With the French Flying Corps

by Carroll Dana Winslow

Fortunately I had just time to make the evening train for Paris. According to my pass, I was on "service recommandé" and on my way to the front, where in a few days I would be flying over the German lines. The moment I had looked forward to for so many months had at last come. I could hardly believe it myself.

My two days in Paris passed like magic. There was so much to attend to, so much to do, that before I knew it the moment to leave had come. I took a taxi to the Gare de l'Est, my wife and my little girl accompanying me. My luggage consisted of my black army canteen, across the front of which was painted in white letters "Carroll Winslow—Pilote Aviateur," and my long canvas duffel-bag, which contained my fur-lined clothes and all my flying paraphernalia. There are usually so many formalities to be complied with that I allowed more than enough time for the visa of my papers. It was well that I did. The station was crowded with grimy, blue-coated "poilus," walking up and down the waiting-rooms and lounging on the stone steps; outside others were saying good-by to their families, while across the street large numbers crowded about the free "buffets," where patriotic women of Paris daily minister to the wants of the departing "permissionnaires." All the men wore their steel helmets, and had their knapsacks strapped to their shoulders. They were not as smart-looking as the khaki-clad British "Tommies," but despite their muddy boots and faded uniforms there was something in their faces, a look in their eyes, that seemed to say: "No sacrifice is too great—for France." I felt proud to think that I was one of them, and their quiet salutes showed me that I had their respect. The regard of those grave, war-worn men meant much to me. My wife and I silently watched what was going on about us, while our little girl chattered at our side. Many women accompanied their "braves" to the station. Most of them carried baskets of food and delicacies, but some, too poor even to buy a present for their "poilus," came empty-handed. The moments of leave-taking seemed almost tragic. Many a man went up those steps whistling and with head erect, while others laughed as they tossed their little ones high in the air for a last good-by. These were fine examples, and when the porter touched me on the arm and said: "The train for Toul, m'sieu'," I too was able to bear it calmly.

The cars were already crowded with "poilus." Not a seat was to be had in the compartments. Standing-room in the corridors was at a premium. We were all bound in the same general direction, toward Verdun, Nancy, and Toul.

The train came to a stop at last. We were at Bar-le-Duc, the terminus for Verdun. What an air of mystery there was about the station at "Bar." We could hear the distant roar of the cannon defending the banks of the Meuse. Everywhere men moved about with a sort of suppressed excitement. "Camions" rumbled by in hundreds. In the freight-yard troops filled every available space not already taken up by the newly arrived artillery. Nearly all my travelling companions left me here. For a moment I wished that I too had been ordered to the Verdun sector. It was after sundown when the train drew into the station at Toul. The town was in darkness, and I felt very doubtful as to whether I would be able to join my escadrille that night. To my surprise, an officer, noticing my indecision, came up to me and asked if he could help me. I told him where I wanted to go and inquired if he could direct me. "Why, it is too late to do this to-day," he remarked; "better wait until the morning." With that he motioned me to step into his automobile and directed the chauffeur to drive us to the Etat-Major.

As we rolled through the streets of the silent city I had a moment to reflect upon what all this meant. I began to realize that a change had taken place in my position. I was no longer a mere soldier, but an aviator and as such entitled to courtesies usually extended only to officers in the other branches of the army. There is no mention of this custom in the regulations. It was merely an unwritten paragraph of military etiquette. Here was an officer, my superior in rank, treating me with a consideration I had rarely experienced. I noticed by the insignia on his overcoat that he was a captain in the Aviation Corps. He was therefore a pilot. I thought for a few moments. Suddenly an idea occurred to me. I was also a pilot, and in the eyes of traditional convention we were comrades, for we were both aviators. At the Etat-Major the colonel like-wise extended a warm welcome and shook me heartily by the hand. I suppose that my being an American had something to do with it, but I could not help thinking that I was still only a corporal. He immediately gave orders to requisition a large room for me at the hotel, and bade me hurry or I would be late for dinner. No wonder aviators are inspired to do such splendid work at the front when their efforts meet with so much appreciation.

The next morning I started out soon after sunrise to walk out to the aviation-field. Everywhere, above the streets of Toul, there were posters which read "Cave Voutée," and with the number of persons, varying from fifteen to sixty, who could be accommodated. These cellars were protected with sand-bags and were located at convenient intervals, so that the people might find shelter quickly whenever the German aeroplanes made their appearance. Only a few days previous to my arrival there had been a raid, yet everything seemed normal and the housewives went about their marketing and shopping as if they had nothing else to think about.

An hour's walk brought me to my escadrille, F-44. I was barely in time. Orders had just been received transferring it to the Verdun sector and preparations to move camp were already under way. Every one went to work with a will, laughing and jumping around in a sort of war-dance. No wonder they were happy. They—we, I should say, for I was now one of them—were about to become participants in the world's greatest defensive battle.

A German aeroplane brought down by a French aeroplane.
The smoke is from the German machine, which the aviator has
set fire to upon being brought down. The French machine can
be seen to the right, its wing broken by a bad landing. The
small dots in the center are French soldiers. The white
lines are the French third-line trenches.
The French pilot with his German prisoner (insert).

The aeroplanes started for Bar-le-Duc "by air" shortly after noon. One pilot and myself, however, had to make the journey by rail. My own machine had not yet arrived, and his had been smashed up the day before. When the German raiders came over Toul he had gone up with the defending aeroplanes, and had brought down an aviatik which he had engaged. It is customary for a pilot, when driven down in the enemy's territory to set fire to his machine to prevent it from falling into the hands of his adversaries. This the German proceeded to do the moment he touched ground. My friend was frantic to prevent this and tried to make a quick landing in order to get to him in time. He was too excited, however, and smashed one of the wings of his own machine during the landing. This occurred just behind the French third-line trenches. The soldiers rushed out and made the German pilot a prisoner, but not until after he had applied the match to his gasolene-tank.