Once I was sent to Bar-le-Duc to bring an old machine back to Plessis. The distance, as the crow flies, was one hundred and fifty miles, over Châlons, across Champagne, and down the valley of the Marne. I enjoyed this flight immensely, though it nearly ended disastrously. The aeroplane I brought back was regulated for the weight of two men, so that when I flew in it alone I had to fight it all the way to keep it from climbing too far. Every moment I had to keep pushing against the control and it almost exhausted me. There was a low ceiling of clouds and I simply could not let the machine have its own way. To add to my aggravation, the motor stopped as I was passing over a forest. There was nothing to do but volplane down, though I did not see how I could ever avoid the trees. Unexpectedly a clear landing-place loomed up ahead of me, but before reaching it I felt that I would be in the tree-tops. Worst of all, I had a lee shore. Across my path I suddenly noticed a canal lined with poplars. I could not possibly pass over them, so I pressed desperately against my rudder controls. Being near the ground, it was a frightfully short and sharp turn. I thought that the tip of one of my wings would touch the branches of the trees while the other would scrape the ground; then I would be crushed under the motor. At that moment the machine straightened itself out and came to a stop in a ploughed field. It was a very close call.
I shall never forget one of my flights over Paris. The day was beautiful. The atmosphere was so clear that one could see for miles and miles. As I approached the city it looked like a toy model. Every street, almost every house, stood out in perfect detail. The white church on the hill of Montmartre glistened like ivory. Beyond it I could see the Arc de Triomphe and the Tour Eiffel.
I stayed up so long that my supply of gasolene was almost exhausted, and I was obliged to land to refill the tank. I chose the aviation-field at Le Bourget, the scene of my first war experience on the night of the Zeppelin raid. As it happened, I again selected an unusual occasion for my visit. This time, however, the extraordinary activity was not due to an unwelcome visit by the Germans. It was rather to celebrate the perfection of an unpleasant surprise for the hated Boches.
Great crowds lined the field on every side. In the centre stood a small group of prominent officials. Among them I recognized President Poincaré. They were examining a new weapon with which French aeroplanes would henceforth go "sausage-hunting" over the German lines.
Even the casual visitor to the front is struck by the great number of observation balloons which both sides use in their efforts to keep informed of the preparations being made by the enemy. Every few miles a captive balloon or "sausage" wafts lazily over the German lines, fairly far behind the lines, but at an altitude sufficient for observation purposes. Against these "monsters" aeroplanes heretofore had been powerless. Their machine guns fired bullets which, even if incendiary, were too small to set on fire the gas-containing envelope. The aircraft cannon carried by some of the French machines also proved useless. The holes their projectiles made in the balloons were too small to allow a sufficient quantity of air to enter and cause an inflammable mixture.
The rockets, which were being examined as I landed at Le Bourget, solved the problem. Four are mounted on each side of an aeroplane. At the head of each rocket is a large dart, resembling a salmon-gaff. The tails of the rockets are wound into spiral springs, which are held in sockets. All eight rockets are fired at once. They are ignited as they leave their sockets, and travel with lightning speed.
Swinging lazily above the field was a captive balloon. At one end of Le Bourget was a line of waiting aeroplanes. "This is the second. They have already brought down one balloon," remarked the man at my elbow. The hum of a motor caused me to look up. A wide-winged double-motor Caudron had left the ground and was mounting gracefully above us. Up and up it went, describing a great circle, until it faced the balloon. Every one caught his breath. The Caudron was rushing straight at the balloon, diving for the attack.
"Now!" cried the crowd. There was a a loud crack, a flash, and eight long rockets darted forth, leaving behind a fiery trail. The aviator's aim, however, was wide, and, to the disappointment of every one, the darts fell harmlessly to the ground.
Another motor roared far down the field, and a tiny "appareil de chasse" shot upward like a swallow. "A Nieuport," shouted the crowd with one voice. Eager to atone for his "copain's" failure, and impatient at his delay in getting out of the way, the tiny biplane tossed and tumbled about in the air like a clown in the circus-ring.
"Look! He's looping! He falls! He slips! No, he rights again!" cried a hundred voices as the skilful pilot kept our nerves on edge.