With the French Flying Corps

by Carroll Dana Winslow

One réglage is very much like another, and when you have read the description of one you become familiar with them all. It is only in the results accomplished that the details vary.

It is a curious fact that in the first months of the war many artillery officers refused to follow the directions of their aerial observers. A colonel of artillery who has been firing big guns all his life cannot be blamed for not thinking that a young observation officer and a mere aviator know enough about the work of batteries to tell him where his shells are falling. Orders, consequently, had to be issued placing the artillery absolutely under the direction of the observers and calling upon the pilots to report any case where a battery refused to be guided by the signals it received. That put an end to the trouble.

At first I felt a strong aversion to flying over batteries in action. You are bound to get in close proximity to the trajectory of the shells, and the constant sensation and sound of the passing projectiles is none too pleasant. You get them both coming and going, and, no matter which you are trying to avoid, you are always taking a chance with the other. It is a question of choosing between the devil and the deep sea, with the devil constantly stepping into your path.

Reduced facsimile of the photographic report supplied
to the Headquarters Stall of the fighting at Cumières.

When you are observing for the artillery you must stay and die, if necessary, in the performance of your assigned duty. It is another matter with reconnoissance or photographic work. Here the main thing is to get back to headquarters with the information you have gained. If you are attacked and you see no chance of successfully fighting off the enemy, it is your business to run.

After some weeks of service with the fire-control detail I was ordered to serve as a photography pilot. This I found a most interesting duty. Whenever we received orders to photograph a position we would start out immediately, flying very low—say, from one thousand eight hundred to three thousand feet. As we reached the part of the enemy's positions to be photographed I would fly in parallel lines, while my observer took the photographs with a specially constructed telephoto camera. We would then hasten back to camp and immediately hand the plates over to the sergeant in charge of the dark room. This taciturn non-com would waste no time with words. In a few moments the photographs would be ready and on their way to headquarters. On several occasions I have seen photographs placed in the hands of the Etat-Major within an hour and a half after the order had been issued by the commanding officer there—examples of celerity and efficiency of service which have placed the photographic branch of aviation "hors concours."

ALL IN THE DAY'S WORK

It is strange how easily you become accustomed to being at the front. At first you sense your proximity to the vast military operations that are in progress, but after a while the newness wears off. One day passes like another without special notice, although daily something out of the ordinary is occurring somewhere along the western front. These experiences, however, generally fall to the lot of the fighting-machines. We of the artillery and photography sections share only the dangers. It is all in the day's work.

I remember one curious incident that occurred while I was in the Verdun sector. Victor Chapman, who was doing combat work with the American Escadrille after a brush with four German aeroplanes, was forced to descend to our field. Not only had he received a bad scalp-wound from a bullet but his machine had been riddled and nearly wrecked. One bullet had even severed a metal stability control. By all the rules of aviation he should have lost control of his aeroplane and met with a fatal accident. But Chapman was an expert pilot. He simply held on to the broken rod with one hand, while with the other he steered his machine. This needed all the strength at his command, but he had the power and the skill necessary to bring him safely to earth. A surgeon immediately dressed his wound, our mechanics repaired his machine. The repairs completed, he was off and up again in pursuit of some more Boches. I must say that every one considered him a remarkable pilot. He was absolutely fearless, and always willing and able to fly more than was ever required of him. His machine was a sieve of patched-up bullet-holes. A few days later came his last fight. He was carrying two bags of oranges to Clyde Balsley, who lay wounded in a hospital not far away. There was an aerial combat against odds within the German lines, and Chapman lost no time in going to the aid of his hard-pressed comrades. He brought down one of the enemy airmen, but the others were still too numerous, and the fight then was only a matter of seconds. He was last seen falling behind the German lines.