I finished up in one division of the school the other day and passed to another for brevet, the tests for a military aviator. I sort of have the impression that I wrote you a few weeks ago about it, but not being sure, run the risk of repetition, which, if any, I hope you will excuse. This epistle is being written out at the piste (flying field), waiting for the wind to drop enough to fly, and with me seated amidst a bunch of Russians, so if there are any superfluous “iskis” or “ovitches” in this, you will understand why. The Russians are great fliers; in fact they know so much about it that they never listen to their monitors and as a result break more machines than all the other pupils combined. A month ago five of them went to the next school for acrobacy and in a week every one of them had killed himself. I pulled a bit of the same Russian stuff in the spiral class of the Blériot. All the work is solo—never a flight double command so one has to get instructions on the ground and follow them in the air.
I used my head and senses in performing my first spiral, instead of shutting my eyes, doing what I had been told and trusting to God. The result was that I made one more turn than I expected to and that quite perpendicular, not at all comme il faut in a Blériot. Why something did not break has been the wonder of the Blériot school. But nothing did and we got down all right. Another time I planted a cuckoo on her nose, which is not at all encouraged by the monitors. ’Tis quite a trick to balance a monoplane on its nose on the ground, but I did it—quite vertical she lay, with me in the middle struggling with the safety belt and wondering which way it was going to fall. My final appearance in the Blériot school was likewise spectacular. The left wing hit a hole in the air which the right one didn’t. Naturally things tipped; then they wouldn’t straighten and the only thing to do was to dive to the low side. I did, but forgot to shut off the motor. A very steep and fast spiral resulted in which I lost 500 feet in a half-turn in about two seconds, I think, all with the motor going to beat the cars. I must have been travelling at many hundreds of miles an hour. Once again nothing broke, but it was no fault of mine that it didn’t....
Sincerely,
Stuart.
V
August 25, 1917.
I started for my altitude test three days ago. The requirement is one hour above 2,000 metres. I got to 1,950 metres and one cylinder refused to fire, so I was forced to come down. The next morning I tried again, got to 900 metres and the magneto ceased to function, thereby stopping all progress. I glided toward home, but didn’t have quite the height to make the piste, so had to land in a nearby field, just dodging a potato patch. A flock of curious sheep came around and carefully examined the machine, getting considerably mixed up in the wires of the open tail construction and leaving considerable wool thereon. When the mechanics eventually got the motor going, I started off, didn’t get quite in the air before the motor went bad and then I ran into a bean patch, gathering about a bushel of beans with the same tail wires. Yesterday morning I tried again, climbed to 2,000 in fourteen minutes and to 3,500 metres (11,500 feet) in forty minutes. I went up through some light clouds and when I got to 3,500, the top of my recording barograph, more clouds had formed and I was practically shut off from the earth, nothing but a beautiful sea of clouds below me, a very beautiful sight. One other machine was in sight, far below me, but on top of the clouds. Not wanting to get lost I came down through the clouds and stayed out my hour just above 2,000 and below the clouds, where the air was very much churned up, keeping me very busy. Just as soon as the time was up I came down with a pair of very chilled feet, making the 2,000 metres in five minutes to the ground. No work since then on account of bad weather.
This morning I attended my first Catholic funeral, that of the commandant of the school who was the victim of a mid-air collision, a very unusual accident. The other machine got down safely though badly smashed. Everybody in camp attended the funeral in the chapel of the Artillery Camp next door. I understood none of the service, but the music by a tenor and a ’cello was excellent. While the cortege was going down the hill to the cemetery, a Nieuport circled overhead very low for half an hour or more and dropped a wreath. It was a very impressive ceremony.
I expect to start on triangle and petit voyage in a few days. When they are done, I will be a breveted flier in the French Army. Then comes perfectionné work and acrobacy, so it will be quite a while yet for me.