The Romance of Aircraft

by Laurence Yard Smith

Copyright Underwood and Underwood

A PHOTOGRAPH OF NORTHERN FRANCE TAKEN AT A HEIGHT OF THREE THOUSAND FEET

Military photography is one of the most fascinating of the side issues of the war. Before the day of the airplane it was the scout or spy who worked his way secretly into the enemy's lines and at great personal risk,—and often after many thrilling adventures, if the story books are to be believed—brought back to his commanding officer news of the disposition of troops, etc., in the opposing camp. To-day the spy's job has been taken away from him. No longer is it necessary for him to creep under cover of night past the guard posts of the enemy. A big, comfortable and efficient airplane flies over the ground by broad daylight and collects the necessary information a great deal better than the spy ever could have secured it.

Copyright Underwood and Underwood

AN AIRPLANE VIEW OF THE CITY OF RHEIMS, SHOWING THE CATHEDRAL

A reconnaissance camera has very little in common with a kodak. The observer does not tilt it over the edge of the machine, focus it on some interesting object and “snap” his picture. As a matter of fact it works more after the manner of a gun. It is fixed in the bottom of the airplane, facing downward. The observer has been instructed before leaving the ground that a certain area or trench is to be photographed. Straight to the beginning of that trench line the pilot heads his machine. The observer compares the country over which he is flying with the chart or map which he carries. Just as a gunner sights a target, he locates the beginning of the trench line to be photographed through a bull's eye, and immediately pushes the button which sets the camera working. From that point the camera operates automatically, taking a series of overlapping pictures of the country it looks down upon. With calm determination the pilot holds his machine to the course laid out, in spite of any opposition that may arise in his path, for the slightest deviation from that fixed line of flight will mean a gap in the reconnaissance report which the pictures represent. But once he has covered the required area, he turns and flees. In less time than it takes to tell that magazine of films is being developed in a dark room. From there the printed pictures are rushed to an expert interpreter who reads the secret meanings of the things he sees—this or that dark blotch or peculiar looking speck suggests to his trained mind a machine gun nest, a railroad center, an observation post, a barbed wire entanglement, a camouflaged battery, an ammunition dump, or what-not. Pasted together so that they give a continuous view of the foe's territory, the printed pictures are hurried to headquarters, where in a few brief moments their message has been turned into a command to the troops. By the word that those pictures bring the battle is directed, and the blow is aimed straight at the enemy's vital spots.

Occasionally instead of a series of photographs of a trench line or limited area, a continuous set of pictures of a broad space of country is desired. Then instead of a single machine as described above, a squadron of reconnaissance machines set forth, flying in V formation, with the leader of the squadron flying in front at the point of the V. The moment he reaches the area to be photographed, he notifies the machines behind him by firing a smoke rocket with a signal pistol. At that signal the V broadens instantly, so that it becomes almost a straight line, the commander keeping only slightly ahead so that he may lead the way. On and on that broad V formation of airplanes sweeps, every camera registering, and all keeping close enough together to produce slightly overlapping photographs. Each machine will bring home a long line of pictures of the country over which it passed, and those lines, pieced together, will make a large military map of the entire region. That is if everything goes smoothly, which in war time it seldom does. More likely that plucky V will be pounced upon by a herd of fast fighting machines whose duty it is to see that none ever return with their information to headquarters. There will follow a terrific contest; the observer in the reconnaissance machine becomes a gunner, and fires away at his pursuers, while the never-failing camera keeps steadily on with its job of recording. As nearly as possible the V formation is held, for much depends upon it, but suddenly a great gap appears in the line. “Done for” with a direct hit, one brave machine goes crashing earthward. That will mean a gap in the “map” that is in the making. Still the V presses on relentlessly. One of the planes begins to lag behind. There is something wrong with its engine. It does its best to keep up with its fellows, but soon it is left behind, and the enemy craft dive after it. Battered and torn, its numbers depleted sadly, several of its crew wounded, its wings perhaps riddled with bullets, the photographing squadron turns its face toward home, and, flying now as high as possible to keep out of sight, puts on all speed for the safe side of No Man's Land. Military photography sounds easy and comfortable. It demands the type of courage which can make a man stick to a given line of flight, even when certain death lies straight ahead.

Sometimes a machine carries both bombs and a camera, and, as it drops its missiles, keeps a continuous record of its “hits” to carry home. And that brings us to the bombing machine, last but not least of the trio of military airplanes.