Chapter 2
SECTION 2 OF FLYING FOR FRANCE WITH THE AMERICAN ESCADRILL AT VERDUNN. FOR MORE INFORMATION, OR TO VOLUNTEER, PLEASE VISIT LIBRIVOX.ORG. RECORDING BY BETTY B. FLYING FOR FRANCE WITH THE AMERICAN ESCADRILL AT VERDUNN. BY JAMES MCCONNELL. Chapter 1, Part 2, The Escadrille's First Sortie
The memory of the first sortie we made as an escadrille will always remain fresh in my mind because it was also my first trip over the lines. We were to leave at six in the morning. Captain Thainaut pointed out on his aerial map the route we were to follow. Never having flown over this region before, I was afraid of losing myself. Therefore, as it is easier to keep other planes in sight when one is above them, I began climbing as rapidly as possible, meaning to trail
along in the wake of my companions. Unless one has had practice in flying in formation, however, it is hard to keep in contact. The diminutive avion de chasse are the merest pinpoints against the great sweep of landscape below, and the limitless heavens above. The air was misty and clouds were gathering. Ahead there seemed a barrier of them, although as I looked down the ground showed plainly, in the distance everything was hazy. Forging up above the mist at seven
thousand feet, I lost the others altogether. Even when they are not closely joined, the clouds, seen from immediately above appear as a solid bank of white. The spaces between are indistinguishable. It is like being in an arctic ice field. To the south I made out the Alps, their glittering peaks projected up through the white sea about me like majestic icebergs. Not a single plane was visible anywhere, and I was growing very uncertain about my position. My splendid isolation had become
oppressive, when one by one the others began bobbing up above the cloud level, and I had company again. We were over Belfort and headed for the trench lines. The cloud banks dropped behind, and below us we saw the smiling plain of Alsace stretching eastward to the Rhine. It was distinctly pleasurable. Flying over this conquered land, following the course of the canal that runs to the Rhine, I sighted, from a height of thirteen thousand feet over Danmarie, a series of brown,
woodworm-like tracings on the ground. The trenches. Shrapnel that couldn't be heard. My attention was drawn elsewhere almost immediately, however. Two balls of black smoke had suddenly appeared close to one of the machines ahead of me, and with the same disconcerting abruptness, similar balls began to dot the sky above, below, and on all sides of us. We were being shot at with shrapnel. It was interesting to watch the flash of the bursting shells and the
attendant smoke puffs, black, white, or yellow, depending on the kind of shrapnel used. The roar of the motor drowned the noise of the explosions. Strangely enough, my feelings about it were wholly impersonal. We turned north after crossing the lines. Mulhouse seemed just below us, and I noted with a keen sense of satisfaction our invasion of real German territory. The Rhine, too, looked delightfully accessible. As we continued northward, I distinguished the
twin lakes of Gerardmer, sparkling in their emerald setting. Where the lines crossed the Hartmann-Schweiler-Kopf, there were little spurts of brown smoke as shells burst in the trenches. One could scarcely pick out the old city of Thon from among the numerous neighboring villages, so tiny it seemed in the valley's mouth. I had never been higher than 7,000 feet, and was unaccustomed to reading country from a great altitude. It was also bitterly cold,
and even in my fur-line combination I was shivering. I noticed, too, that I had to take long, deep breaths in the rarefied atmosphere. Looking downward at a certain angle, I saw what at first I took to be a round, shimmering pool of water. It was simply the effect of the sunlight on the congealing mist. We had been keeping an eye out for German machines since leaving our lines, but none had shown up. It wasn't surprising, for we were too many. Only four days later, however,
Rockwell brought down the Escadrille's first plane in his initial aerial combat. He was flying alone when over Thawne he came upon a German on reconnaissance. He dived, and the German turned toward his own lines, opening fire from a long distance. Rockwell kept straight after him. Then, closing to within 30 yards, he pressed on the release of his machine gun and saw the enemy gunner fall backward and the pilot crumple up sideways in his seat. The plane flopped downward and crashed to earth, just behind the German trenches.
Swooping close to the ground, Rockwell saw its debris burning away brightly. He had turned the trick with but four shots, and only one German bullet had struck his Newport. An observation post telephoned the news before Rockwell's return, and he got a great welcome. All Luxoy smiled upon him, particularly the girls, but he couldn't stay to enjoy his popularity. The escadrille was ordered to the sector of Verdun.
