Columns of muddy smoke spurt up continually as high explosives tear deeper into this ulcered area. During heavy bombardment and attacks I have seen shells falling like rain. The countless towers of smoke remind one of Gustave Dore's picture of the fiery tombs of the arch-heretics in Dante's "Hell." A smoky pall covers the sector under fire, rising so high that at a height of one thousand feet one is enveloped in its mist-like fumes. Now and then monster projectiles hurtling through the air close by leave one's plane rocking violently in their wake. Airplanes have been cut in two by them.

For us the battle passes in silence, the noise of one's motor deadening all other sounds. In the green patches behind the brown belt myriads of tiny flashes tell where the guns are hidden; and those flashes, and the smoke of bursting shells, are all we see of the fighting. It is a weird combination of stillness and havoc, the Verdun conflict viewed from the sky.

Far below us, the observation and range-finding planes circle over the trenches like gliding gulls. At a feeble altitude they follow the attacking infantrymen and flash back wireless reports of the engagement. Only through them can communication be maintained when, under the barrier fire, wires from the front lines are cut. Sometimes it falls to our lot to guard these machines from Germans eager to swoop down on their backs. Sailing about high above a busy flock of them makes one feel like an old mother hen protecting her chicks.

The pilot of an avion de chasse must not concern himself with the ground, which to him is useful only for learning his whereabouts. The earth is all-important to the men in the observation, artillery-regulating, and bombardment machines, but the fighting aviator has an entirely different sphere. His domain is the blue heavens, the glistening rolls of clouds below the fleecy banks towering above the vague aerial horizon, and he must watch it as carefully as a navigator watches the storm-tossed sea.

On days when the clouds form almost a solid flooring, one feels very much at sea, and wonders if one is in the navy instead of aviation. The diminutive Nieuports skirt the white expanse like torpedo boats in an arctic sea, and sometimes, far across the cloud-waves, one sights an enemy escadrille, moving as a fleet.

Principally our work consists of keeping German airmen away from our lines, and in attacking them when opportunity offers. We traverse the brown band and enter enemy territory to the accompaniment of an anti-aircraft cannonade. Most of the shots are wild, however, and we pay little attention to them. When the shrapnel comes uncomfortably close, one shifts position slightly to evade the range. One glances up to see if there is another machine higher than one's own. Low, and far within the German lines, are several enemy planes, a dull white in appearance, resembling sandflies against the mottled earth. High above them one glimpses the mosquito-like forms of two Fokkers. Away off to one side white shrapnel puffs are vaguely visible, perhaps directed against a German crossing the lines. We approach the enemy machines ahead, only to find them slanting at a rapid rate into their own country. High above them lurks a protection plane. The man doing the "ceiling work," as it is called, will look after him for us.

Getting started is the hardest part of an attack. Once you have begun diving you're all right. The pilot just ahead turns tail up like a trout dropping back to water, and swoops down in irregular curves and circles. You follow at an angle so steep your feet seem to be holding you back in your seat. Now the black Maltese crosses on the German's wings stand out clearly. You think of him as some sort of a big bug. Then you hear the rapid tut-tut-tut of his machine-gun. The man that dived ahead of you becomes mixed up with the topmost German. He is so close it looks as if he had hit the enemy machine. You hear the staccato barking of his mitrailleuse and see him pass from under the German's tail.

The rattle of the gun that is aimed at you leaves you undisturbed. Only when the bullets pierce the wings a few feet off do you become uncomfortable. You see the gunner crouched down behind his weapon, but you aim at where the pilot ought to be—there are two men aboard the German craft—and press on the release hard. Your mitrailleuse hammers out a stream of bullets as you pass over and dive, nose down, to get out of range. Then, hopefully, you redress and look back at the foe. He ought to be dropping earthward at several miles a minute. As a matter of fact, however, he is sailing serenely on. They have an annoying habit of doing that, these Boches.

Zeppelins as well as the stationary kite balloons and the swiftly flying airplanes often tempted the fighting aviators to attack. One of the most successful of the British champions of the air, though his own life was ended in the second year of the war, was sub-Lieutenant R. A. J. Warneford, of the British Flying Corps. In his brief period of service Warneford won more laurels than any of the British aviators of the time. He was absolutely fearless, with a marvelous control of the fast Vickers scout which he employed, and fertile in every resource of the chase and of the flight. In an interview widely printed at the time, Lieutenant Warneford thus told the story of his casual meeting of a German Zeppelin high in air between Ghent and Brussels and his prompt and systematic destruction of the great balloon. The story as told in his own language reads like the recountal of an everyday event. That to meet an enemy more than a mile above the earth and demolish him was anything extraordinary does not seem to have occurred to the aviator.

I proceeded on my journey at an increased height [he says]. It was just three o'clock in the morning when all of a sudden I perceived on the horizon about midway between Ghent and Brussels a Zeppelin flying fast at an altitude of about six thousand feet. I immediately flew toward it and when I was almost over the monster I descended about fifteen metres, and flung six bombs at it. The sixth struck the envelope of the ship fair and square in the middle. There was instantly a terrible explosion. The displacement of the air round about me was so great that a tornado seemed to have been produced. My machine tossed upward and then flung absolutely upside down, I was forced to loop the loop in spite of myself. I thought for a moment that the end of everything had come. In the whirl I had the pleasure of seeing my victim falling to the earth in a cloud of flames and smoke. Then by some miracle my machine righted herself and I came to earth in the enemy's country. I was not long on the ground you may be sure. I speedily put myself and my machine into working order again; then I set my engine going.

This time the fortunate aviator returned safely to his own territory. He had then served only four months, had attained the age of twenty-three, and even in so brief a service had received the Cross of the Legion of Honour from France and the Victoria Cross from the British. Only one week after this courageous exploit he was killed while on a pleasure flight and with him a young American journalist, Henry Beach Needham, to whom he was showing the battlefield.

During the early years of the war all of the governments were peculiarly secretive concerning all matters relative to their aviation services. This was probably due to the fact that the flying corps was a brand new branch of the service. No nation was adequately equipped with flyers. Each was afraid to let its enemies know how insufficient were its air guards, or what measures were being taken to bring the aerial fleet up to the necessary point of efficiency. Investigators were frowned upon and the aviators themselves were discouraged from much conversation about their work.

About the beginning of 1916 the British suddenly awoke to the fact that even in war publicity has its value. It was necessary to arouse the enthusiastic support of the people for recruiting or for the conscription which ultimately was ordered. To do this graphic descriptions of what was doing at the front in the various branches of the service seemed necessary. The best writers in England were mobilized for this work. Kipling wrote of the submarines, Conan Doyle of the fighting on the fields of France. The Royal Flying Corps gave out a detailed story the authorship of which was not stated, but which describes most picturesquely the day of a flying man.

In the United States it appeared in the Sun, of New York, and sections of it are reprinted here:

"The following bombing will be carried out by No.—Squadron at night (10 P.M., 12 midnight, and 2 A.M.). At each of these times three machines, each carrying eight twenty-pound bombs, will bomb respectively P——, C——, H——."

Thus the operation order read one evening in France. Just an ordinary order too, for bombing is carried out day and night incessantly. Bombing by night is usually carried out on towns and villages known to be resting places of the German troops, and it is part of the work of the Royal Flying Corps to see that the Hun never rests.

Fritz after a hard spell in the trenches is withdrawn to some shell torn village behind his lines to rest. He enters the ruined house, that forms his billet, and with a sigh of contentment at reaching such luxury after the miseries of trench life prepares to sleep in peace. He dreams of home, and then out of the night comes the terror of the air.

A bomb falls in his billet, exploding with a terrific report and doing more damage to the already ruined walls. Possibly a few of his comrades are wounded or killed. Other explosions take place close by and the whole village is in turmoil.

