasis on the first "whit."

Sometimes, at night, a nightingale, on a tree outside my window, charms
me to wakefulness with his dripping-sweet music.


These are strenuous days--I have done nothing but fly, eat, and sleep
for a fortnight. Our "traveling circus" has been living up to its
name--going about from place to place with amazing mobility and speed. I
have lived for a week with no baggage but the little bag I carry in my
plane. It contains one change of light underwear, one pair of socks,
tooth-brush, tooth-paste, tobacco, sponge, soap, towel, shaving things,
mirror, a first-aid kit, and a bottle of eau de cologne. With this I can
weather a few days anywhere until the baggage-trucks catch up.

Our mobility is marvelous--we can receive our orders at daybreak,
breakfast, and land in a place a hundred miles away in an hour and a
half. Then a little oil and petrol, and we are ready to bounce
something off the local Boche. I could easily write a large calf-bound
volume on nothing but my experiences of the past week--one of the most
strangely fascinating (in retrospect) of my life, though saddened by the
loss of two of our pilots, one an American.

We had no sooner got to this place than we were sent out on a
patrol--six of us, with a French lieutenant, a special friend of mine,
as flight-commander. None of us had flown before in this sector, and a
young American (S----, of New York) was making his second flight over
the lines. The weather was wretched, thick, low-hanging clouds with a
fine drizzle of rain--visibility almost zero. While mechanics filled the
machine, I pored over my map till I had all necessary landmarks
thoroughly in mind. At last the captain glanced at his watch and
shouted, "En voiture!"

I climbed into my tiny cockpit, loaded my gun with a snap of the lever,
wiped the sights free of moisture, and sank back in my seat, while my
mechanic adjusted the belt which holds one tight in place. Up went the
captain's hand, and almost with a single roar the six motors started.
One after another we rushed across the field, rose to the low ceiling of
the clouds, and swept back, bunched like a flock of teal. The
flight-commander's head, a black leather dot in his cockpit, turned
swiftly for a glance back. All there and well grouped; so he headed for
the lines, flying so low that we seemed to shave the spires of village
churches. Soon the houses ceased to have roofs--we were over the front.

A great battle was raging below us--columns of smoke rose from the towns
and the air was rocked and torn by the passage of projectiles. Far and
near the woods were alive with the winking flash of batteries. Soon we
were far into the German lines; deep coughs came from the air about us
as patches of black sprang out. But we were too low and our speed was
too great to be bothered by the Boche gunners. Suddenly the clouds broke
for an instant, and across the blue hole I saw a dozen Albatrosses
driving toward us--German single-seaters, dark ugly brutes with broad
short wings and pointed snouts. Our leader saw them too, and we bounded
upward three hundred feet, turning to meet them. The rest happened so
swiftly that I can scarcely describe it coherently. Out of the tail of
my eye I saw our leader dive on an Albatross, which plunged spinning to
the ground. At the same instant I bounded upward to the clouds and
dropped on a Boche who was attacking a comrade. I could see my gun
spitting streams of luminous bullets into the German's fuselage. But
suddenly swift incandescent sparks began to pour past me, and a glance
backward showed three Albatrosses on my tail. I turned upside down,
pulled back, and did a hairpin turn, rising to get behind them. Not a
German machine was in sight--they had melted away as suddenly as they
came.

Far off to the south four of our machines were heading back toward the
lines. Feeling very lonely and somewhat de trop, I opened the throttle
wide and headed after them. Just as I caught up, the leader signaled
that he was done for, and glided off, with his propeller stopped.
Praying that he might get safely across to our side, I fell in behind
the second in command. Only four now--who and where was the other?
Anxiously I ranged alongside of each machine for a look at its number.
As I had feared, it was the American--a hot-headed, fearless boy, full
of courage and confidence, but inexperienced and not a skillful pilot.
No word of him since. Did he lose the patrol in a sharp turn and get
brought down by a prowling gang of Albatrosses, or did he have
motor-trouble which forced him to land in the enemy lines? These are the
questions we ask ourselves, hoping for the best.

An hour after we landed at our field, a telephone message came, saying
that Lieutenant de G---- had landed safely a thousand yards behind the
firing-line, with three balls in his motor.

