Above the French Lines Letters of Stuart Walcott, American Aviator: July 4, 1917, to December 8, 1917 — Text and Context

cial assistant to Mr. Sidney D. Waldon, Inspector of Aeroplanes and Aeroplane Motors, Signal Service at Large. He immediately reported to Mr. Waldon and worked with him through April. May first he went to Newport News, Virginia. May 2 he reported:

“My first trip up was this afternoon with Victor Carlstrom. We were out 16 minutes and climbed 3,500 feet. It was all very simple getting up there--a little wind and noise and some bumps and pockets in the air--a glorious view of the Harbor. Then we started to come down. First, I saw the earth directly below through the planes on the left. Then the horizon made a sudden wild lurch and Newport News appeared directly below on my right. This continued for a little while and then we started down at an angle of about 30 degrees to the perpendicular, turning as we went. I later learned that Carlstrom had executed a few steep banks or sharp turns and then spiralled down. It ended with a very pretty landing, following with a series of banks to check speed. Flying from my first impression is a very fascinating game and the one I want to stay with for a while. I have signed up for 100 minutes in the air. While this hundred minutes will not make me a flier by any means I think it is well worth the while in that it gives me a little element of certainty in going abroad. I will know if all goes well that I am not unable to fly.”

The next day he wrote:

“Two flights this morning, 25 minutes _in toto_. The greatest sport I ever had. Wonderful work. I did most of the work after we got up a safe distance.”

Having obtained a certificate of 100 minutes flight and passed the necessary physical examinations, he left for France, arriving at Bordeaux May 31, and soon reported at Avord for training.

STUART WALCOTT’S LETTERS

... My work here is going well, although slowly. Those in my class ought to get out by October if nothing goes wrong. There are some 150 Americans learning to fly now in France, besides the ones the Government may have sent over--more than a hundred at this one school, and the oddest combination I’ve ever been thrown with: chauffeurs, second-story men, ex-college athletes, racing drivers, salesmen, young bums of leisure, a colored prize fighter, ex-Foreign Légionnaires, ball players, millionaires and tramps. Not too good a crowd according to most standards, but the worst bums may make the best aviators. There’s plenty of need for all of them.

There are lots of Frenchmen here also and a big crowd of Russians, mostly happy youngsters having a very good time. They’re always in a hurry to get up in the air and are continually breaking machines and their necks. The Americans have an endless streak of luck in being able to fall out of the air and collect themselves uninjured from amidst a pile of kindling wood which was the machine. As yet I haven’t done any piloting in the air, so can’t talk very wisely about the glories and thrills of slipping through the ephemeral clouds. All I have learned is that almost any kind of a dub can be a pilot, but that there aren’t a lot of very good ones. The idea is to get enough practice to become a good one before arguing with the elusive Boche at a high altitude.

It looks over here as though there would be about two years more of war, judging from what most people say. It is to be hoped that after twelve to eighteen months we will be able to take France’s place at the front, for she deserves to be relieved and will have to be. Even now, France is almost spent; it will be England and the United States who will finish the war. This war is a terrible thing, but for America it is an opportunity as well. I am glad that we have at last come into it and that it will be no half-way fight that we must put up. The Canadians have been about the best regiments in the war. Why shouldn’t America be as good?...

ESCOLE D’AVIATION MILITAIRE AVORD, CHER, FRANCE. Friday, July 13, 1917.

You see it’s Friday, the thirteenth, my lucky day, and I’m happy because the work is going well. First, I’ll tell you about a smash I had a week or so ago.

The roller or _Rouleur_ class which I smashed in has the same machine as those that fly with a 45 P motor. Only it is throttled down, and we are supposed to keep it on the ground--just about ready to fly, but not quite getting up--a speed of about 30 m.p.h. When there is the slightest wind we can not roll, because the wind turns the tail around and swings the machine in a circle--a wooden horse--_cheval de bois_. I rode about the end of the list Saturday--and the wind had come up as the day got on. Work stops at 8:30 a. m. always because there’s too much wind. My first sortie or trip went O.K. with a considerable breeze on the tail, but on the second there was too much wind and after I got going pretty fast--around she went. The wind caught under the inside wing and up it went. Smash went the outside wheel, and a crackle of busting wood. All the front framework of wood that holds the motor was smashed--a pretty bad break. The monitor was a bit mad and talked to me a bit in French.

The next morning I was called in to see the chief of the Blériot school, Lt. de Chavannes, a very nice officer. He told me that my monitor was not satisfied with me--that he had told me to do something (cut the motor when the machine started to turn) three separate times, and that each time I had intentionally disobeyed, that if anything like that happened again I would be radiated (discharged from the school). That was quite the first I had ever heard of it and I was so mad at the monitor that I could have kicked him in the head. I tried to explain to the Lieutenant but he never heard a word, so I just gurgled with wrath and didn’t do anything. But yesterday we got another monitor who is a different sort.

The class after _rouleur_ is _decollé_--it is the same machine, but one gets off the ground about a metre or two, then slacks up on the motor and settles to the earth. It is strictly forbidden to _decollé_ in the _rouleur_ class. This morning I had a sortie in the _rouleur_ and all of a sudden noticed that I was in the air a bit--managed to keep it straight and get out of the air without smashing. The monitor said nothing so I _decolléed_ on all the sorties. When I got out the monitor explained that it was strictly forbidden to go off the ground in the _rouleur_ class, that I shouldn’t have done it, and then asked me if I would like to go up to the other class. Whereupon consenting, I am now in the _decollé_ class, leaving sixteen rather peeved Americans who arrived in the _rouleur_ the same time I did, who can perform in the _rouleur_ quite as well as I can and who will remain in the _rouleur_ for some time yet. They’ve no grudge against me, however, as it was only a streak of luck on my part. Later in the morning I had some sorties in the _decolleur_ and got up two or three metres. The wind was too strong, so my trips were a bit rough, but nothing was damaged--so hurrah for Friday, the thirteenth.