Fritz does not sleep again. His nerves are jangled and all possibility of sleep is gone. The next day he is in a worse condition than after a night in the trenches. This continues night after night. The damage to German morale is enormous.

From the aerial point of view things are different. A pilot warned for night flying takes it as he takes everything else, with apparent unconcern. He realizes that he will have an uninteresting ride in the dark; the danger from "Archie" will be small, for an airplane is a difficult target to keep under observation with a searchlight, and the danger from hostile aircraft will be smaller still.

Over the trenches the star shells of the infantry may be seen, occasionally the flash of a badly concealed gun glints in the darkness or the exploding bombs of a trench raiding party cause tiny sparks to glimmer far below. Probably the enemy, hearing the sound of engines, will turn on his searchlights and sweep the sky with long pencils of light. The pilot may be picked up for a second, and a trifle later the angry bang, bang, bang of "Archie" may be heard, firing excitedly at the place where the aeroplane ought to be but is not—the pilot has probably dipped and changed his course since he was in the rays of the searchlight. He may be caught again for an instant and the performance is repeated.

Before long the vicinity of the target is reached and he prepares to drop his bombs, usually eight in number. A little before he is over the spot the first bombs will be released, for the trajectory of the bomb follows the course of the machine if the latter keeps on a straight course and when it explodes the airplane is still overhead. Down far below will be seen a tiny burst of flame; possibly a large fire blazes up and the pilot knows that his work is good. He then turns and repeats his performance until all his bombs are exhausted, when he turns for home.

Bombs are usually dropped from a low altitude at night in order to be surer of getting the target. If during the performance any local searchlights are turned on "Archie" gets busy and a merry game of hide and seek in and out the beams takes place. If the airplane is very low, and bombs are sometimes dropped from a height of only a few hundred feet, it is highly probable that the bursting shells do more damage than the airplane's bombs, and it is almost impossible to wing an airplane by night.



Over the lines the pilot probably meets more searchlights, dodges them, and gradually descends. Below him he sees the aerodromes of the surrounding squadrons lighted up for landing purposes. Should he be in doubt as to which is his own he fires a certain combination of signal lights and is answered from below. He then lands, hands his machine over to the mechanics, and turns in.



So much for night bombing. By day it is different. Though at night it is the billets which usually form the target, by day bombing is carried out for the purpose of damaging specific objects. Railroads, dumps of stores and ammunition, and enemy aerodromes are the favourite targets.

The raiding machines fly in formation and are surrounded by other machines used solely for protective purposes. Generally a raid is carried out by machines from two squadrons, the bomb carriers belonging to a corps wing and the escorting machines to an army wing.

All the machines meet at a prearranged rendezvous well on our side of the line at a certain time and a given altitude. There they manoeuvre into their correct formation. A flight commander leads the raid and his machine is distinguished by streamers tied to it.

Once over the target the fighters scatter and patrol the neighbourhood while the bombers discharge their missiles on the objective. Usually, unless anti-aircraft fire is very heavy, they descend a few thousand feet to make surer of the target, and when their work is completed rise again to the level of the escort.

Results can usually be fairly judged by day. An ammunition dump quickly shows if it is hit and stores soon burst into flame. Railway stations or junctions show clearly damage to buildings or overturned trucks, but the damage to the track itself is hard to estimate. Aerodromes may be bombed for the purpose of destroying enemy machines in their hangars or merely in order to spoil the landing by blowing holes all over the place. It is with great delight that a pilot remarks in his report that a hostile machine, surrounded by mechanics, was about to ascend, but that instead he had descended to within a few hundred feet and obtained a direct hit, with the result that the enemy machine, including the surrounding men, seemed to be severely damaged.

One officer on a bomb raid saw his chance in this way, descended to four hundred feet under intense rifle fire, successfully bombed the enemy machine, which was just emerging from its hangar, and then tried to make off. Unfortunately at this moment his engine petered out, possibly on account of the enemy's fire, and he had to descend.

By skillful planing he managed to descend about three quarters of a mile away, in full view of the enemy. Instead of giving up the ghost and at once firing his machine, this officer jumped out and, utterly unperturbed by the German fire or by the Huns making across country to take him prisoner, commenced to inspect the engine. Luckily he found the cause of the trouble at once, put it right,—it was only a trifling mishap,—adjusted the controls, and swung the propeller.

The engine started, he jumped in, with the nearest Hun only a hundred yards off, and opening the throttle raced over the ground and into the air pursued by a futile fusillade of bullets. His engine held out and he safely regained his aerodrome, after having been reported missing by his comrades. For this escapade he received the Military Cross—a well-earned reward.

When all the bombs have been dropped and the formation resumed the machines head for home. It is on the homeward journey that events may be expected, for time enough has elapsed for the Hun to detail a squadron to intercept our returning machines and pick off any stragglers that may fall behind.

It is a favourite Boche manoeuvre to detail some of his slow machines to entice our fighters away from the main body, and when this has been accomplished, to attack the remainder with Fokkers, which dive from aloft onto the bombing machines. This trick is now well-known and the fighters rarely leave their charges until the latter are in comparative safety.

Sometimes a Hun of more sporting character than his brothers will wait alone for the returning convoy, hiding himself thousands of feet up in the clouds until he sees his moment. Then singling out a machine he will dive at it, pouring out a stream of bullets as he falls. Sometimes he achieves his object and a British machine falls to earth, but whatever the result, the Hun does not alter his tactics. He dives clean through the whole block of machines, down many thousands of feet, only flattening out when close to the ground.

The whole affair is so swift—just one lightning dive—that long before a fighter can reach the Hun the latter is away thousands of feet below and heading for home and safety. Every Fokker pilot knows that once his surprise dive is over he has no chance against another machine—the build of the Fokker only allows this one method of attack—and he does not stop to argue about it. His offensive dive becomes a defensive one—that is the sole difference.

Sometimes a large squadron of German machines, composed of various types of airplanes, intercepts a returning formation. If it attacks a grand aerial battle ensues. The British fighting machines spread out in a screen to allow the bombing machines a chance of escape and then attack the Huns as they arrive. In one place one British airplane will be defending itself from two or three German machines; close by two or three of our busses will be occupied in sending a Hun to his death; elsewhere more equal combats rage and the whole sky becomes an aerial battlefield, where machines perform marvellous evolutions, putting the best trick flying of pre-war days very much in the shade. No sooner has a pilot accounted for his foe, by killing him, forcing him to descend, or making him think discretion the better part of valour, than he turns to the help of a hard-pressed brother, surprising the enemy by an attack from the rear or otherwise creating a diversion.

A single shot in the petrol tank proves fatal; loss of pressure ensues, the engine fails, and the pilot is forced to descend. He can usually land safely, but should he be in enemy territory he must fire his machine and prepare for a holiday in Germany. Should he be fortunate enough to plane over our lines little damage is done; the tank can be repaired and the machine made serviceable again. But for the time being he is out of the fight. Sometimes the escaping petrol may ignite and the pilot and observer perish in the flames—the most terrible fate of all.

The aerial battle ends in one of two ways: one side is outmanoeuvred, outnumbered, and has lost several machines and flies to safety, or, the more usual ending, both sides exhaust their ammunition, only a limited quantity perforce being carried, and the fight is of necessity broken off. Meanwhile the bombing machines have probably crossed the line in safety, and their duty is finished. Should they be attacked by a stray machine they are armed and quite capable of guarding themselves against any attack except one in force.

During these bomb raids photographs of the target are frequently obtained or should the staff require any district crossed on the journey and taken they are generally secured by bombing machines. It is wonderful what minute details may be seen in a photograph taken at a height of from eight to twelve thousand feet, and our prints, which are far superior to those taken by the Hun, have revealed many useful points which would otherwise have remained unknown.

