The Fledgling

by Charles Nordhoff

I admit that I had a slight sinking spell as I walked to the machine, a little thirteen-metre beauty. (Think of it, only thirteen square yards of supporting surface!) It was all right as soon as I was strapped in and had the motor going. Up we went, the "Bébé" climbing like a cat, at incredible speed, while I anxiously repeated, again and again, the instructions. Two turns of the field gave me my thirty-six hundred feet. This was no time to hesitate, so, as I reached the required spot, away from the sun, I shut off the motor, took a long breath, and pulled back a bit on the stick. Slower and slower she went, until I felt the rather sickening swaying that comes with a dangerous loss of speed. The moment had come. Gritting my teeth, I gave her all the left rudder and left stick, at the same moment pulling the stick all the way back. For an instant she seemed to hang motionless—then with unbelievable swiftness plunged whirling downwards. "Remember, keep your eyes inside—don't look out, whatever happens," I thought, while a great wind tore at my clothing and whistled through the wires. In a wink of time I had dropped six hundred feet: so I carefully put the rudder in the exact center, centered the stick, and pushed it gently forward. At once the motion grew steadier, the wind seemed to abate, and the next moment I dared to look out. It was over—I was in a steep glide, right side up, safe and sound. I had done a vrille and come out of it! A gorgeous sensation! I loved it, and queerly enough my first bewildered thought was, "M—— would adore that!"

Just to show the lieutenant that I was having a good time, I buzzed up again and did two more vrilles, looking out the whole time at the panorama of Pyrenees, villages, and river, whirling around with the most amazing rapidity. Not a thing for bilious or easily dizzy people though, as it means horses at the walk if you fail to do the right thing at exactly the right moment.

After the acrobatics, we went to classes in machine-gun shooting and combat-flying—very interesting and practical, but not to be talked about.

After Pau, I had forty-eight hours' leave in Paris, bought a few things I needed for the front, and was then sent to a place it is forbidden to mention, expecting soon to get to flying over the lines.

On New Year's morning, as it was snowing hard and there was no flying, I sat by a cozy fire, in the house of some English people. Curious thing, running into them here. They are of the tribe of English who wander over the face of the earth, and make England what she is. The man of the house is an expert on ——, and has pursued his unusual vocation in Cuba, Jamaica, Honduras, Guiana, "Portuguese East" and other parts of Africa, as well as in Ceylon and a few other places I forget. Here he is now, as expert for the French. His wife and seven children, who speak French, Portuguese, Spanish, and Zulu, I think, follow him everywhere, and are everywhere equally at home. I have tea with them after work, and, needless to say, they are a Godsend in this desolate place. Let us all pray that next New Year's day we shall be thanking God for a victorious peace and returning to civilian life, never to put on uniforms again. The finest uniform of all is the old civilian suit—brass buttons and gold braid to the contrary.

For this winter air-work, which is the coldest known occupation, I think, this is the way we dress. First, heavy flannels and woolen socks. Over that, a flannel shirt with sleeveless sweater on top, and uniform breeches and tunic. Boots and spiral puttees (very warm things, if not put on too tightly) go on next, and over all we pull on a great combination, or fur-lined "teddy-bear" suit—waterproof canvas outside. Over our boots we pull fur-lined leather flying boots, reaching half-way up to our knees. For head-gear, a fur-lined leather cap, and around the neck, several turns of gray muffler. A variety of mask and a pair of "triplex" goggles to protect one's face from the icy breeze. With all this, and heavy fur gloves, one can keep reasonably warm.

As the 16th of January was the first good flying day for some time, there was much activity. After lunch I went to the aerodrome just in time to see the combat patrol come swooping down. An excited crowd was gathered about the first machine in, and I learned that one of our best pilots had just been brought down by a German two-seater, and that H——, a nineteen-year-old American in our sister escadrille here, had promptly brought the Hun down. I was proud to think that an American had revenged our comrade. This makes H——'s second German within a week—a phenomenal record for a beginner. He is an unusual youngster, and handles a machine beautifully. He seems to have the mixture of dash, cold nerve, and caution which makes an "ace."

The German fell ten thousand feet directly over the trenches, but at the last moment managed to straighten out a bit and crashed two hundred yards inside his lines. H—— followed him down, and gliding over the trenches at one hundred feet, saw one German limp out of the wreck and wave a hand up at the victor.

Another American boy had quite an exciting time lately when his motor went dead far inside the enemy lines. Luckily he was high at the time; so he flattened his glide to the danger-point, praying to be able to cross into friendly country. Down he came, his "stick" dead, the wind whistling through the cables, until close ahead he saw a broad belt of shell-marked desolation, crisscrossed by a maze of meaningless trenches. The ground was close; automatically he straightened out, avoiding a pair of huge craters, touched, bumped, crashed into a thicket of wire, and turned over. A jab at the catch of his belt set him free; but the really important thing was whether or not he had succeeded in crossing the German lines. Wisely enough, he crawled to a shell-hole, and from its shelter began to reconnoiter warily. Muddy figures began to appear from various holes and ditches, and at length a soldier who, so far as appearances went, might have belonged to any army, leaned over the edge of the hole and said something in French. Young S—— at that began to breathe for the first time in at least a quarter of an hour. His discoverer led him to a spacious dugout where two generals were at lunch—a wonderful lunch, washed down with beverages forbidden to any but generals. The great ones made the corporal welcome, laughed themselves ill over his voluble but wonderful French, plied him with food and good Scotch whiskey, and sent him home in one of their superb closed cars.

Now that so many young Americans are beginning to fly in France, I fancy that the people at home must wonder what sort of a time their sons or brothers are having—how they live, what their work is, and their play. Most people who have an immediate interest in the war must by now possess a very fair idea of the military aviation training; but of the pilot's life at the front I have seen little in print.