Passing the Final Tests
My équipe was now making flights at three thousand feet and was remaining up for an hour at a time. We had all flown alone for thirty hours and were ready for our “épreuves.”
The weather was cloudy, however, and as our first examination was to be a height test, we had to wait until it cleared. It would have been extremely difficult—in fact, almost impossible—for us to go up under existing conditions. The first two tests which we were required to pass involved ascensions of six thousand feet; then an hour at ten thousand. If we passed these satisfactorily we would next be required to take a triangular voyage of one hundred and fifty miles, making a landing at each corner of the triangle. Lastly, there was the ordeal of going up to an altitude of one thousand five hundred feet, where the motor had to be cut off and the descent made by spirals to a previously determined spot.
The day on which we were required to begin our altitude flights the captain assigned three machines to our équipe—that is, one aero-biplane for each pair. My chum, a sous-lieutenant, and I were assigned to the same machine. We matched to see which one of us should use it first. He won and I helped him prepare for the test. I fastened on his recording barometer, which indicates the altitude reached by a machine, and he climbed in. Waving us a cheery “Au revoir,” he started off. His machine climbed fast. To us he seemed to be going too steeply. We felt like shouting to him to be careful, but we knew it was useless. Suddenly his machine slipped off on the wing. For some unknown reason he failed to shut off his motor. His biplane engaged in the fatal spiral. There was a loud report, like a cannon-shot, and the machine collapsed. The strain had been too great. The top plane fell one way, the lower another, while my friend and the motor dropped like stones.
I would have given anything to put off my own test for a few days, but within twenty-four hours I received orders that my turn had come; and orders were orders. I made up my mind to be very careful and to take my time about the climb.
That first flight at six thousand feet gave me a thrilling sensation. I remembered my first flight alone, when I had barely reached two hundred feet. It seemed now as if I was going to mount to an indescribable height. Since that day I have had to go up that high often, and even higher; but it has all become commonplace, for familiarity breeds contempt in the air as well as on land.
I was so very cautious about mounting that twenty minutes elapsed before the needle on my registering barometer marked six thousand feet. It was very cold. The wind struck my face with icy blasts, but I was so excited that I did not really mind it. After a while I shut off the motor and started to volplane to earth. I came down a little too rapidly and made a very bad landing. In fact, for a moment I thought that I had broken my machine. I was wet all through from the sudden rise in temperature and stone-deaf. It was ten minutes before I could hear again. Then I received my call-down. It seems that when a pilot has been up to a very great height, he loses his sense of altitude—his “sens de profondeur,” as the French call it. When approaching the ground he cannot tell whether he is twenty-five or fifty feet in the air. He must take every care, before making contact, to train his eye for “depths” again by flying a few minutes fairly close to the ground. It is only a question of a few moments, but it is a necessary precaution.
My next climb to six thousand feet was better. In fact, I felt a certain degree of confidence. It took me somewhat longer to mount to the required height, because some clouds came up and I had to search for a hole through which to pass. Everywhere below me, as far as my eyes could reach, was a sea of clouds. The sun was shining on their snowy-white crests. It looked for all the world as though I was looking down upon an enormous bowl of froth.
The following morning was the day fixed for my ten-thousand-foot ascension. The atmosphere was remarkably clear, and I felt an extraordinary sense of freedom and power as I rose from the ground. The earth below me was bright with color. As I climbed higher the shades became less brilliant. At ten thousand feet all color had vanished. The only hue visible was a varying degree of shading, gray and black. Below me I could make out the city of Chartres. Forty miles away lay Orléans. To one side, the Loire wound its course in a gray, ribbon-like band. On all sides the straight, white roads were merely blurred streaks in the murky mass.
A few days later I started on my endurance test, the triangle, in company with five other machines. In this flight of two hundred and fifty kilometres I had to make landings at two towns where there were aviation-fields, and the third my own field. At each place I had to report to the aviation officer in charge and have my papers signed. In case of a breakdown on this flight I had forty-eight hours in which to make the necessary repairs and complete the test.