When it is remembered that a single machine crossing the line is heavily shelled it may be conceived what an immense concentration of "Archies" is made on the raiders on their return. It is remarkable what feeble results are obtained considering the intensity of the bombardment, but rarely is a machine brought down, though casualties naturally occur occasionally.

Lieutenant C., in company with other machines, had successfully bombed his target and had meanwhile been heavily shelled, with the result that his engine was not giving its full number of revolutions and he lagged a little behind the rest of the formation. No hostile aircraft appeared and all went well until he was about to cross the lines, when a terrific bombardment was opened on him.

He dodged and turned to the best of his ability, but a well-aimed shell burst just above him and a piece of the "Archie" hit him on the head, not seriously wounding him, but knocking him unconscious. The machine, deprived of the guiding hand, immediately got into a dive and commenced a rapid descent from ten thousand feet, carrying the unconscious pilot with it, to be dashed to pieces on the ground.

Whether the rush of air, the sudden increase of pressure, or the passing off of the effect of the blow caused the disabled man to come to his senses is not known, but when the machine was only a few hundred feet from the ground, Lieutenant C. recovered his senses sufficiently to realize his position and managed to pull the machine up and make a landing. He then lapsed into unconsciousness again. Had he remained in his state of collapse half a minute longer, he would inevitably have been killed.

Another curious case of wounding was that of Lieutenant H., who was also returning from a bomb raid. When passing through the heavily shelled zone his machine was hit by a shell, which passed through the floor by the pilot's seat and out at the top without exploding. Lieutenant H. thought it must have been very close to his leg, but he was so fully occupied with manoeuvring to dodge other shells that he had no time to think of it.

He crossed the line and began to plane down when he was aware of a feeling of faintness, but pulling himself together he landed his machine, taxied up to the sheds, and attempted to get out. It was only then that he realized that his leg was shot almost completely off above the knee; the lower part was merely hanging by a piece of skin.

Incredible as it may seem the shell which hit his machine also tore through the leg—luckily without exploding—unknown to Lieutenant H. Probably the force of the blow and excitement of the moment caused it to pass unnoticed and the torn nature of the wound helped to close the arteries and prevent his bleeding to death. He recovered, and though no longer flying is still engaged in doing his duty for the duration of the war.



The courage and dash of the American aviators, serving with the French Army, led the Allies to expect great things of our flying corps which should be organized immediately after our declaration of war. About the time of that declaration Major L. W. B. Rees, of the British Flying Corps, came to the United States for the purpose of giving to our authorities the benefit of British experience in raising and equipping aerial fleets and in the development of the most efficient tactics. Major Rees in an official statement set forth many facts of general interest concerning the various flying services of the belligerent armies. The British, he said, fly on three levels with three different kinds of machines. Nearest the ground, about six thousand feet up, are the artillery directors who hover about cutting big figure eights above the enemy trenches and flash back directions by wireless to the British artillerists. These observers are, of course, exposed to attack from anti-aircraft guns, the effective range of which had by the middle of war become as great as ten thousand feet. Yet, as has already been noted, the amount of execution done by these weapons was surprisingly small. The observers are protected from attack from above, first by the heavy fighting planes, flying at ten thousand feet, carrying two men to the plane and able to keep the air for four hours at a time at a speed of 110 miles an hour. They are supposed to use every possible vigilance to keep the enemy's fighters away from the slower and busy observing machines. In this they are seconded by the lighter one-man fighting machines which cruise about at a height of fifteen thousand feet at a speed of 130 miles an hour and able to make a straight upward dash at the rate of ten thousand feet in ten minutes. The aviators of these latter machines came to describe their task as "ceiling work," suggesting that they operated at the very top of the world's great room. They are able to keep the air only about two hours at a time.

Americans, perhaps, gave exaggerated importance to the work of the Lafayette Escadrille which was manned wholly by American boys, and which, while in service from the very beginning of the war, was the first section of the French Army permitted to display the flag of the United States in battle after our declaration of war. It was made up, in the main, of young Americans of good family and independent means, most of them being college students who had laid down their books for the more exciting life of an airman. They paid heavily in the toll of death for their adventure and for the conviction which led them to take the side of democracy and right in the struggle against autocracy and barbarism months, even years, before their nation finally determined to join with them. In the first two and a half years of the war, seven of the aviators in this comparatively small body lost their lives.

Harvard College was particularly well represented in the American Flying Corps—although this is a proper and pertinent place to say that the sympathy shown for the allied cause by the young collegians of the United States was a magnificent evidence of the lofty righteousness of their convictions and the spirit of democracy with which they looked out upon the world. When the leash was taken off by the declaration of war by the United States the college boys flocked to training camps and enlistment headquarters in a way that bade fair to leave those institutions of learning without students for some years to come.

But to hark back to Harvard, it had in the Lafayette Escadrille five men in 1916; three of these, Kiffen Rockwell, Norman Prince, and Victor Chapman, were killed in that year. A letter published in Harvard Volunteers in Europe tells of the way these young gladiators started the day's work:

Rockwell called me up at three: "Fine day, fine day, get up!" It was very clear. We hung around at Billy's [Lieutenant Thaw] and took chocolate made by his ordonnance. Hall and the Lieutenant were guards on the field; but Thaw, Rockwell, and I thought we would take a tour chez les Boches. Being the first time the mechanaux were not there and the machine gun rolls not ready. However it looked misty in the Vosges, so we were not hurried. "Rendezvous over the field at a thousand metres," shouted Kiffen. I nodded, for the motor was turning; and we sped over the field and up.



In my little cockpit from which my shoulders just protrude I have several diversions besides flying. The compass, of course, and the map I keep tucked in a tiny closet over the reservoir before my knees, a small clock and one altimetre. But most important is the contour, showing revolutions of the motor which one is constantly regarding as he moves the manettes of gasoline and gas back and forth. To husband one's fuel and tease the motor to round eleven takes attention, for the carburetor changes with the weather and the altitude.... The earth seemed hidden under a fine web such as the Lady of Shalott wove. Soft purple in the west, changing to shimmering white in the east. Under me on the left the Vosges like rounded sand dunes cushioned up with velvety light and dark masses (really forests), but to the south standing firmly above the purple cloth like icebergs shone the Alps. My! they look steep and jagged. The sharp blue shadows on their western slopes emphasized the effect. One mighty group standing aloof to the west—Mount Blanc perhaps. Ah, there are quantities of worm-eaten fields my friends the trenches—and that town with the canal going through it must be M——. Right beside the capote of my engine, showing through the white cloth a silver snake—the Rhine!

What, not a quarter to six, and I left the field at five! Thirty-two hundred metres. Let's go north and have a look at the map.

While thus engaged a black puff of smoke appeared behind my tail and I had the impression of hearing a piece of iron hiss by. "Must have got my range first shot!" I surmised, and making a steep bank piqued heavily. "There, I have lost them now." The whole art of avoiding shells is to pay no attention till they get your range and then dodge away, change altitude, and generally avoid going in a straight line. In point of fact, I could see bunches of exploding shells up over my right shoulder not a kilometre off. They continued to shell that section for some time; the little balls of smoke thinning out and merging as they crossed the lines.

In the earlier days of the war, when the American aviators were still few, their deeds were widely recounted in their home country, and their deaths were deplored as though a personal loss to many of their countrymen. Later they went faster and were lost in the daily reports. Among those who had early fixed his personality in the minds of those who followed the fortunes of the little band of Americans flying in France was Kiffen Rockwell, mentioned in an earlier paragraph, and one of the first to join the American escadrille. Rockwell was in the war from sincere conviction of the righteousness of the Allies' cause.