The captain sent for me. "Take my motor-car," he said, "and go fetch de
G----. The machine is in plain view on a hill. I am giving you two
mechanics, so do your best to save the instruments and machine-gun. The
Boche artillery will probably drop shells on the machine before
nightfall."

The trip proved rather a thriller, for at this point the old-fashioned
picture-book trenchless warfare was in full blast. Picking up de G----,
we hid the car in a valley and sneaked forward under an unpleasant fire
of shrapnel and high explosives. The unconcerned infantry reserves,
chaffing and smoking where they lay hidden in fields of ripe wheat,
stiffened our slightly shaky nerves. Poor timid aviators, completely out
of their element--I heaved a sigh of relief that came from the very
soles of my feet when at last our task was done, and with our cargo
safely stowed, we sped out of the valley and back toward the rear. Hats
off to the infantry!

Next day two of us went patrolling with the captain--a famous "ace"
whose courage and skillful piloting are proverbial and who never asked
one of his men to do a thing he hesitated to do himself. He was
particularly fond of Americans (one of Lufbery's pallbearers), and on
many occasions had done things for me which showed his rare courtesy and
thoughtfulness. None of us dreamed, as he laughed and joked with us at
the breakfast-table, that it was his last day of life.

The details of this patrol will always be fresh in my mind. We were
flying at about seven thousand feet, the three of us, I on the captain's
right. At six thousand, stretching away into the German lines, there was
a beautiful sea of clouds, white and level and limitless. Far back, a
dozen miles "chez Boche," a flight of Albatrosses crawled across the
sky--a roughly grouped string of dots, for all the world like migrating
wildfowl. Suddenly, about seven or eight miles in, a Hun two-seater
poked his nose above the clouds, rose leisurely into view, and dove
back. I was quite sure that he had not seen us. The captain began at
once to rise, turning at the same time to take advantage of the sun, and
for a few minutes we wove back and forth, edging in till we were nearly
over the spot where the Boche had appeared. At last our patience was
rewarded. The Boche emerged from the clouds, seemed to hesitate an
instant like a timid fish rising from a bed of seaweed, and headed for
the lines, where doubtless he had some reglage or reconnaissance to do.

Our position was perfect--in the sun and well above the enemy. The
captain banked vertically and plunged like a thunderbolt on the German,
I following a little behind and to one side. At one hundred and fifty
yards, streaks of fire poured from his two guns, and as he dove under
the German's belly I got into range. Dropping vertically at a speed (I
suppose) of two hundred and fifty miles an hour, with the wind screaming
through the wires, I got my sights to bear and pulled the trigger.
Faintly above the furious rush of air, I could hear the stutter of my
gun and see the bullets streaking to their mark. It was over in a wink
of time: as I swerved sharply to the left, I caught a glimpse of the Hun
machine-gunner, in a great yellow helmet and round goggles, frantically
getting his gun to bear on me. A pull-back and I shot up under his tail,
tilted up, and gave him another burst.

But what was this--as I opened the throttle, the engine sputtered and
died! I dove steeply at once to keep the propeller turning, realizing in
a flash of thought that the long fast dive had made the pressure in my
gasoline tank go down. A turn of the little lever put her on the small
gravity tank called the "nurse"; but no luck--something was wrong with
the valve. Nothing to do but pump by hand, and I pumped like a madman.
Seven miles in the enemy lines and dropping like a stone--I was what the
French call très inquiet. Three thousand feet, two thousand, a
thousand--and I pumped on, visions of a soup-diet and all the tales I
had heard of German scientific food substitutes flashing through my
mind. Five hundred; a splutter from the engine, and at two hundred feet
above a ruined village she burst into her full roar, and I drew a breath
for the first time in the descent. Crossed the lines three hundred feet
up with full throttle and the nose down, and didn't get a bullet-hole!

I was unable to find the others, and as my petrol was low I went home.
The rest I have from the other pilot.

The captain apparently had the same trouble as I, for he continued his
dive to about three thousand feet, followed by the other. The German,
when last seen, was diving for the ground, so we shall never know
whether or not we got him. Rising again above the sea of clouds, the
captain attacked the rear man of a patrol of eleven Albatrosses which
passed beneath him. Turning over and over aimlessly, the Hun fell out
of sight into the clouds. At this moment three Boches dove on the
captain from the rear--his machine burst into flames and dove steeply
toward our lines. Our remaining pilot, hopelessly outnumbered,
extricated himself with difficulty and arrived a few minutes after me,
his bus riddled with balls. We found the captain's body, just behind the
firing-line. He had been killed by three bullets, but had retained
consciousness long enough to get to friendly ground before he died. A
splendid officer and a true friend, whom we all mourn sincerely.


