The Finishing Touches
Great changes had taken place at Pau since my first visit six months before. The school had been improved and enlarged. Permanent sheds had replaced the canvas hangars, and the German prisoners had built a narrow-gauge railway from the town out to the field. The trains ran out to the aviation school every morning and afternoon, and returned before luncheon and again in the evening. This was a great convenience for many of us and in bad weather saved us many a long, weary walk. When the days were clear, however, we often made the journey on foot, as in this way we had sufficient exercise to keep us in good physical condition.
Only men who had already qualified as pilots or who had had previous experience at the front were allowed at the Ecole de Combat. We enjoyed practically the same liberties as at the front. We were free to go where we pleased, except during the working hours, when strict attendance and discipline were enforced.
I thought that my previous experience with the heavier machines would enable me to omit some of the more elementary courses, but this was not the case. I had to start at the very bottom. The management of a monoplane or of a small Nieuport is more delicate than anything I had ever tried, and the pilots have, therefore, to acquire a new “sense of touch” which is not required when flying in the larger biplanes.
My first assignment was to a Penguin, so called because it is nothing more than a Blériot monoplane with its wings cut down so that it cannot fly. The Penguins, however, are just as difficult to manage as a full-fledged flying-machine, for on the ground your movements have to be more rough than when flying in the air. There are so many irregularities and air currents to affect your course that you have to be very quick with the controls. The Penguin, besides, does not answer the rudder as easily as the other types. I found that it was very difficult to keep a straight course when tearing across a field at the rate of about forty miles an hour. It was comical to see how the clumsy contraption behaved, turning circles, making “chevaux de bois,” rolling over on its wing, and behaving in every way like a drunken sailor trying to walk on a chalk line. You have to keep your head all the time, because the slightest misjudgment may result in an accident. When engaging a “chevaux de bois,” you must turn off your motor instantly, for neglect to do so will probably cause your machine to fall over sideways on its wing. When moving you must constantly keep the tail of the Penguin in the air in an imaginary line of flight, and if the tail is lifted too high you run the risk of sticking the nose of the machine into the ground and turning an unpleasant somersault. It was really interesting to discover how much skill it takes to manage a Penguin. It was several days before I could make the six straight lines required before you are allowed to pass into the next higher class.
In the second course a thirty-horse-power Blériot is used. I was made to fly in straight lines at very feeble altitudes, varying from twenty-five to fifty feet. The object of this instruction, it seems, is to teach the aviator how to take small, fast machines off the ground and bring them down properly. These smaller machines are able to climb much faster than the larger artillery types. This advantage is counterbalanced by the fact that they volplane much less, and are much more prone to slip off the wing. You have to handle them with the utmost care and gentleness. This point is very much emphasized in the instruction which you receive when flying in the 30-Blériots. Their motors are so small that you have to be very careful with them. You have to go about everything very gradually, except when making a landing. Then you must dive, and dive quickly, in order to retain your momentum.
As soon as I had been pronounced “apt” on the “ligne droite,” I was assigned to the 50-Blériot. This, to my joy, included real flying. The difference between this machine and the ones I had flown in at the front was astonishing. There was practically no effort required of the pilot. The slightest move on the controls produced an instant response in the aeroplane. As in the case of the 30-Blériot, I found that the moment the motor was shut off, on account of the lack of volplaning qualities, to descend I had to point the machine straight at the ground. With the Farman I used to glide from unbelievable distances, but now I had to change my tactics completely and learn everything over again.
This course completed, I was granted leave of absence to return to America. Needless to say, I did not lose a moment in gathering my effects and engaging my passage. Next month, upon my return to Pau, however, I will have to take up my work where I left off. The first test required is a series of figure eights in a 50-Blériot and a number of difficult landings after this performance. Then follows a course in a Morane-Parasol. This machine, as I stated in an earlier chapter, is by far the most tricky machine in use to-day. After you have learned to handle a Parasol, everything else is child’s play. That is the reason why every pilot of a fighting escadrille is made to master them. It is the best experience to give you a sense of balance yet discovered.
Before you are allowed to fly in a Nieuport and attend the School Aerial Acrobatics there is another requirement. This is a brief period of instruction at the Mitrailleuses School at Casso, where, on the shores of the long lake, the French army has established an ideal range for the training of its pointers. It is less than an hour by rail from Bordeaux and well within the reach of every military depot in the south-western part of France. Each branch of the service has its own course. For the Flying Corps the range consists of a number of captive balloons and of a series of moving targets on the lake. The pupil is taken up as a passenger in a double-seated aeroplane and operates the mitrailleuse. After two or three weeks of this practice he becomes quite used to shooting from an aeroplane and finds that he can score hits almost as easily as if he were on terra firma. In the beginning, however, one experiences great difficulty in adjusting himself to the changes of perspective found in the air.