"I pay my part for Lafayette, and Rochambeau," he said proudly, when asked what he was doing in a French uniform flying for France. And pay he did though not before making the Germans pay heavily for their part. Once, flying alone over Thann, he came upon a German scout. Without hesitation the battle was on. Rockwell's machine was the higher, had the better position. As aerial tactics demanded he dived for the foe, opening fire as soon as he came within thirty or forty yards. At his fourth shot the enemy pilot fell forward in his seat and his machine fell heavily to earth. He lighted behind the German lines much to the victor's disgust, for it was counted a higher achievement to bring your foe to earth in your own territory. But Rockwell was able to pursue his victim far enough to see the wreck burst into flames.

Though often wounded, Rockwell scorned danger. He would go into action so bandaged that he seemed fitter to go to an hospital. He was always on the attack—"shoved his gun into the enemy's face" as his fellows in the escadrille expressed it. So in September, 1916, he went out after a big German machine, he saw flying in French territory. He had but little difficulty in climbing above it, and then dashed down in his usual impetuous manner, his machine gun blazing as he came on. But the German was of heavier metal mounting two machine guns. Just as to onlookers it seemed that the two machines would crash together, the wings of one side of Rockwell's plane suddenly collapsed and he fell like a stone between the lines. The Germans turned their guns on the pile of wreckage where he lay, but French gunners ran out and brought his body in. His breast was all blown to pieces with an explosive bullet—criminal, of course, barbarous and uncivilized, but an everyday practice of the Germans.

Rockwell was given an impressive funeral. All the British pilots, and five hundred of their men marched, and the bier was followed by a battalion of French troops. Over and around the little French graveyard aviators flew dropping flowers. In later days less ceremony attended the last scene of an American aviator's career.

Another American aviator, also a Harvard man, who met death in the air, was Victor Chapman of New York, a youth of unusual charm, high ideals, and indomitable courage. At the very outbreak of the war he enlisted in the French Foreign Legion—a rough entourage for a college-bred man. Into the Foreign Legion drifted everything that was doubtful, and many that were criminal. No questions were asked of those who sought its hospitable ranks, and readers of Ouida's novel Under Two Flags will recall that it enveloped in its convenient obscurity British lordlings and the lowest of Catalonian thieves. But in time of actual war its personnel was less mixed, and Chapman's letters showed him serving there contentedly as pointer of a mitrailleuse. But not for long. Most of the spirited young Americans who entered the French Army aspired to serve in the aviation corps, and Chapman soon was transferred to that field. There he developed into a most daring flyer. On one occasion, with a bad scalp wound, after a brush with four German machines, he made his landing with his machine so badly wrecked that he had to hold together the broken ends of a severed control with one hand, while he steered with the other. Instead of laying up for the day he had his mechanician repair his machine while a surgeon repaired him, then, patched up together, man and machine took the air again in search for the Boches.

In June, 1916, though still suffering from a wound in the head, he started in his machine to carry some oranges to a comrade lying desperately wounded in a hospital some miles away. On the way he saw in the distance behind the German lines two French airmen set upon by an overwhelming force of Germans. Instantly he was off to the assistance of his friends, plunging into so unequal a fight that even his coming left the other Americans outnumbered. But he had scarce a chance to strike a blow. Some chance shot from a German gun put him out of action. All that the other two Americans, Lufbery and Prince, knew was that they saw a French machine come flying to their aid, and suddenly tip and fall away to earth. Until nightfall came and Chapman failed to return none was sure that he was the victim.

The part played by young Americans as volunteers for France before the United States entered upon the war was gallant and stimulating to national pride. It showed to the world—and to our own countrymen who needed the lesson as much as any—that we had among our youth scores who, moved by high ideals, stood ready to risk their lives for a sentiment—stood ready to brave the myriad discomforts of the trenches, the bursting shrapnel, the mutilating liquid fire, the torturing gas that German autocracy should be balked of its purpose of dominating the world.

And the service of these boys aided far more than they knew. The fact that our countrymen in numbers were flying for France kept ever before the American people the vision of that war in the air of which poets and philosophers had dreamed for ages. It brought home to our people the importance of aviation before our statesmen could begin to see it. It set our boys to reading of aircraft, building model planes, haunting the few aviation fields which at the time our country possessed. And it finally so filled the consciousness of our people with conviction of the supreme importance of aviation as an arm of the national armed service that long before the declaration of war the government was embarrassed by the flood of volunteers seeking to be enrolled in the flying forces of the nation.



CHAPTER IX

THE UNITED STATES AT WAR

The entrance of the United States upon the war was the signal for a most active agitation of the question of overwhelming the enemy with illimitable fleets of aircraft. Though the agitation was most vociferous in this country whence it was hoped the enormous new fleets of aircraft would come, it was fomented and earnestly pressed by our Allies. France sent a deputation of her leading flyers over to supervise the instruction of our new pilots. England contributed experts to advise as to the construction of our machines. The most comprehensive plans were urged upon Congress and the Administration for the creation of a navy of the air. A bill for an initial appropriation of $640,000,000, for aircraft purposes alone, was passed and one for a Department of Aeronautics to be established, co-ordinate with those of War and the Navy, its secretary holding a seat in the cabinet, was introduced in Congress. Many of the most eminent retired officers of the navy joined in their support. Retired officers only because officers in active service were estopped from political agitation.

There was every possible reason for this great interest in the United States in wartime aviation. The nation had long been shamefaced because the development of the heavier-than-air machines, having their origin undoubtedly in the inventive genius of Professor Langley and the Wrights, had been taken away from us by the more alert governments of France and Germany. The people were ready to buy back something of our lost prestige by building the greatest of air fleets at the moment when it should exercise the most determinative influence upon the war.

But more. We entered upon the war in our chronic state of unpreparedness. We were without an army and without equipment for one. To raise, equip, and drill an army of a million, the least number that would have any appreciable effect upon the outcome of the war, would take months. When completed we would have added only to the numerical superiority of the Allies on the Western Front. The quality of a novel and decisive contribution to the war would be lacking.

So too it was with our navy. The British Navy was amply adequate to deal with the German fleet should the latter ever leave its prudent retreat behind Helgoland and in the bases of Kiel and Wilhelmshaven. True it was not capable of crushing out altogether the submarine menace, but it did hold the German underwater boats down to a fixed average of ships destroyed, which was far less than half of what the Germans had anticipated. In this work our ships, especially our destroyers, took a notable part.

The argument for a monster fleet of fighting aircraft, thus came to the people of the United States in a moment of depression and perplexity. By land the Germans had dug themselves in, holding all of Belgium and the thousands of square miles of France they had won in their first dash to the Marne. What they had won swiftly and cheaply could only be regained slowly and at heavy cost. True, the Allies were, day by day, driving them back from their position, but the cost was disheartening and the progress but slow.

By sea the Germans refused to bring their fleet to battle with their foes. But from every harbour of Belgium, and from Wilhelmshaven and Kiel, they sent out their sinister submarines to prey upon the commerce of the world—neutral as well as belligerent. Against them the navies of the world were impotent. To the threat that by them Germany would starve England into cowering surrender, the only answer was the despairing effort to build new ships faster than the submarines could sink those afloat—even though half a million tons a month were sent to the bottom in wasteful destruction.



Faced by these disheartening conditions, wondering what they might do that could be done quickly and aid materially in bringing the war to a triumphant conclusion, the American people listened eagerly to the appeals and arguments of the advocates of a monster aerial fleet.



Listen [said these advocates], we show you a way to spring full panoplied into the war, and to make your force felt with your first stroke. We are not preaching dreadnoughts that take four years to build. We are not asking for a million men taking nearly a year to gather, equip, drill, and transport to France, in imminent danger of destruction by the enemy's submarines every mile of the way.

