With the French Flying Corps

by Carroll Dana Winslow

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.

THE ZEPPELIN RAID OVER PARIS

I decided to spend my four days' "permission" in Paris, the rendezvous of all aviators when not on active service. From the first I felt conscious of unusual attention. People seemed to treat me with deference and with more respect than I had ever before experienced. I could not account for it. Then, of a sudden, I chuckled to myself. The envied stars and wings on my collar were the cause. I was a "pilote aviateur," a full-fledged member of the aerial light cavalry of France.

For most "permissionnaires" Paris usually offers only the distractions of its theatres and restaurants, its boulevards, and its beautiful monuments. These pleasures I also had looked forward to, but in the first thirty-six hours of my visit occurred another, more startling diversion—two Zeppelin raids. It was my first real experience of the war.

The first alarm occurred as we were leaving a restaurant after dinner. A motor fire-engine rushed by, sounding the alert for the approaching enemy. Pandemonium reigned in the streets. I hastened to find a way to reach the aviation-field at Le Bourget, where I felt that duty called me. The concierge hailed a taxi. I jumped in and gave the address to the chauffeur. "Le Bourget! Oh, mais non," exclaimed the man; "monsieur must think me a fool." He flatly refused me as a fare. He was the father of a family, and he certainly would not go to the very spot where all the bombs were certain to be dropped; besides—he did not have enough gasolene in his tank for so long a run. We talked and argued. In desperation I thrust my hand in my pocket and handed him a generous retainer. At the sight of the money he wavered. I followed up my advantage and promised him a handsome tip if he started at once. He threw in his clutch. I had won my first "engagement."

The streets were pitch-dark and jammed with people, all staring heavenward. The feeble oil-lights of the taxicab barely lit up their faces as we wound our way in and out. At breakneck speed we swung right and left, sounding the horn and crying out warning "attentions." Near the outskirts of the city we could see search-lights flashing against the heavy mist. There was so much fog, however, that they could not pierce the veil which hung over the city. At one thousand five hundred feet the sky was opaque. The anti-aircraft batteries were barking and sending off deep-red flashes into the impenetrable murkiness in answer to wireless signals from the invisible air guards above. Now and then a military automobile dashed by.

Newspaper dropped by German raiders within the French lines.