The past fortnight has been rather stirring for us--constant flying,
plenty of fights, and the usual moving about. One gets used to it in
time, but at first it is a wrench to a man of my conservative nature and
sedentary habits. This time we have struck it rich in a village where
soldiers are still welcome. I have a really charming room in the house
of the principal family--well-to-do people who own the local factory.
Great sunny south windows, running water, and a soft snowy bed, scented
with lavender! A day of rest to-day, as they are installing a new motor
in my "taxi"; so I am planted at a little table, looking out through my
window on a warm peaceful scene of tiled roofs, rustling leaves, and a
delicious sky across which float summery clouds. Not a uniform in sight,
not a sound of a cannon--the war seems an impossible dream.

The last day at our old field I had a narrow escape. Two of us were
flying together up and down the lines at about four thousand feet. The
other chap had allowed me to get pretty far in the lead, when I spied,
about two thousand feet below me, a strange-looking two-seater, darkly
camouflaged, on which I could see no insignia. I dove on him, but not
headlong, as the English have a machine on similar lines, and it was not
until I was quite close that I made out two tiny black crosses _set in
circles of orange_. By this time the machine-gunner was on the alert,
and just as I was going to give him a burst, _flac, flac, flac_, bullets
began to pass me from behind. Holes suddenly appeared in my wings; in
another moment whoever was shooting would have had me, so I rose steeply
in a sharp turn, saw nothing, turned again and again, and finally,
disappearing in the distance after the two-seater, I made out two little
Pfalz scouts, painted dark green.

My comrade, who was having engine trouble, saw the whole thing. The
Boche single-seaters were well behind the larger plane they were
protecting,--somehow I missed seeing them,--and when I dove at their pal
they rose up under my tail and let me have it with their four guns.
Only some rotten shooting saved me from being brought down. The hardest
thing for a new pilot to learn is the proper combination of dash and
wariness: neither produces results alone; both are absolutely essential.
One must bear in mind two axioms: first, bring down the enemy; second,
don't get brought down yourself. A disheartening number of young pilots,
full of dash and courage, trained at great expense to their country, get
themselves brought down on their first patrol, simply because they lack
skill and the necessary dash of wariness. A good general does not
ordinarily attack the enemy where he is strongest.

Our field was deserted: the mechanics were packing to leave, and my
machine--old Slapping Sally--stood mournfully in the corner of a hangar.
I stowed my belongings in the little locker at my side, had her wheeled
out, adjusted my maps, and in five minutes was off on my long trip over
unknown country. Our maps are really marvelous. With the compass to
check up directions of roads, railroads, canals, and rivers, one can
travel hundreds of miles over strange country and never miss a crossroad
or a village. If, however, you allow yourself to become lost for an
instant, you are probably hopelessly lost, with nothing to do but land
and locate yourself on the map.

When I left, there was a gale of wind blowing, with spits of rain; and
in fifteen minutes, during which I had covered forty miles, the clouds
were scudding past at three hundred feet off the ground, forcing me at
times to jump tall trees on hills. A bit too thick. Seeing a small
aerodrome on my right, I buzzed over and landed, getting a great
reception from the pilots, who had never examined one of the latest
single-seaters. It is really comical, with what awe the pilots of slower
machines regard a scout. They have been filled full of mechanics'
stories about "landing at terrific speed--the slightest false movement
means death," and the like; whereas in reality our machines are the
easiest things in the world to land, once you get the trick.

In a couple of hours the weather showed signs of improvement, so I shook
hands all round and strapped myself in. To satisfy their interest and
curiosity, I taxied to the far edge of the field, headed into the wind,
rose a yard off the ground, gave her full motor, and held her down to
within thirty yards of the spectators, grouped before a hangar. By this
time Sally was fairly burning the breeze--traveling every yard of her
one hundred and thirty-five miles an hour; and as my hosts began to
scatter, I let her have her head. Up she went in a mighty bound at
forty-five degrees, nine hundred feet in the drawing of a breath. There
I flattened her, reduced the motor, did a couple of "Immelman turns"
(instead of banking, turn upside-down, and pull back), and waved
good-bye. Rather childish, but they were good fellows, and really
interested in what the bus would do.