We ask you for a cheap, simple device of wood, wire, and cloth, with an engine to drive it. All its parts are standardized. In a few weeks the nation can be equipped to turn out 2000 of them weekly. We want within the year 100,000 of them. We do not ask for a million men. We want 10,000 bright, active, hardy, plucky American boys between 20 and 25 years of age. We want to give them four months' intensive training before sending them into the air above the enemy's lines. In time we shall want 25,000 to 35,000 but the smaller number will well do to open the campaign.

And what will they effect?

Do you know that to-day the eyes of an army are its airplanes? Cavalry has disappeared practically. If a general wishes to pick out a weak point in his enemy's line to assault he sends out airmen to find it. If he is annoyed by the fire of some distant unseen battery over the hills and far away he sends a man in an airplane who brings back its location, its distance, and perhaps a photograph of it in action. If he suspects that his foe is abandoning his trenches, or getting ready for an attack, the ready airmen bring in the facts.

And of course the enemy's airmen serve their side in the same manner. They spy out what their foe is doing, and so far as their power permits prevent him from seeing what they are doing.

Now suppose one side has an enormous preponderance of aircraft—six to one, let us say. It is not believed, for example, that at this moment Germany has more than 10,000 aircraft on the whole western front. Let us imagine that through the enterprise of the United States our Allies were provided with 25,000 on one sector which we intended to make the scene of an attack on the foe. Say the neighbourhood of Arras and Lille. For days, weeks perhaps, we would be drawing troops toward this sector from every part of the line. Through the reports of spies the enemy's suspicions would be aroused. It is the business of an efficient general to be suspicious. He would send out his airplanes to report on the activities of the other side. Few would come back. None would bring a useful report. For every German plane that showed above the lines three Allied planes would be ready to attack and destroy it or beat it back. The air would be full of Allied airmen—the great bombing planes flying low and inundating the trenches with bombs, and the troops on march with the deadly flechettes. Over every German battery would soar the observation plane indicating by tinsel or smoke bombs the location of the guns, or even telegraphing it back by wireless to the Allied batteries safe in positions which the blinded enemy could never hope to find. Above all in myriads would be soaring the swift fighting scouts, the Bleriots, Nieuports, Moranes or perhaps some new American machine to-day unknown. Let the wing of a Boche but show above the smoke and they would be upon him in hordes, beating him to the ground, enveloping him in flames, annihilating him before he had a chance to observe, much less to report.

What think you would be the result on that sector of the battle line? Why the foe would be cut to pieces, demolished, obliterated. Blinded, he would be unrelentingly punished by an adversary all eyes. Writhing under the concentrated fire of a thousand guns he could make no response, for his own guns could not find the attacking batteries. Did he think to flee? His retreating columns would be marked down by the relentless scouts in the air, and the deadly curtain of fire from well-coached batteries miles away would sweep every road with death. If in desperation he sought to attack he would do so ignorant whether he were not hurling his regiments against the strongest part of the Allied line, and with full knowledge of the fact that though he was blinded they had complete information of his strength and dispositions.

The argument impressed itself strongly upon the mind of the country. There appeared indeed no public sentiment hostile to it nor any organized opposition to the proposition for an enormous appropriation for purposes of aviation. The customary inertia of Congress delayed the actual appropriation for some months. But the President espoused its cause and the Secretaries both of War and the Navy warmly recommended it, although they united in opposing the proposition to establish a distinct department of aeronautics with a seat in the Cabinet. Being human neither one desired to let his share of this great new gift of power slip out of his hands. Leading in the fight for this legislation was Rear-Admiral Robert E. Peary, U. S. N., retired, the discoverer of the North Pole. Admiral Peary from the very outbreak of the war consecrated his time and his abilities to pushing the development of aeronautics in the United States. He was continually before Congressional committees urging the fullest appropriations for this purpose. In his first statement before the Senate Committee he declared that "in the immediate future the air service will be more important than the army and navy combined," and supported that statement by reference to utterances made by such British authorities as Mr. Balfour, Lord Charles Beresford, Lord Northcliffe, and Lord Montague. In an article published shortly after his appearance before the Senate Committee, the Admiral summarized in a popular way his views as to the possibility of meeting the submarine menace with aircraft, and what the United States might do in that respect. He wrote:

We are receiving agreeable reports as to the efficiency of the American destroyer flotilla now operating against submarines in the North Sea. An unknown naval officer, according to the newspapers of May 30th, calls for the immediate construction of from 100 to 200 additional American destroyers.

By all means let us have this force—when it can be made ready—but it would take at least two years to construct, equip, and deliver such a heavy additional naval tonnage, while 200 fighting seaplanes, with a full complement of machine guns, bombs, microphones, and aerial cameras, could be put in active service in the North Sea within six months.

Seaplanes, small dirigibles on the order of the English "blimp" type, and kite balloons have already shown themselves to be more effective in detecting submarines than are submarine chasers or armed liners.

Not only have the British, French, German, and Turkish forces destroyed trawlers, patrol boats, and transports by aircraft, but successful experiments in airplane submarine hunting have also been made in this country.

In September, 1916, our first Aerial Coast Patrol Unit, in acting as an auxiliary to the Mosquito Squadron in the annual manoeuvres of the Atlantic fleet, detected objects smaller than the latest type of German submarines from fifteen to twenty feet below the surface.

A more complete aerial submarine hunt took place on March 26th of this year. This was the real thing, because the fliers were looking for German U-boats. Inasmuch as the Navy Department is still waiting before establishing its first and only aeronautical base on the Atlantic seaboard, the honour of having conducted the first aerial hunt of the enemy submarines in American history went to the civilian aviators who are soon to be a part of the Aerial Reserve Squadron at Governor's Island and to the civilian instructors and aerial reservists connected with the Army Aviation School at Mineola, Long Island.

These hawks of the air darted up and down the coast in search of the enemy, often flying as far as eleven miles out to sea. The inlets and bays were searched, vessels plotted, compass direction and time when located were given.

No enemy submarines were found. It developed that the supposed submarines were two patrol motor-boats returning from a trial trip. Nevertheless the incident is illuminating, and the official statement of the Navy Department closed with the words: "This incident emphasizes the need of hydroaeroplanes for naval scouting purposes."

It is also interesting to note what happened when Lawrence Sperry went out to sea one day last summer in his hydroplane and failed to return. Two seaplanes and three naval destroyers were sent in search of him. In forty minutes the seaplanes returned with the news that they had located Sperry floating safely on the water. At the end of the day, after several hours of search, the destroyers came back without having seen Sperry at all.

Those who may still believe that we Americans cannot build aircraft and that all the exploits we read so much about in the newspapers taking place on the other side are being done in foreign aircraft will be surprised to know that a large number of the big flying boats now in use in the English navy, harbour, and coast defence work are Curtiss machines, designed and built in this country by Americans, with American material and American engines.

Great Britain wants all the machines of this type that it can get, and sees no reason why we cannot do the same thing in protecting our own Atlantic seaboard. I quote from C. G. Grey, editor of The London Aeroplane:

"Curiously enough, these big flying boats originated in America, and, if America is seriously perturbed about the fate of American shipping and American citizens travelling by sea in the vicinity of Europe, it should not be a difficult matter for America to rig up in a very small space of time quite a fleet of seaplane carriers suitable for the handling of these big seaplanes. If each seaplane ship were armed with guns having a range of five to ten miles, and if the gunners were practised in co-operating with airplane spotters, such ships ought to be the very best possible insurance for American lives and goods on the high seas."

I quote from The Associated Press report from Paris on May 14th to show the relative importance of aeroplanes in submarine attacks:

"During the last three months French patrol boats have had twelve engagements with submarines, French hydroaeroplanes have fought them thirteen times, and there have been sixteen engagements between armed merchantmen and submarines."

