My First Flight over the Lines
Unfavorable weather conditions kept us inactive for several days, but as soon as the skies cleared our escadrille immediately went to work again. For some reason my own machine was delayed “en route,” and did not arrive for a week. This was time I could ill afford to lose, so the “chef pilote” took me as a passenger in his biplane to familiarize me with the ground in our sector.
We started late one afternoon. The atmosphere was extraordinarily clear. Every detail in the landscape stood out boldly, and as we rose the dozens of camps in the immediate vicinity spread out below us like models set in a painted scenery. The valleys, the tents, the guns, the troops, all were visible to the naked eye. On all sides were aviation-camps, which were easily distinguished from the others—there must have been at least twenty of them within a radius of five miles.
As soon as we reached a height of three thousand feet my pilot headed the machine toward the lines. At our feet lay the terrain of the “Verdun sector.” From the forest of the Argonne on our left to the plains of the Woëvre on our right stretched one of the bloodiest battle-fields of history. At regular intervals along the front the French captive balloons—there were eighteen in sight at this moment—swung lazily in the breeze. They looked for all the world like the “saucisses” they are named after. Day and night they are kept aloft, maintaining ceaseless vigil over the movements of the enemy.
Passing the balloons, we could see the various important points of the defense at closer range. The city of Verdun nestled close to the banks of the Meuse, which wound like a silver band through that now desolate land. Far off to the right were the forts of Vaux and Douaumont. A trifle nearer was Fleury. To the left, in the distance, I could make out the “Mort-Homme” and Hill 304, while directly before us lay Cumières and Chattancourt. The entire Verdun sector was spread out like a relief-map.
The German attacks upon the French position on the Mort-Homme were still in progress. I had never before seen a battle, and to see such an important conflict from “the gallery” seemed most strange. It looked more like a pan of boiling water, with the steam hanging in a pall over it, than anything else I can think of. In fact, a yellow mist rose to a great height and almost obscured the view. Tiny flashes showed where the guns were concealed, but to us the battle was a silent one. The noise of our motor drowned the whistling of the shells and the roar of the bombardment. I could not help thinking how much some of those poor fellows below us would appreciate a little of this silence.
We could plainly see the network of the trenches, broken and half-obliterated in the mud. In some places they were so close together that it was difficult to make out where the French lines ended and the German earthworks began. The ground was speckled with “pock-marks” caused by shell explosions, and altogether it was a weird scene of desolation. All signs of nature which had once beautified this region had vanished. The forests and the green fields had disappeared. Ruined villages lay like piles of disused stone among the circular “entonnoirs,” or shell-holes. In color it was all a dirty brown.
On every side of us were the French artillery biplanes. They were hovering over the German lines like gulls, continually wirelessing back the ranges to their batteries. High above us circled the little Nieuports on guard, to protect us and to prevent the Fokkers and aviatiks from crossing over our lines. Everywhere were little white puffs, which seemed to follow the machines about. I watched them, strangely fascinated and amused, until my pilot informed me that these were caused by exploding shrapnel from the enemy’s anti-aircraft guns. Then I noticed with uneasiness that the same puffs were also following us. My interest in the little white puffs from that moment assumed quite another character. I listened for the sharp crack of their explosions, but all I could hear was a dull “whung.” The thought that very few machines are really brought down by shrapnel was a bit reassuring, but I must admit that when the enemy is sending them on all sides of you, you do not feel like giving much credence to what others may have told you.
Presently my attention was called to the lines of German captive balloons, which are moored some miles behind their first-line trenches. Several aeroplanes stood guard over them, and as we knew that they were armed and that we on this occasion were not we decided to turn back.
I made several of these trips over the different positions on our immediate front. By the time my own machine arrived I was thoroughly familiar with the sector and also with the main dangers to be encountered by aviators over the battle lines. The first precaution I learned was—always, when landing, to unhook the belt that held me in my seat. This is one of the most important things to remember at the front. The fields are not always in the best condition, and the slightest obstruction may cause an unexpected crash. If you are in an artillery pusher-machine when this happens you are invariably crushed under the motor, unless your belt is unfastened, when you are usually thrown clear.
Another danger, which I would never have thought of if an experienced pilot had not pointed it out, lies in the cables mooring the captive balloons. These are invisible to an approaching aviator and to collide with one means a fatal smash. When flying low enough to pass under the “saucisses,” aviators must watch out for these “tethers.” Nevertheless, you can always take advantage of one of their peculiarities. The cable always stretches to windward, and in a good breeze it stretches far. By keeping well to leeward you can always rest reasonably assured that you are on the safe side. Many aviators, however, have met with fatal accidents, through fouling these cables. I know of only one instance where the pilot did escape unhurt after striking the wire. It seems that the moment he saw what was going to happen he put his machine into a vertical bank, so that when the impact came he was turning about the cable. Then, strangely enough, by continuing his spiral he was able finally to disengage himself and escape.