All went well as far as Paris, where I had one of the classic Paris
breakdowns, though genuine enough as it chanced. Landed in the suburbs,
got a mechanic to work, and had time for a delicious lunch at a small
workmen's restaurant. Treated myself to a half bottle of sound Medoc and
a villainous cigar with the coffee, and got back just in time to find
them testing my motor. The rest of the trip was uneventful. I arrived
here in the early afternoon and installed myself for the night in these
superb quarters.

This is the classic hour for French pilots to foregather in excited
groups to expliquer les coups--an expressive phrase for which I can
recall no exact equivalent in English. They (or rather we) spend a full
hour every evening in telling just how it was done, or why it was not
done, and so on, _ad infinitum_. Snatches of characteristic talk reach
your ears--(I will attempt a rough translation). "You poor fish! why
didn't you dive that time they had us _bracketed_?--I had to follow you
and I got an éclat as big as a dinner-plate within a foot of my back."

"Did you see me get that Boche over the wood? I killed the observer at
the first rafale, rose over the tail, and must have got the pilot then,
for he spun clear down till he crashed."

"See the tanks ahead of that wave of assault? Funny big crawling things
they looked--that last one must have been en panne--the Boches were
certainly bouncing shells off its back!"

"Raoul and I found a troop of Boche cavalry on a road--in khaki, I
swear. Thought they were English till we were within one hundred
metres. Then we gave them the spray--funniest thing you ever saw!"

"Yes--I'll swear I saw some khaki, too. Saw a big column of Boche
infantry and was just going to let 'em have it when I saw horizon-blue
guards. Prisoners, of course."

You can imagine pages of this sort of thing--every night. At the bar we
have a big sign: "Ici on explique les coups." At the mess, another:
"Défense d'expliquer les coups ici." There are limits.


As mess-officer I have been going strong of late--nearly every day one
or two or three "big guns" (grosses huiles, the French call them) of
aviation drop in to lunch or dinner. Down from a patrol at 10.30, and
scarcely out of the machine, when up dashes our cook, knife in one hand
and ladle in the other, fairly boiling over with anxiety. "Commandant
X---- and his staff are coming to lunch--I can't leave the stove--what
on earth shall we do?"

An hour and a half. Just time for the cyclist to buzz down to the
nearest town for some extra hors d'oeuvres, salad, and half a dozen old
bottles. In the end everything runs off smoothly, and when the white
wine succeeds the red, the usual explication des coups begins--highly
entertaining inside stuff, from which one could cull a whole backstairs
history of French aviation. It has been my privilege to meet many famous
men in this way--great "aces" and great administrators of the flying
arm; men whose names are known wherever European aviators gather. I wish
I could tell you half the drolleries they recount, or reproduce one
quarter of the precise, ironical, story-telling manner of a cultivated
Frenchman.

A captain who lunched with us to-day, bearer of an historic name, was
recently decorated (somewhat against his will) for forcing a Boche to
land in our lines. The truth is that in the single combat high above the
lines, the captain's motor failed and he coasted for home, maneuvering
wildly to escape the pursuing Hun's bullets. A few kilometres within our
lines the German motor failed also, and down they came together--the
Boche a prisoner, the Frenchman covered with not particularly welcome
glory. Not all our guests knew the story, and one high officer asked the
captain how he maneuvered to drive down the Boche. "Oh, like this,"
erratically said the captain, illustrating with frantic motions of an
imaginary stick and rudder.

"But the Boche--?" inquired the other, puzzled, "how did you get him
down--where was he?"

"Ah, the Boche; he was _behind_ me," answered the captain.