Henry Woodhouse, one of the most distinguished authorities on aeronautics in the United States, in his standard Textbook on Naval Aeronautics, published by the Century Company, has assembled the following data on submarine and aeroplane combats:

"On May 4, 1915, the German Admiralty reported an engagement between a German dirigible and several British submarines in the North Sea. The submarines fired on the dirigible without success, whereas bombs from the dirigible sank one submarine.

"On May 31, 1915, the German Admiralty announced the sinking of a Russian submarine by bombs dropped by German naval aviators near Gotland.

"On July 1, 1915, the Austrian submarine U-11 was destroyed in the Adriatic by a French aeroplane, which swooped suddenly and dropped three bombs directly on the deck of the submarine. The craft was destroyed and the entire crew of twenty-five were lost.

"On July 27, 1915, a German submarine in the Dardanelles was about to launch a torpedo at a British transport filled with troops and ammunition, when British aviators gave the alarm to the transport, and immediately began dropping bombs at the submarine, which had to submerge and escape hurriedly, without launching its torpedo.

"On August 19, 1915, the Turkish War Office stated that an Allied submarine had been sunk in the Dardanelles by a Turkish aeroplane.

"On August 26, the Secretary of the British Admiralty announced that Squadron Commander Arthur W. Bigsworth in a single-handed attack bombed and destroyed a German submarine off Ostend.

"Lieutenant Viney received the Victoria Cross and Lieutenant de Sincay was recommended for the Legion of Honour for having flown over a German submarine and destroyed it with bombs off the Belgian coast on November 18, 1915.

"Early in 1916 an Austrian seaplane sank the French submarine Foucault in the southern Adriatic. Lieutenant Calezeny was the pilot and the observer was Lieutenant von Klinburg. After crippling the submarine they then performed the remarkable feat of calling another Austrian seaplane and rescuing the entire French crew, two officers and twenty seven men, in spite of the fact that a high sea was running at the time."

It will be noted that Admiral Peary lays great stress on the supreme value of aircraft as foes of the submarine. This was due to the fact that at about the time of his appearance before the Senate Committee the world was fairly panic-stricken by the vigour and effect of the German submarine campaign and its possible bearing upon the outcome of the war. Of that campaign I shall have more to say in the section of this book dealing with submarines. But the subject of the undersea boat in war became at this time inextricably interwoven with that of the aerial fleets, and the sudden development of the latter, together with the marked interest taken in it by our people, cannot be understood without some description of the way in which the two became related.

From the very beginning of the war the Germans had prosecuted a desultory submarine warfare on the shipping of Great Britain and had extended it gradually until neutral shipping also was largely involved. All the established principles of international law, or principles that had been supposed to be established, were set at naught. In bygone days enemy merchant ships were subject to destruction only after their crews had been given an opportunity to take to the boats. Neutral ships bearing neutral goods, even if bound to an enemy port, were liable to destruction only if found upon visit to be carrying goods that were contraband of war. The list of contraband had been from time immemorial rigidly limited, and confined almost wholly to munitions of war, or to raw material used in their construction. But international law went by the board early in the war. Each belligerent was able to ascribe plausible reasons for its amendment out of recognizable form. Great Britain established blockades two hundred miles away from the blockaded ports because the submarines made the old practice of watching at the entrance of the port too perilous. The list of contraband of war was extended by both belligerents until it comprehended almost every useful article grown, mined, or manufactured. But the amendment to international law which acted as new fuel for the flames of war, which aroused the utmost world-wide indignation, and which finally dragged the United States into the conflict, was that by which Germany sought to relieve her submarine commanders of the duty of visiting and searching a vessel, or of giving its people time to provide for their safety, before sinking it.



The German argument was that the submarine was unknown when the code of international law then in force was formulated. It was a peculiarly delicate naval weapon. Its strength lay in its ability to keep itself concealed while delivering its attack. If exposed on the surface a shot from a small calibred gun striking in a vital point would instantly send it to the bottom. If rammed it was lost. Should a submarine rise to the surface, send an officer aboard a ship it had halted, and await the result of his search, it would be exposed all the time to destruction at the hands of enemy vessels coming up to her aid. Indeed if the merchantman happened to carry one gun a single shot might put the assailant out of business. Accordingly the practice grew up among the Germans of launching their torpedoes without a word of warning at their helpless victim. The wound inflicted by a torpedo is such that the ship will go down in but a few minutes carrying with it most of the people aboard. The most glaring, inexcusable, and criminal instance of this sort of warfare was the sinking without warning of the great passenger liner, Lusitania, by which more than eleven hundred people were drowned, one hundred and fourteen of them American citizens.



Against this policy—or piracy—the United States protested, and people of this country waxed very weary as month after month through the years 1915 and 1916 Germany met the protests with polite letters of evasion and excuse continuing the while the very practice complained of. But late in January, 1917, her government announced that there would be no longer any pretence of complying with international law, but that with the coming month a campaign of unlimited submarine ruthlessness would be begun and ships sunk without warning and irrespective of their nationality if they appeared in certain prohibited zones. Within twenty-four hours the United States sent the German Ambassador from the country and within two months we were at war.

At once the submarine was seen to be the great problem confronting us. Its attack was not so much upon the United States, for we are a self-contained nation able to raise all that we need within our own borders for our own support. But England is a nation that has to be fed from without. Seldom are her stores of food great enough to avert starvation for more than six weeks should the steady flow of supply ships from America and Australia to her ports be interrupted. This interruption the Germans proposed to effect by means of their underwater boats. Von Tirpitz and other leaders in the German administration promised the people that within six weeks England would be starved and begging for peace at any price. The output of submarines from German navy yards was greatly increased. Their activity became terrifying. The Germans estimated that if they could sink 1,000,000 tons of shipping monthly they would put England out of action in two or three months. For some weeks the destruction accomplished by their boats narrowly approached this estimate, but gradually fell off. At the same time there was no period in 1917 up to the time of Admiral Peary's statement, or indeed up to that of the preparation of this book, when it was not felt that the cause of the Allies was in danger because of the swarms of German submarines.

It was that feeling, coupled with the wide-spread belief that aircraft furnished the best means of combating the submarine, that caused an irresistible demand in the United States for the construction of colossal fleets of these flying crafts. Congress enacted in midsummer the law appropriating $640,000,000 for the construction of aircraft and the maintenance of the aerial service. The Secretaries of War and the Navy each appealed for heavy additional appropriations for aerial service. The arguments which have already been set forth as supporting the use of aircraft in military service were paralleled by those who urge its unlimited use in naval service.

Consider [said they] the primary need for attacking these vipers of the sea in their nests. Once out on the broad Atlantic their chances of roaming about undetected by destroyers or other patrol boats are almost unlimited. But we know where they come from, from Kiel, Antwerp, Wilhelmshaven, Ostend, and Zeebrugge. Catch them there and you will destroy them as boys destroy hornets by smoking out their nests. But against this the Germans have provided by blocking every avenue of approach save one. The channels are obstructed and mined, and guarded from the shore by heavy batteries. No hostile ships dare run that gauntlet. Even the much-boasted British navy in the three years of the war has not ventured to attack a single naval base. You could not even seek out the submarines thus sheltered by other submarines because running below the surface our boats could not detect either mines or nets and would be doomed to destruction. The enemy boats come out on the surface protected by the batteries and naval craft. But the air cannot be blocked by any fixed defences. Give us more and more powerful aircraft than the Germans possess and we will darken the sky above the German bases with the wings of our airplanes, and rain explosive shells upon the submarines that have taken shelter there until none survive.