While in a way we were sorry to leave Luxoyle, we naturally didn't regret the chance to take part in the aerial activity of the world's greatest battle. The night before our departure, some German aircraft destroyed four of our tractors and killed six men with bombs, but even that caused little excitement compared with going to Verdun. We would get square with the Bosch over Verdun, we thought. It is impossible to chase airplanes at night, so the raiders made a safe getaway. Off to Verdun.
Our really serious work had begun, however, and we knew it. Even as far behind the actual fighting as Bar-le-Duc, one could sense one's proximity to a vast military operation. The endless convoys of motor trucks, the fast-flowing stream of troops, and the distressing number of ambulances brought realization of the near presence of a gigantic battle. Within a twenty-mile radius of the Verdun front aviation camps abound. Our escadrille was listed on the schedule with the
other fighting units, each of which has its specified flying hours, rotating so there is always an escadrille de chasse over the lines. A field wireless to enable us to keep track of the movements of enemy planes became part of our equipment. Loughberry joined us a few days after our arrival. He was followed by Johnson and Balsley, who had been on the air guard over Paris. Hill and Rumsey came next, and after them Masson and Pavelka. Newports were supplied them from the
nearest depot, and as soon as they had mounted their instruments and machine guns, they were on the job with the rest of us. Fifteen Americans are or have been members of the American escadrille, but there have never been so many as that on duty at any one time. Battles in the Air Before we were fairly settled at Bar-le-Duc,
Hall brought down a German observation craft and Thaw a Fokker. Fights occurred on almost every sortie. The Germans seldom cross into our territory unless on a bombarding jaunt, and thus practically all the fighting takes place on their side of the line. Thaw dropped his Fokker in the morning,
and on the afternoon of the same day there was a big combat far behind the German trenches. Thaw was wounded in the arm, and an explosive bullet detonating on Rockwell's windshield tore several gashes in his face. Despite the blood which was blinding him, Rockwell managed to reach an aviation field and land. Thaw, whose wound bled profusely, landed in a dazed condition just within our lines. He was too weak to walk, and French soldiers carried him to a field dressing station whence he was sent to Paris for further treatment.
Rockwell's wounds were less serious, and he insisted on flying again, almost immediately. A week or so later, Chapman was wounded. Considering the number of fights he had been in, and the courage with which he attacked it, was a miracle he had not been hit before. He always fought against odds, and far within the enemy's country. He flew more than any of us, never missing an opportunity to go up, and never coming down until his gasoline was giving out. His machine
was a sieve of patched-up bullet holes. His nerve was almost superhuman, and his devotion to the cause for which he fought, sublime. The day he was wounded, he attacked four machines, swooping down from behind, one of them, a Fokker, riddled Chapman's plane. One bullet cut deep into his scalp, but Chapman, a master pilot, escaped from the trap and fired several shots to show he was still safe. A stability control had been severed by a bullet.
Chapman held the broken rod in one hand, managed his machine with the other, and succeeded in landing on a nearby aviation field. His wound was dressed, his machine repaired, and he immediately took the air in pursuit of some more enemies. He would take no rest, and with bandaged head, continued to fly and fight.
The escadrille's next serious encounter with the foe took place a few days later. Rockwell, Balsley, Prince, and Captain Thainaut were surrounded by a large number of Germans, who, circling about them, commenced firing at long range. Realizing their numerical inferiority, the Americans and their commander sought the safest way out by attacking the enemy machines nearest the French lines. Rockwell, Prince, and the captain broke through successfully,
but Balsley found himself hemmed in. He attacked the German nearest him, only to receive an explosive bullet in his thigh. In trying to get away by a vertical dive, his machine went into a corkscrew and swung over on its back. Extra cartridge rollers, dislodged from their case, hit his arms. He was tumbling straight toward the trenches, but by a supreme effort he regained control, righted the plane, and landed without disaster in a meadow just behind the firing line.