The work has been going very well since last I wrote you, which was only two or three days ago. I told you about at last leaving the blessed roller; I never was so relieved in my life. The first evening in the _decollé_ class, I was requisitioned to turn tails and the morning after there was too much wind to work. The _decollé_ is the one where you go up two or three metres and settle down by cutting speed. The first time I had three sorties in the wind, bounced around a lot, but did no damage. The next time was first thing in the morning. Two metres up on the first, four or five on the fifth--strictly against orders. I even had to _piqué_--point the machine toward the ground--a little, which is not at all _comme il faut_ in the _decollé_. But these Frenchmen are funny chaps--sometimes they will get terribly angry and punish one for disobeying, and again they will be tickled to death with it. If I had smashed while doing more than I was told to, there would have been a lot of trouble; as it was, no objection--and the monitor personally conducted me to the _piqué_ class with a very nice recommendation.

Now there are two _piqué_ classes: one with a _piste_ about a quarter of a mile long, in which one is supposed to do little more than _decollé_, get up about five metres and _piqué un tout petit peu_--hardly at all. After comes the advanced _piqué_ with a much longer _piste_ on which one can get up 100 metres (300 feet). On my first sortie in the _piqué_, I was told to roll on the ground all the way, so continuing my policy, did a low _decollé_. Next I was supposed to do a two metre _decollé_, so went up ten and _piquéd_. Had ten sorties in that class one morning, getting as high as I could--about twenty metres--and went to the advanced _piqué_ that night--last night. Four sorties there last night with a machine with a poor motor, so didn’t get up over a hundred feet.

And this morning I did my first real aviating. There was a bit of wind blowing, so the monitor, Mr. Moses, only let a Lieutenant and me go up, as we had gone better than the others last night. First it was a bit rainy and always bumpy as the deuce--air puffs and pockets which require the entire corrective force of the wing warp and rudder to overcome. My last sortie was decidedly active. The wind had developed into a bit of a breeze which is to a Blériot like a rough sea to a row boat. Two or three times I got a puff that tipped the machine ’way over--put the controls over as far as I could and waited. It seemed a minute before she straightened. The trouble was that the machine was climbing and therefore not going very fast. If I had _piquéd_, it would have corrected quicker. I had no trouble at all in making the landing. Hopping out of the machine, I saw the head monitor rushing over to Mr. Moses on the double, shouting volubly in French and berating him severely. I gathered that he had been watching my manoeuvres, expecting something to fall every instant, and that he strenuously objected to Moses’ letting me go up. Work stopped there for the morning, and it was very fully explained to me what the trouble was. If I have some sorties there tonight, I go to _Tour de Piste_ (Flying Field) in the morning. I may be on Nieuport in two weeks.

I am now beginning to see the advantages of the Blériot training. There is a great deal of preliminary work on or near the ground. In all other aviation training, such as at Newport News, 90 per cent of the work is in making landings--in piquéing down, redressing at the proper moment and making gradual connections with the earth. I haven’t made a really bad landing yet and the reason is that I have been in a machine so much on and near the ground, that I have sort of developed a sense or feel of it, and almost automatically redress correctly, and settle easily. Also I can tell pretty closely what is flying speed because of the work on the rollers. It’s the same way with all the other students only I know it now from my own experience.

And this morning I began to realize that my hundred minutes at Newport News was invaluable. I not only found out some of the tricks of a master hand (Carlstrom) but also developed a bit of confidence in the air, and air sense, without which I could have got into trouble this morning. My bumpy ride this morning is absolutely invaluable. I’ll probably never have so much trouble in the air again, because a fast machine or even a Blériot with a good motor, would hardly have noticed these puffs. It was a bit risky, I guess, or the head monitor would not have been worried, but now that it’s over, I know a lot more.

You have certainly developed into a wonderful correspondent. Honest-to-goodness, a letter you started my way about a month ago was quite the most satisfactory and amusing thing I’ve received since I’ve been over here. Based on practically no material, yet it was alive with interest, every line. There’s nothing like a finishing school education. If I thought that you could knit, I would immediately appoint you as my _marraine_ (godmother), for it’s quite possible for one person to have more than one soldier and I am but a soldier of the second class in the French Army. As I understand it, the chief duty of a _marraine_ is to write letters--you’ve started that in good style--and to knit wool scarfs, which the devoted soldier hands to a French peasant woman to unravel and make a pair of socks out of....

Many Yale boys have wandered in upon us of late, Alan Winslow, Wally Winter, George Mosely, and others. Also Chester Bassett, late of Washington and Harvard University, who I believe has the good fortune to be acquainted with you, a very recommendable young man. They tell me that Cord Meyer is aviating at some camp nearby, but, not having any machines, they have to spend their time touring the country in a high powered motor.

Had a long and gossipy letter from Pat the other day, containing details of many weddings and engagements, even unto young ---- ----. All my classmates are doing the same stunt. How about being original and waiting until the war is over and seeing who of the competitors are left? I quite expect to be, but it’s luck I’m trusting to; there’s a lot of war left in the nations of Europe. One never can tell; I may come home on permission in a French uniform with a wing on my collar.... When the American Air Service is a little further along, it may be that we will be taken over from the French Army.

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....

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.