The one essential is that our flyers shall be in overwhelming numbers. We must be able not only to take care of any flying force that the Germans may send against us, but also to have enough of our aircraft not engaged in the aerial battle to devote their entire attention to the destruction of the enemy forces below.

From every country allied with us came approval of this policy. At the time the debate was pending in Congress our Allies one after another were sending to us official commissions to consult upon the conduct of the war, to give us the benefit of their long and bitter experience in it, and to assist in any way our preparations for taking a decisive part in that combat. The subject of the part to be played by aircraft was one frequently discussed with them. With the French commission came two members of the staff of General Joffre, Major Tulasne and Lieutenant de la Grange, experts in aviation service. A formal interview given out by these gentlemen expressed so clearly the point of view on aviation and its possibilities held in France where it has reached its highest development that some extracts from it will be of interest here:

"At the beginning of the war the Germans were the only ones who had realized the great importance of aviation from a military point of view," said these officers.

"France had looked upon aviation as a sport, Germany as a powerful weapon in war. This is illustrated by the fact that even in August, 1914, German artillery fire was directed by airplanes.

"It was only after the retreat from Belgium and the battle of the Marne that the Allies realized the great importance of aviation. Between August 15 and 25 the French General Staff thought that the greater part of the German army was concentrated in Alsace and that only a few army corps were coming through Belgium. It was only through the reports of the aviators that they realized that this was a mistake and that almost the whole of the German army was invading Belgium.

"Immediately after the battle of the Marne the greatest efforts were made in France to develop the aviation corps in every possible way. The English army, then in process of formation, profited by the experience of the French. Since that time the allied as well as the German aviation corps has grown constantly.

"A modern army is incomplete if it has not a strong aviation corps. All the different services are obliged to turn to the aviation corps for help in their work. An army without airplanes is like a soldier without eyes. An army which has the superiority in aviation over its adversary will have the following advantages:

"It will have constantly the latest information on the movements of the enemy. In this way, no concentration of troops will be ignored and no surprise attack will be possible. The attack against the enemy positions will be rendered easier because all the details of these positions will be thoroughly known beforehand. The artillery fire will be much more accurate. Many enemy machines will be brought down by the superior fighting machines and the result will be to strengthen the morale both of the aviators and of the army."

The next question put to the French experts was: "Why do we need to make a great effort to obtain the superiority in the air?" They answered with much interesting detail:

"Because the Germans have understood the importance of aviation from a military point of view and have concentrated all their forces to develop this service.

"Owing to the large number of scientists and technicians they possess they are able constantly to perfect motors and planes. Owing to their great industrial organization they are able to produce an enormous number of the best machines.

"The German aviation service is now fully as strong as that of the Allies as far as numbers are concerned. The superiority in the air can only remain in the hands of the Allies because of the spirit of self-sacrifice of their aviators and their greater skill.

"Germany feels that the decisive phase of the war is imminent and the efforts she will make next year will be infinitely greater than any she has made before. She will try in every way to regain the supremacy of the air. Realizing what a formidable enemy America can be in the air, she will strengthen her aviation forces in consequence.

"The aeroplane is by far the most powerful of all the modern weapons. If the Allies have the supremacy of the air the German artillery will lose its accuracy of aim. It is impossible, because of the long range, for modern guns to fire without the help of airplanes. The accuracy of artillery fire depends entirely on its being directed by an airplane.

"This was clearly illustrated during the battle of the Somme in 1916. The French at that time had concentrated such a large number of fighting machines that no German machine was allowed to fly over the lines. On the other hand, the Allies' reconnaissance machines were so numerous that each French battery could have its fire directed by an airplane.

"The destruction of the enemy positions was in consequence carried out very effectively and very rapidly, while the Germans were obliged to fire blindly and scatter their shells over large areas, incapable as they were of locating our battery emplacements and the positions of our troops. Unluckily, a few weeks later the Germans had called from the different parts of the line a good many of their squadrons, and were able to carry out their work under better conditions.

"We need such a superiority that it will be impossible for any German airplane to fly anywhere near the lines.

"Every German kite balloon, every airplane would immediately be attacked by a number of allied machines. In this way the German aviation will not only be dominated but will be entirely crushed.

"If we can prevent the Germans from seeing, through their airplanes, what we are preparing we will be very near the end of the war. It will require a huge effort to carry out this plan. Neither the English nor the French are able to do so by their own means.

"As far as France is concerned, she is able to keep on building machines rapidly enough to increase her aviation corps at about the same rate as Germany is increasing hers. If she wanted to double or triple her production of machines she could do so, but she would have to call back from the trenches a certain number of skilled workmen, and this would weaken her fighting power. She needs in the trenches all the men who are able to carry a rifle.

"If the Allies are to have the absolute supremacy of the air which we have been describing it will be the privilege of America to give it to them. We want three or four or even five allied machines for one German. America only has the possibilities of production which would allow her to build an enormous number of machines in a very short time.

"The airplane is a great engine of destruction. It tells the artillery where to fire, it drops bombs, it gives the enemy all the information he needs to plan murderous attacks. Drive the German airplanes down and you will save the lives of thousands of men in our trenches. As Ulysses in the cavern put out the eye of the Cyclops, so the eyes of the beast must be put out before you can attempt to kill it."

Major Tulasne and Lieutenant de la Grange then outlined what the aviation programme of the United States should be, saying:

"American industry must be enabled to begin building at once. No time must be lost in experiments. America must profit by the experience of the Allies. She must choose the best planes and build thousands of them.

"She must build reconnoissance machines which she will need for her army; she must build a large number of fighting machines because it is these machines that will destroy German planes; she must also build squadrons of powerful bombing machines which will go behind the German lines to destroy the railway junctions and bomb the enemy cantonments, so as to give the soldiers no rest even when they have left the trenches.

"Bombing done by a few machines gives poor results. The same cannot be said of this operation carried out by a large number of machines which can go to the same places and bomb continually.

"Besides the number of men that are actually killed in these raids, great disturbance is caused in the enemy's communication lines, thereby hindering the operations. For example, since the British Admiralty has increased the number of its bombing squadrons in northern France and has decided to attack constantly the two harbours of Ostend and Zeebrugge and the locks, bridges, and canals leading to them they have greatly interfered with the activity of these two German bases.

"It is certain that shortly, owing to this, these two ports will no more be used by German torpedo boats and submarines. What the English Royal Naval Air Service has been able to accomplish with 100 machines the Flying Corps of the United States with 1000 machines must be able to carry out on other parts of the front.

"The work of the bombing machines is rendered difficult now by the fact that the actual lines are far from Germany. But it is hoped that soon fighting will be carried on near the enemy frontier and then a wonderful field will be opened to the bombing machines.

"All the big ammunition factories which are in the Rhine and Ruhr valleys, like Krupp's, will be wonderful targets for the American bombing machines. If these machines are of the proper type—that is to say, sufficiently fast and well armed and able to carry a great weight of bombs—nothing will prevent them from destroying any of these important factories.

"As Germany at the present time is only able to continue the war because of her great stock of war material the destruction of her sources of production would be the end of her resistance. For this also the Allies must turn to America. Such a large number of machines is required to produce results that America must be relied on to manufacture them.

"Every man in this country must know that it is in the power of the United States, no matter what can be done in other fields, to bring the war to an end simply by concentrating all its energies on producing an enormous amount of material for aviation, and to enlist a corresponding number of pilots. But this will not be done without great effort. In order to be ready for the great 1918 offensive work must be begun at once."