Telephone and telegraph wires also are a certain menace to aviators. They form a regular network behind the lines, while on every aviation-field there are in addition wireless aerials to avoid. Many a returning pilot has forgotten them in his haste to get back to camp, and fouled them, to his regret. One pilot I knew met his fate in this way. He had been wounded by a shrapnel-ball over the German lines, and had managed to return to his own field. He was so weak from the loss of blood that in his anxiety to land quickly he forgot the aerials. His machine caught the wires and fell to the ground. Both the pilot’s legs were broken in the fall and he died, not so much from his wound as from this unfortunate accident.
Still another risk is encountered when flying in the clouds. A cloud is dangerous at any time because there may be an enemy—or, in fact, any machine—in it. If you enter the mist you may be going head on into another aeroplane without having the slightest warning of its presence. Your own motor makes so much noise that you never under any circumstances hear that of another machine until too late. You are in consequence deprived of both your eyesight and your hearing. At the front the risk of meeting an enemy aeroplane under such circumstances can never be overlooked, for often fighting machines use the mist to cover their presence.
Shells also have to be carefully avoided, for, though destined for some far-away target below you, they sometimes in their flight destroy aeroplanes unintentionally. As I have already explained, we devoted much time to this subject at Châteauroux, learning the trajectories of the different calibers. Still, at the front, the theory is not so easily put into practice. It seems almost impossible to keep track of all the artillery massed by your own side, especially in such a sector as Verdun, where the guns often were placed so close together that their wheels almost touched. On more than one occasion when flying quietly through the air my machine has given a sudden lurch, and I have heard the dull “tung” of a passing shell. There is none of the whistling we are accustomed to on the earth; merely the dulled sound caused by the sudden displacement of the air.
My own machine finally arrived, after delays that seemed interminable, and my two mechanics immediately set to work installing the various instruments, and painting it. These two men were personally responsible to me for the condition of the motor and planes, but, as pilot, I was the master of the machine, which was reserved for my own use. In fact, each aeroplane has painted on its body and rudder the name and distinguishing marks of its pilot and escadrille.
After a few short flights I became aware of the fact that my biplane, in spite of all my efforts to correct it, showed a strong tendency to lean to the right. At times I could hardly make a turn to the left. This was a serious matter at the front, as an enemy might at any moment appear on my “weak” side and I would be placed in a serious position. I therefore mentioned the matter to my captain. To my surprise, he immediately ordered a new machine for me and gave directions that the one I was using should be sent back to the factory. The defect in this particular case was one mechanics could not remedy, and it seems that it was nothing out of the ordinary to send a machine back to the shops. At the front a pilot must have a perfect machine to work with or none at all. The life of a good aeroplane seldom is more than fifty hours of actual flying.
During this time the organization of the escadrille was perfected. The pilots were divided into two “watches,” one-half being on duty while the other was “standing by” ready for service in case of emergency. All the pilots except myself were “disponibles.” I was exempt because I had no machine, and was therefore for the time being my own master, even when it came to rising in the morning. When the others on duty were awakened, at early dawn, I would be awakened with the rest. My turn had not yet come, however, and I could just turn over and sleep to my heart’s content.
Our camp looked like a little tented city; there were seven enormous canvas hangars, and grouped about these six other tents, each serving a particular purpose: captain’s office, wireless plant, telephone central, repair-shop, photographic division, and kitchen. At one end of the field were the living-quarters of the captain and the observers, while at the other were parked the thirty automobiles of our two escadrilles. On the opposite sides of the field were the quarters of the pilots of the two escadrilles. The mechanics slept in the hangars with their machines.
Considering everything, we were fairly comfortable. The pilots of each escadrille shared two large tents, and in addition each group had a large mess-tent. Inside each sleeping-tent each one of us had a little alcove. Our cots were raised on wooden platforms. At one end we fitted up a shower-bath, for which purpose a gasolene tank punctured with holes proved ideal. Of course, every time you wanted a bath some one had to empty pails of water into the “tank” above you. Our mess—“popotte” they call it in the French army—was very good. We had a regular daily allowance from the government, but this was not always enough to buy all the supplies we needed. We therefore instituted a system of fines, and our treasurer provided our table with a small tin box in lieu of a centrepiece.
Bad language or talking “shop” before coffee involved a ten-centime fine, which had to be dropped into the bank at once. This regulation proved a godsend to the mess—and to our conversation.
As I was not “disponible,” I was sent on several trips with the staff automobile. Its most frequent runs were to the artillery headquarters to deliver photographs of the enemy’s positions. These were situated in a near-by village, within sight of the German trenches. All the roads approaching this place were masked, and the town itself was in ruins. Everywhere sand-bags reinforced the stone walls. The telephone central was a veritable fortress, and continually within the zone of the German artillery “strafes.” The life of the officers of the Etat-Major was certainly not an enviable or an easy one.