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

Training and Transition

Walcott’s early letters focus on the stages of his training. He mentions completing work on the Blériot, then moving to Nieuport at Avord, and later to Pau for acrobatics. At Plessis-Belleville he starts on the Spad, a monoplace machine. His tone is understated: “Haven’t broken any wood since Blériot days, but have been a bit more rational and done about average good work.” The phrase “broken any wood” hints at crashes without elaboration, suggesting a culture where mishaps are acknowledged but not dwelled upon.

He also notes the social dimension of training. A roommate named Loughran appears, and Walcott mentions visiting the Lafayette Escadrille’s adjoining barracks. The presence of “lone Americans in French escadrilles” creates a small community; Walcott borrows the bed of “the famous Bill Thaw’s roommate.” Such details ground the narrative in specific people and places, though the excerpts provide only fragments of these relationships.

Life at the Front

By November 1, 1917, Walcott is “in sight of the front at last.” He describes the work as “exclusively patrolling, establishing as it were a barrage against German machines.” The big attack is over, so activity is comparatively light; sometimes a whole patrol passes without firing or seeing an enemy. This routine contrasts with the romantic expectations he earlier clung to.

Walcott notes that new pilots are handled carefully: “they take lots of care of new pilots and don’t feed them to the Boche right away.” The group has several escadrilles, all flying Spads, and Walcott mentions the Lafayette Escadrille (124) as part of the same groupe de combat. A minor incident—a bullet through a pilot’s fuselage—is reported with dry humor: “suffered no damage except from fright.” The letters also include a memorable detail about a pet lion cub named Whiskey, which had to be sent to the Paris Zoo after outgrowing its usefulness.

Tone and Perspective

Walcott’s voice shifts between casual observation and deeper reflection. He writes that “women have the heaviest and worst part of war,” after composing a letter to the mother of a pilot who shot himself. He notes the prevalence of women in black in France and expresses relief that the war will never reach America as closely. These passages reveal an awareness of loss that undercuts the otherwise light tone.

The letters also show Walcott’s self-awareness as a correspondent. He admits he lacks “the inspiration to compose an imaginative aeronautic thriller” and apologizes for not writing more exciting accounts. He chides his friends for poor letter-writing, naming only “a very few shining exceptions.” This meta-commentary frames the letters as a deliberate, if imperfect, record—one that values honesty over embellishment.

Readers should note that the excerpts end before Walcott’s final combat on December 12, 1917. The introduction reports conflicting accounts of his fate, and the full volume includes a biographical note by his father. The letters themselves offer no foreshadowing of that event; they remain focused on the daily texture of training and patrol. Approached as a primary document rather than a narrative, the collection provides a firsthand view of an American volunteer’s experience in the French air service during the final year of World War I.

Stuart Walcott’s letters carry that same quiet ache I remember from my old school reader, Voices for the Speechless Selections for Schools and Private Reading — Reading Notes—the sense of trying to hold words still against what’s slipping away. His descriptions of clouds and engine hum feel less like history now, more like a hand reaching back. I keep thinking of that.