With the French Flying Corps

by Carroll Dana Winslow

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.

A Farman artillery-machine.

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.