The day of my triangle was a poor one for flying. It was the first warm morning of early spring and the sun was just soaking the moisture out of the ground. The air was, in consequence, spotty and there were many “remous,” or whirlpools. These whirlpools often cause a sudden “perte de vitesse” and are therefore very dangerous. The machine is sailing along quietly and smoothly, when suddenly the controls become lifeless. You glance at your speed-indicator and at your engine-speed. Both show that the machine is travelling well above the minimum safety speed. This is apt to puzzle the beginner, for without warning there follows a sudden jolt. Your machine trembles like a frightened horse and unexpectedly leaps forward again. On a day like this you have to fight the machine all the time to maintain its equilibrium.
The first leg of the triangle was accomplished without incident. As I was starting my motor for the second stage, however, I noticed that the ignition was faulty. A spark-plug had become fouled with oil, and I had to change it before venturing up again. My companions started without me, calling out that I could catch up with them at Versailles, where they intended to lunch. I hurriedly screwed on a new spark-plug and threw my tool-bag back into the box under the extra seat, but in my hurry to be off I neglected to fasten it down. I was later to regret my carelessness.
I soon found that in trying to catch up with the others I had no easy task before me. The day was well advanced, and the “remous” which I encountered were countless. I climbed and climbed. To no avail. The cloud ceiling was at eighteen hundred metres, and I could not escape the “remous” so low. The country below me was all wooded and interspersed with lakes both large and small. There was not a landing-place in view. Suddenly I felt a hard blow on the back of my head and a weight pushing against me. “Ça y est,” I thought; “the machine can’t stand the buffeting and has given way.” I ventured a look back. To my surprise, everything seemed intact—everything except the observer’s seat, which was leaning against my head! It was the seat which I had forgotten to hook down at Châteaudun! I was greatly relieved, and fastened it back into place.
Just then I came within sight of Versailles. I looked for the aviation-field at which I was supposed to land. Instead of one I saw three, lying about two miles apart. This was indeed a puzzle. From the height at which I was flying I could not make out which was the school. I picked out one which I thought should probably be the haven of refuge for my storm-tossed aeroplane and spiralled down. I climbed out of my machine. No one seemed to be about. No mechanics ran out to assist me, as is usually the case at the schools. “It must be the luncheon-hour,” I thought, “and all the mecaniciens are at déjeuner.” I glanced over to where the machines were ranged in line. To my surprise, they were not of the model I had seen at Pau and Chartres, but the latest and fastest “avions de chasse.” Somewhat uncertain as to my whereabouts, I walked over to the office. I was not left long in ignorance of my error. I had landed on a secret testing-field, access to which was obtained only by special permit. The sergeant advised me to lose no time in leaving, for if the captain saw me I would be speedily punished in accordance with the military regulations. I needed no second urging, and within five minutes I was on the right field, explaining to my comrades why I had been so long rejoining them. It seems that they had experienced a very pleasant flight all the way, for the hour’s start they had had over me had enabled them to escape most of the “remous,” which are always at their worst in the middle of the day.
Late in the afternoon we returned to Chartres. This was the most enjoyable part of the day’s flying. The aerial conditions were perfect and we were able to allow ourselves the pleasure of appreciating all the interesting places we passed over. First we saw the beautiful valley of the Chevreuse; then Rambouillet, with its wonderful hunting and fishing preserves. Next I caught a glimpse of the imposing palace and gardens of Maintenon. The time passed all too quickly; yet when we reached home it was almost dark. We all felt quite tired, but before putting our machines away, however, we asked permission to make our spirals, so that we might complete every requirement of the brevet before night set in. We were anxious to do this, so that we might obtain our “permissions” immediately. We did not wish to lose a moment. A four days’ leave is always accorded each pilot the moment he has satisfactorily fulfilled all the requirements of the course. Our request was granted and the final test was successfully passed.
I was now a full-fledged aviator, with the rank of corporal, with the regular pay of eight cents a day and an additional indemnity of forty-five cents as a member of the Flying Corps.