After this the pilot is sent back to Pau, where he has to perfect himself sufficiently in his art to master the various stunts essential in combat-work. Until then he may not go to the front for service in an “appareil de chasse.”
The first test is looping the loop. The machine is made to dive very fast for a short distance. Then the pilot gives a sharp pull on his controls, which makes it climb very abruptly, at the same time shutting off the motor. The little Nieuport climbs until it loses its speed, and then falls over backward. At the instant of reaching the line of diving the spark is then turned on again and the flight is resumed.
The next requirement involves cork-screw looping, or, as they say in French, “le renversement sur l’aile.” This requires still greater skill than the previous test. It is not an easy manoeuvre to explain and, besides, I have not yet attempted it myself. The theory, however, is as follows: If you tip your machine enough to fly in a vertical position, your controls become reversed; in other words, the control for climbing and diving becomes the rudder and the rudder becomes the climbing control. To do the “renversement” the machine is put in a vertical position and the spark is shut off. The machine then loses its momentum and starts to fall. At that moment you must give a pull on your control and push the rudder “hard a-port,” as a sailor would say. This forces the machine to complete the turn and dive from the normal horizontal position.
The final examination for the second brevet involves the dreaded “vrille,” or tail-spin. For many years any aviator who engaged in a vrille was given up for lost. Even to-day many aviators are killed attempting to master this most important trick. Yet it has to be learned, for in modern aerial warfare it may sometime be the one manoeuvre which will enable you to escape from an assailant or make a sudden attack. The modern aeroplane is so stable that when it is made to dive it always attempts to rise and resume its flight. In the “vrille,” on the other hand, this resistance is overcome, and the machine spins down with incredible rapidity. The beginner usually commences by making one turn. He allows his machine to lose its speed and slip off on the wing. After engaging in a spiral, instead of continuing he then resumes his flight. The second time two turns have to be made. More and more are made until the pilot feels that he has mastered the trick to his satisfaction. The first turn is usually made very slowly, but after that the speed increases with each succeeding turn until the machine is spinning on the corner of one wing as an axis. I have seen the more brilliant pilots at the front make as many as seven or eight turns, while they fell as far as five thousand feet. Every time I have seen any one doing a “vrille” I have thought of the young lieutenant who was killed at Pau when I attended the school for the first time. What are dangers for the beginner, in the hands of the expert become weapons.
On completing this final course the pilot has learned everything that his instructors can teach him. It remains only for him to prove that in action he can avail himself of all the tricks that he has mastered. He has a machine that can manoeuvre to the best advantage, and he will enjoy a superiority which he never possessed with the heavier Farman biplane. Often I thought of this when flying over Verdun in the artillery machines. The little Nieuports seemed to circle about with such ease, doing whatever they pleased, while we lumbered about in constant danger of being attacked by some fast-flying “Fritzie” from the enemy’s lines.
The principal task assigned to our “avions de chasse” is to keep the German airmen away from the French lines, and of attacking them when the opportunity offers. From an altitude of about thirteen thousand feet the Nieuports maintain a constant vigil. Although so small they are in fact the protectors of the larger artillery and reconnoissance machines. Far within the German lines several of the enemy’s artillery biplanes are flying low. Farther up their fighting planes are waiting for an opportunity of coming over to attack the French. The shrapnel-puffs from our own guns reveal that some one is crossing our lines. A German artillery machine is coming to make a “réglage.” One of the Fokkers is flying high above it, but the Nieuports are doing “ceiling work” and will look out for the intruders.
Different models of aeroplanes have a different position for their mitrailleuses. The attacking pilot always tries to find out from where he can make his attack without being riddled by his opponent. The proper position being obtained, the Nieuport is quickly turned toward its prey and at fifty yards the machine gun begins its staccato bark. To simplify the pilot’s task the guns are always mounted in a fixed position and aimed dead ahead. Thus the pilot has only to think about pointing his own machine at the enemy. If he had to fly one way and shoot another he would be placed in a most disadvantageous position.
Combatants pass each other at terrific speed. There is time only for a few shots. If a hit is not scored during the first encounter, the attacking pilot goes through the same manoeuvre a second time. In the meanwhile the German airman is also doing his best to catch his opponent unawares. If the enemy succeeds in getting the Nieuport into a trap, then is the moment when he can put himself “en vrille” and escape.
Such is the course of training imposed upon every airman in France. It is the system which has been perfected under war conditions from the lessons learned during two years of the most desperate air conflicts.