Another officer, recently promoted to a very high position in the
aviation, is a genuine character, a "numero" as they say here. He
recently spent many hours in perfecting a trick optical sight,
guaranteed to down a Boche at any range, angle, or speed. He adored his
invention, which, he admitted, would probably end the war when fully
perfected, and grew quite testy when his friends told him the thing was
far too complicated for anything but laboratory use. At last, though he
had reached a non-flying rank and had not flown for months, he installed
the optical wonder on a single-seater and went out over the lines to try
it out. As luck would have it, he fell in with a patrol of eight
Albatrosses, and the fight that followed has become legendary. Boche
after Boche dove on him, riddling his plane with bullets, while the
inventor, in a scientific ecstasy, peered this way and that through his
sight, adjusting set-screws and making hasty mental notes. By a miracle
he was not brought down, and in the end a French patrol came to his
rescue. He had not fired a shot! At lunch the other day some one asked
what sort of a chap this inventor was, and the answer was so exceedingly
French that I will reproduce it word for word: "He detests women and
dogs; he has a wife he adores, and a dog he can't let out of his sight."
A priceless characterization, I think, of a testy yet amiable old
martinet.

One of my friends here had the luck, several months ago, to force a
Zeppelin to land. A strange and wonderful experience, he says, circling
for an hour and a half about the huge air-monster, which seemed to be
having trouble with its gas. He poured bullets into it until his supply
was exhausted, and headed it off every time it tried to make for the
German lines. All the while it was settling, almost insensibly, and
finally the Hun crew began to throw things out--machine-guns, long belts
of cartridges, provisions, furniture, a motley collection. In the end it
landed intact in our lines--a great catch. The size of the thing is
simply incredible. This one was at least ninety feet through, and I
hesitate to say how many hundred feet long.

Three more of our boys gone, one of them my most particular pal. Strange
as it seems, I am one of the oldest members of the squadron left. We
buried Harry yesterday. He was the finest type of young French
officer--an aviator since 1913; volunteer at the outbreak of war; taken
prisoner, badly wounded; fourteen months in a German fortress; escaped,
killing three guards, across Germany in the dead of winter, sick and
with an unhealed wound; back on the front, after _ten days_ with his
family, although he need never have been a combatant again. A charming,
cultivated, witty companion, one of the most finished pilots in France,
and a soldier whose only thought was of duty, his loss is a heavy one
for his friends, his family, and his country. For a day and a night he
lay in state in the church of a near-by village, buried in flowers sent
by half the squadrons of France; at his feet his tunic ablaze with
crosses and orders. It was my turn to stand guard the morning his family
arrived, and I was touched by the charming simple piety of the
countryfolk, who came in an unending stream to kneel and say a prayer
for the soul of the departed soldier. Old women with baskets of bread
and cheese on their arms brought pathetic little bouquets; tiny girls of
seven or eight came in solemnly alone, dropped a flower on Harry's
coffin, and knelt to pray on their little bare knees. The French
peasants get something from their church that most of us at home seem to
miss.

At last the family came--worn out with the long sad journey from their
château in middle France. Harry's mother, slender, aristocratic, and
courageous, had lost her other son a short time before, and I was nearer
tears at her magnificent self-control than if she had surrendered to her
grief. Her bearing throughout the long mass and at the grave-side was
one of the finest and saddest things I have ever seen in my life. Poor
old Harry--I hope he is in a paradise reserved for heroes--for he was
one in the truest sense of the word.


I got absolutely lost the other day, for the second time since I have
been on the front. I was flying at about nineteen thousand feet, half a
mile above a lovely sea of clouds. I supposed I was directly over the
front, but in reality there was a gale of wind blowing, drifting me
rapidly "chez Boche." Three thousand feet below, and miles to the
northeast, a patrol of German scouts beat back and forth, a string of
dots, appearing and disappearing among the cloudy peaks and cañons. Too
strong and too far in their lines to attack, I was alternately watching
them and my clock--very cold and bored. Suddenly, straight below me and
heading for home at top speed, I saw a big Hun two-seater, with enormous
black crosses on his wings.

At such a moment--I confess it frankly--there seem to be two individuals
in me who in a flash of time conclude a heated argument. Says one,
"You're all alone; no one will ever know it if you sail calmly on,
pretending not to see the Boche."

"See that Boche," says the other; "you're here to get Germans--go after
him."

"See here," puts in the first, who is very clever at excuses, "time's
nearly up, petrol's low, and there are nine Hun scouts who will drop on
you if you dive on the two-seater."

"Forget it, you poor weak-kneed boob!" answers number two heatedly.
"Dive on that Hun and be quick about it!"

