With the French Flying Corps

by Carroll Dana Winslow

Balsley had been wounded in an encounter with several Germans. He was doing well, when he was struck in the thigh by an explosive bullet which burst in his stomach. He immediately lost all consciousness. His machine began to tumble straight toward the lines. Just before reaching the ground, however, Balsley regained his senses sufficiently to realize what was happening. By a superhuman effort he managed to right his machine and make a landing in a neighboring meadow. He was carried to a near-by hospital, where for days he wavered between life and death. Two fragments of the explosive bullet were removed from his intestines. These he kept wrapped up in a handkerchief as proof that the enemy, despite their denials, do violate the rules of civilized warfare. For a long time the only nourishment he could take was the juice of oranges, and that was why Chapman was on this mission on that unfortunate day.

A sad accident occurred on a neighboring aviation-field while I was at the front. The captain of one of the escadrilles had visiting him his younger brother, a bright lad of nineteen. The boy was unusually well-informed about aeronautical matters, but he had never made a flight. His request to go up was acceded to, but the captain did not want to take him, so he asked one of his officers, the best pilot in the escadrille, to take him as a passenger. I suppose that the lieutenant was on his mettle, for before his machine was three hundred feet from the ground he began to do stunts. He was a past master in his art, but a bit too bold. Suddenly his machine slipped off on the wing, and crashed to the ground. Even the best pilot was not immune against fate.

Our escadrille also met with a heart-breaking tragedy. One of our pilots, who had only recently joined us, was making his first flight over the lines with a young artillery officer, who was also inexperienced. Unluckily they flew too low and were brought down by rifle-fire. No one yet knows whether the pilot was mortally wounded or if it was the machine that was disabled. At any rate, the aeroplane came down in no man's land, between the French and German lines. The poilus immediately made a sally to rescue the two men and save their maps and important papers. The Germans had like intentions and opened a murderous fire upon them with their machine guns, trying themselves to reach the aeroplane. The result was a hand-to-hand struggle, and then a deadlock. Each feared that the other would reach the goal under cover of darkness. For a while there was a lull on both sides. Then an inferno burst loose. Machine guns and field-pieces showered the unfortunate aviators with shell and shrapnel. In a short while the machine and its occupants were completely annihilated. The men, I believe, were alive when they landed, but it was impossible to save them. If the pilot could have steered fifty yards to the right or left, they would have been inside either line and their lives would have been spared. As it was, there never will be a monument to mark the spot where they perished at the hands of both friend and foe.

Occasionally the bombarding escadrilles have thrilling experiences to narrate. I remember one case in particular. The raiders were returning from a long flight into the enemy's territory when they were attacked by a group of German fighting-planes. An incendiary bullet pierced the gasolene-tank of one of the French machines and ignited it. The pilot knew that he was sure to be "grillé" and that he did not have time even to reach the ground. His minutes were numbered. Without a moment's hesitation he turned his machine sharply about and headed straight for one of his pursuers. The German tried to avoid the head-on collision, but he was too late. There was a sickening crash and both machines fell to earth.

Handbill dropped in Germany by French aviators.

Another case of desperate courage that attracted wide-spread comment occurred about the same time. This also related to a bomber who had been over the German trenches. The pilot was about to spiral down for the landing, when his passenger looked out to see if everything was in good order. To his horror, he noticed that two of the bombs were still unreleased, having become caught on the chassis or running-gear of the machine. If they landed in this condition, there was every likelihood that there would be nothing to mark their landing-place but a deep crater in the ground. The two men were desperate. To climb down and unhook the bombs seemed impossible. No one had ever been known to do it. It was like clambering up to the main truck of a sailing vessel in the teeth of a hurricane. It was the only alternative left to them. The passenger mustered up his courage and climbed out on the wing and then down on the running-gear. Holding on with only one hand, he leaned down and carefully loosed the bombs with the other. It was a splendid exhibition of nerve and courage, and it saved the lives of both men.

Now and then you meet a pilot who has had a real adventure, but this is something only the most venturesome have to their credit. Not long ago, during an extensive reconnoissance behind the German lines, one of the pilots found himself flying parallel with an important railroad line. Presently he overtook a troop-train going in the same direction. Flying very low, he raked the cars with his machine gun until his magazine was empty. He then caught up with the engine and shot the engineer and fireman with his revolver. A little farther there was a sharp turn in the road, which the train took at full speed. Every car left the rails, and hundreds of soldiers perished when the train crashed down into the ravine below. The pilot confessed that he was sickened by the sight of the disaster, but it was war and he simply had to do it.

As far as my own experience at the front is concerned, it was unusually uneventful. My machine was never once hit by shrapnel nor was it attacked by the enemy. In fact, the work was very monotonous, one day being exactly like another. After six weeks I applied to my captain for permission to pass into a fighting escadrille, where the experience I had gained on the slower machines would be very useful and the work more agreeable. To my delight, my request was granted, and forty-eight hours later I received my orders to proceed without delay to the Ecole de Combat at Pau for further training.

It seemed rather strange, after weeks of actual service, to be leaving the front to go again to school. I had become so used to the life that the muddy fields and the little tents began to seem like home to me. Now that it was over, the "popotte" served to us in the mess-tent was most palatable, and I knew that I would miss the restraining influence of our system of fines.