With the French Flying Corps

by Carroll Dana Winslow

An anti-aircraft .75.

That night there was another alarm. We were spending the evening with friends in the Latin Quarter when the pompiers startled us with their wailing sirens. From every direction came the "Alerte! the Zeppelins are coming. Lights out!" One by one the street-lamps faded, apartments were darkened, and the street-cars stopped where they were, plunged into darkness. It was thrilling. In the velvety gloom the outlines of people and motors could be seen moving about. The corner of the rue d'Assas alone remained illuminated. A "bec de gaz" was still burning brightly, to the rage of an old infantry colonel who was too short to reach it himself. To our amusement, a little girl clad in a red kimono and bedroom slippers ran out into the street and volunteered her aid. The old soldier blurted out a word or two, then lifted her up in his arms while she extinguished the light. "Thanks, mademoiselle. Now, quick!" he gasped; "run back to bed."

We saw some of the people climb down into their cellars. The majority, however, gathered in the streets, looking up at the search-light swept sky. Tiny, starlike lights moved about above us and we knew that aeroplanes of the "Garde de Paris" were searching for the venturesome raider. "I don't believe the sales Boches and their sausage balloon are coming this evening to beg food," remarked one man. "Oh, no," answered another, "it is clear and they well know that a Zeppelin over Paris to-night is a Zeppelin less for Germany." Just then we heard the firemen coming back. Their bugles were playing a jubilant call. The Zeppelins had been frightened away. Everywhere lights were again lit. The people laughed good-naturedly at their neighbors' strange attire. "Quelle guerre!" yawned the old officer at my elbow; "down in the ground, under the sea, and over our homes! Quelle guerre!"

AT THE ECOLE DE PERFECTIONNEMENT

From Chartres I was sent to Châteauroux to continue my studies and perfect myself in flying. Châteauroux is a small provincial town situated half-way between the château country and the beautiful valley of the river Creuse. It was originally founded by the Romans, and before the war had a large "caserne." All this is forgotten to-day in the glory of the stream of air pilots that pass through the "Ecole deviation militaire." Soldiers are to be found everywhere, but not aviators, and the residents of Châteauroux are very conscious of the honor conferred upon their town.

When a pilot has received his "brevet" he has really only begun his professional education. This I soon found out at Châteauroux. The day after my arrival I was set to work making daily flights and attending the various courses and lectures on artillery-fire, bomb-dropping, war aviation, "liaison," and the design of enemy aircraft. The daily flights were very short, lasting only fifteen minutes each. We made three or four of them each day, and their purpose was chiefly to give us greater confidence in making our landings. We were allowed to take up passengers, and we often paired off and took each other up. In this connection it was amusing to see how every one avoided being taken up by certain pilots. Some men cannot fly: their temperaments prevent it, and try as they will they cannot improve. This is generally due to sheer stupidity or to lack of nerve. One thing is certain, and that is that these men will kill themselves sooner or later if they persist in their efforts to fly.

An incident occurred shortly after my arrival at the school. About thirty pilots were receiving practical instruction on the aviation-field and were standing around two aeroplanes. About a hundred feet away another machine was making ready to start. When the mechanic spun the propeller at the word from the aviator the motor started, not slowly as it should, but with a roar. The machine began to roll toward the group of men. Instead of cutting off the ignition—we found out later that the wire connecting the throttle and the carburetor was broken and that the throttle was therefore turned on full—the pilot lost his head. He tried to steer around the group of men in front of him. The ground was muddy and very slippery, which made escape almost impossible. In their hurry to get away several men lost their footing and fell down in the very path of the onrushing biplane. We thought that at least a dozen would be crushed or else decapitated by the rapidly revolving propeller. Fortunately no one was seriously injured. Even the stupid pilot escaped unscathed. The three machines, however, were completely wrecked. Needless to say, the offender was immediately dismissed from the aviation school and sent back to his regiment. His escapade had cost the government about ten thousand dollars. Even had there been no damage to the machines it is doubtful whether any further chances would have been taken with a man of such a temperament.

There is not much to tell of the daily flights which we made. The weekly trips, however, proved extremely interesting. We usually covered at least a hundred miles and flew at a height of over six thousand feet.

A bad landing.