So I dived on him, obeying automatically and almost reluctantly the
imperious little voice. With an eye to the machine-gunner in the rear, I
drove down on him almost vertically, getting in a burst point-blank at
his port bow, so to speak. Pushing still farther forward on the stick, I
saw his wheels pass over me like a flash, ten yards up. Pulled the
throttle wide open, but the motor was a second late in catching, so that
when I did an Immelman turn to come up under his tail, I was too far
back and to one side. As I pulled out of the upside-down position,
luminous sparks began to drive past me, and a second later I caught a
glimpse of the goggled Hun observer leaning intently over his cockpit
as he trained his gun on me.

But beside old Slapping Sally his machine was as a buzzard to a falcon;
in a breath I was under his tail, had reared almost vertically, and was
pouring bullets into his underbody. "You will shoot me up, will you?" I
yelled ferociously--just like a bad boy in a back-yard fight. "Take
that, then--" at which dramatic instant a quart of scalding oil struck
me in the face, half in the eyes, and half in my open mouth. I never saw
the Boche again, and five minutes later, when I had cleaned my eyes out
enough to see dimly, I was totally lost. Keeping just above the clouds
to watch for holes, I was ten long minutes at one hundred and thirty
miles per hour in getting to the lines, at a place I had never seen
before.

Landed at a strange aerodrome, filled Sally up, and flew home
seventy-five miles by map. As usual, every one had begun the old story
of how I was not a bad chap at bottom, and had many noble qualities
safely hidden away--when I strolled into the bar. Slight sensation as
usual, tinged with a suspicion of mild disappointment.

Almost with regret, I have turned faithful old Slapping Sally over to a
newly arrived young pilot, and taken a new machine, the last lingering
echo of the dernier cri in fighting single-seaters. I had hoped for one
for some time, and now the captain has allotted me a brand-new one,
fresh from the factory. It is a formidable little monster, squat and
broad-winged, armed to the teeth, with the power of two hundred and
fifty wild horses bellowing out through its exhausts.

With slight inward trepidations I took it up for a spin after lunch. The
thing is terrific--it fairly hurtles its way up through the air, roaring
and snorting and trembling with its enormous excess of power. Not half
so pleasant as Sally, but a grimly practical little dragon of immense
speed and potential destructiveness. At a couple of thousand feet over
the field, I shut off the motor and dived to try it out. It fairly took
my breath away--behind my goggles my eyes filled with tears; my body
rose up in the safety-belt, refusing to keep pace with the machine's
formidable speed. In a wink, I was close to the ground, straightened
out, and rushing low over the blurred grass at a criminal gait--never
made a faster landing. It is a tribute to man's war-time ingenuity, but,
for pleasure, give me my old machine.

The psychology of flying would be a curious study, were it not so
difficult to get frankly stated data--uninfluenced by pride,
self-respect, or sense of morale. I only know my own feelings in so far
as they represent the average single-seater pilot. Once in the air, I
am perfectly contented and at home, somewhat bored at times on dull
days, or when very high and cold. On the other hand, I have never been
strapped in a machine to leave the ground, without an underlying slight
nervousness and reluctance; no great matter, and only an instant's
mental struggle to overcome, but enough perhaps to prevent me from
flying the very small and powerful machines, for pleasure, after the
war. I often wonder if other pilots have the same feeling--it's nothing
to be ashamed of, because it does not, in the slightest, prevent one's
doing one's duty, and disappears the moment one is in the air. I can
give you its measure in the fact that I always prefer, when possible, to
make a long journey in my machine, to doing it in the deadly slow
war-time trains. Still, it's a choice of evils. It is hard to give
reasons, but certainly flying is not an enjoyable sport, like riding or
motoring, once the wonder of it has worn off; simply a slightly
disagreeable but marvelously fast means of transport. The wind, the
noise, the impossibility of conversation, the excessive speed--are all
unpleasant features. These are partially redeemed by the never-ceasing
wonder of what one sees. One's other senses are useless in the air, but
what a feast for the eyes! Whole fruitful domains spread out beneath
one, silvery rivers, smoking cities, perhaps a glimpse of the far-off
ragged Alps. And when, at eighteen or twenty thousand feet, above a
white endless sea of clouds, one floats almost unconscious of time and
space in the unearthly sunshine of the Universe, there are moments when
infinite things are very close.



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