Soldiers carried him to the shelter of a nearby fort, and later he was taken to a field hospital, where he lingered for days between life and death. Ten fragments of the explosive bullet were removed from his stomach. He bore up bravely and became the favorite of the wounded officers in whose ward he lay. When we flew over to see him, they would say, Il est un brave petit gars, la viature américaine. He's a brave little fellow, the American aviator.
On a shelf by his bed, done up in a handkerchief, he kept the pieces of bullet taken out of him, and under them some sheets of paper on which he was trying to write to his mother back in El Paso. Balsy was awarded the Medaille Militaire and the Croix de Guerre, but the honors scared him. He had seen them decorate officers in the ward before they died. Chapman's Last Fight
Then came Chapman's last fight. Before leaving, he had put two bags of oranges in his machine to take to Balsley, who liked to suck them to relieve his terrible thirst after the day's flying was over. There was an aerial struggle against odds far within the German lines, and Chapman, to divert their fire from his comrades, engaged several enemy airmen at once.
He sent one tumbling to earth and had forced the others off, when two more swooped down upon him. Such a fight is a matter of seconds, and one cannot clearly see what passes. Loughberry and Prince, whom Chapman had defended so gallantly, regained the French lines. They told us of the combat, and we waited on the field for Chapman's return. He was always the last in, so we were not much worried. Then a pilot from another fighting
escadrille telephoned us that he had seen a Newport falling. A little later the observer of a reconnaissance airplane called up and told us how he had witnessed Chapman's fall. The wings of the plane had buckled and it had dropped like a stone, he said. We talked in lowered voices after that. We could read the pain in one another's eyes. if only it could have been someone else, was what we all thought, I suppose. To lose Victor was not
an irreparable loss to us merely, but to France and to the world as well. I kept thinking of him lying over there and of the oranges he was taking to Balsley. As I left the field, I caught sight of Victor's mechanician leaning against the end of our hangar. He was looking northward into the sky, where his patron had vanished, and his face was very sad. Promotions and Decorations
By this time Prince and Hall had been made adjutants, and we corporals transformed into sergeants. I frankly confessed to a feeling of marked satisfaction at receiving that grade in the world's finest army. I was a far more important person, in my own estimation, than I had been as a second lieutenant, in the militia at home. The next impressive event was the awarding of decorations. We had assisted at that ceremony for Cowden at Luxoil, but this time three of our messmates
were to be honored for the Germans they had brought down. Rockwell and Hall received the Medaille Militaire and the Croix de Guerre, and Thaw being a lieutenant, the Légion d'Honneur, and another palm for the ribbon of the Croix de Guerre he had won previously. thaw who came up from paris specially for the presentation still carried his arm in a sling there were also decorations for chapman but poor victor who so often had been sighted in the orders of the day was not on hand to receive them the morning sortie our daily routine goes on with little change whenever the weather permits that is when it isn't raining and the clouds aren't too low we fly over the verdun battlefield at the hours dictated by general headquarters
As a rule, the most successful sorties are those in the early morning. We are called while it's still dark. Sleepily, I try to reconcile the French orderlies muttered, C'est leur, monsieur, that rouses me from slumber, with the strictly American words and music of
When That Midnight Choo-Choo Leaves for Alabama, warbled by a particularly wide-awake pilot in the next room. A few minutes later, having swallowed some coffee, we motor to the field. The east is turning gray as the hangar curtains are drawn apart and our machines trundled out by the mechanicians. All the pilots whose planes are in commission, save those remaining behind
on guard, prepare to leave. We average from four to six on a sortie, unless too many flights have been ordered for that day, in which case only two or three go out at a time. Now the east is pink, and overhead the sky has changed from gray to pale blue. It is light enough to fly. We don our fur-lined shoes and combinations and adjust the leather flying hoods and goggles. A good deal of conversation occurs, perhaps because once aloft there's nobody to talk to.
Hey you, one pilot cries jokingly to another, I hope some boche just ruins you this morning, so I won't have to pay you the 50 francs you won from me last night. This financial reference concerns a poker game. You do, do you, replies the other as he swings into his machine. Well, I'd be glad to pass up the 50 to see you landed by the bush.
You'd make a fine sight walking down the street of some German town in those wooden shoes and pajama pants. Why don't you dress yourself? Don't you know an aviator's supposed to look chic? A sartorial eccentricity on the part of one of our colleagues is here referred to.