The extreme secrecy which in this war has characterized the operation of the governments—our own most of all—makes it impossible to state the amount of progress made in 1917 in the construction of our aerial fleet. During the debate in Congress orators were very outspoken in their prophecies that we should outnumber the Kaiser's flying fleet two or three to one. The press of the nation was so very explicit in its descriptions of the way in which we were to blind the Germans and drive them from the air that it is no wonder the Kaiser's government took alarm, and set about building additional aircraft with feverish zeal. In this it was imitated by France and England. It seemed, all at once about the middle of 1917, that the whole belligerent world suddenly recognized the air as the final battlefield and began preparations for its conquest.

All statistical estimates in war time are subject to doubt as to their accuracy—and particularly those having to do in any way with the activities of an enemy country. But competent estimators—or at any rate shrewd guessers—think that Germany's facilities for constructing airplanes equal those of France and England together. If then all three nations build to the very limit of their abilities there will be a tie, which the contribution of aircraft from the United States will settle overwhelmingly in favour of the Allies. How great that contribution may be cannot be foretold with certainty at this moment. The building of aircraft was a decidedly infant industry in this country when war began. In the eight years prior to 1916 the government had given orders for just fifty-nine aircraft—scarcely enough to justify manufacturers in keeping their shops open. Orders from foreign governments, however, stimulated production after the war began so that when the United States belatedly took her place as national honour and national safety demanded among the Entente Allies, Mr. Howard E. Coffin, Chairman of the Aircraft Section of the Council of National Defence was able to report eight companies capable of turning out about 14,000 machines in six months—a better showing than British manufacturers could have made when Great Britain, first entered the war.

A feature in the situation which impressed both Congress and the American people was the exposure by various military experts of the defenceless condition of New York City against an air raid by a hostile foreign power. At the moment, of course, there was no danger. The only hostile foreign power with any considerable naval or aerial force was Germany and her fleet was securely bottled up in her own harbours by the overpowering fleet of Great Britain. Yet if one could imagine the British fleet reduced to inefficiency, let us say by a futile, suicidal attack upon Kiel or Heligoland which would leave it crippled, and free the Germans, or if we could conceive that the German threat to reduce Great Britain to subjection by the submarine campaign, proved effective, the peril of New York would then be very real and very immediate. For, although the harbour defences are declared by military authorities to be practically impregnable against attack by sea, they would not be effective against an attack from the air. A hostile fleet carrying a number of seaplanes could round-to out of range of our shore batteries and loose their flyers who could within less than an hour be dropping bombs on the most congested section of Manhattan Island. It is true that our own navy would have to be evaded in such case, but the attack might be made from points more distant from New York and at which no scouts would ever dream of looking for an enemy.

The development in later months of the big heavily armed cruising machines makes the menace to any seaport city like New York still greater. The Germans have built great biplanes with two fuselages, or bodies, armoured, carrying two machine guns and one automatic rifle to each body. They have twin engines of three hundred and forty horse power and carry a crew of six men. They are able in an emergency to keep the air for not less than three days. It is obvious that a small fleet of such machines launched from the deck of a hostile squadron, let us say in the neighbourhood of Block Island, could menace equally Boston or New York, or by flying up the Sound could work ruin and desolation upon all the defenceless cities bordering that body of water.

Nor are the Germans alone in possessing machines of this type. The giant Sikorsky machines of Russia, mentioned in an earlier chapter, have during the war been developed into types capable of carrying crews of twenty-five men with guns and ammunition. The French, after having brought down one of the big German machines with the double bodies, instantly began building aircraft of their own of an even superior type. Some of these are driven by four motors and carry eleven persons, besides guns and ammunition. The Caproni machines of Italy are even bigger—capable of carrying nine guns and thirty-five men. The Congressional Committee was much impressed by consideration of what might be done by a small fleet of aircraft of this type launched from a hostile squadron off the Capes of Chesapeake Bay and operating against Washington. It is not likely that any foreign foe advancing by land could repeat the exploit of the British who burned the capitol in 1812. But in our present defenceless state a dozen aircraft of the largest type might reduce the national capitol to ruins.

If an enemy well provided with aerial force possesses such power of offence an equal power of defence is given to the nation at all well provided with flying craft. In imitation, or perhaps rather in modification, of the English plan for guarding the coasts of Great Britain, a well matured system of defending the American coasts has been worked out and submitted to the national authorities. It involves the division of the coasts of the United States into thirteen aeronautical districts, each with aeronautical stations established at suitable points and all in communication with each other. Eight of these districts would be laid out on the Atlantic Coast extending from the northern boundary of Maine to the Rio Grande River.

Just what the purpose and value of these districts would be may be explained by taking the case, not of a typical one, but of the most important one of all, the third district including the coast line from New London, Conn., to Barnegat Inlet, New Jersey. This of course includes New York and adjacent commercial centres and the entrance to Long Island Sound with its long line of thriving cities and the ports of the places from which come our chief supplies of munitions of war. It includes the part of the United States which an enemy would most covet. The part which at once would furnish the richest plunder, and possession of which by a foe would most cripple this nation. To-day it is defended by stationary guns in land fortresses and in time of attack would be further guarded by a fringe of cruising naval vessels. Apparently up to the middle of 1917 the government thought no aerial watch was needed.

But if we were to follow the methods which all the belligerent nations of Europe are employing on their sea coasts we would establish in this district ten aeronautical stations. This would be no match for the British system which has one such station to every twenty miles of coast. Ours would be farther apart, but as the Sound could be guarded at its entrance the stations need only be maintained along the south shore of Long Island and down the Jersey coast. Each station would be provided with patrol, fighting, and observation airplanes. It would have the mechanical equipment of microphones, searchlights, and other devices for detecting the approach of an enemy now employed successfully abroad. Its patrolling airplanes would cruise constantly far out to sea, not less than eighty miles, keeping ever in touch with their station. As the horizon visible from a soaring airplane is not less than fifty miles distant from the observer, this would mean that no enemy fleet could approach within 130 miles of our coast without detection and report. The Montauk Point station would be charged with guarding the entrance to Long Island Sound and, the waters of Nantucket shoals and Block Island Sound where the German submarine U-53 did its deadly work in 1916. The Sandy Hook station would of course be the most important of all, guarding New York sea-going commerce and protecting the ship channel by a constant patrol of aircraft over it.

The modern airplane has a speed of from eighty to one hundred and sixty miles an hour—the latter rate being attained only by the light scouts. Thus it is apparent that if an alarm were raised at any one of these stations between New London and Barnegat three hours at most would suffice to bring the fighting equipment of all the stations to the point threatened. There would be thus concentrated a fleet of several hundred swift scouts, heavy fighting machines, the torpedo planes of the type designed by Admiral Fiske, hydroaeroplanes capable of carrying heavy guns and in brief every form of aerial fighter. Moreover, by use of the wireless, every ship of the Navy within a radius of several hundred miles would be notified of the menace. They could not reach the scene of action so swiftly as the flying men but the former would be able to hold the foe in action until the heavier ships should arrive.

The enormous advantage of such a system of guarding our coasts needs no further explanation. It is not even experimental, for France on her limited coast has 150 such stations. England, which started the war with 18, had 114 in 1917 and was still building. We at that time had none, although the extent of our sea coast and the great multiplicity of practicable harbours make us more vulnerable than any other nation.



CHAPTER X

SOME FEATURES OF AERIAL WARFARE

As devices to translate German hate for England into deeds of bloody malignancy and cowardly murder the German aircraft have ranked supreme. The ruthless submarine war has indeed done something toward working off this peculiar passion, but it lacked the spectacular qualities which German wrath demanded. As the war proceeded, and it became apparent that the participation of Great Britain—at first wholly unexpected by the Kaiser's advisers—was certain to defeat the German aims, the authorities carefully inculcated in the minds of the people the most malignant hatred for that power. As Lissauer's famous hymn of hate had it—

French and Russians it matters not, A blow for a blow, and a shot for a shot. ................................. We have one foe and one alone— England!

By way of at once gratifying this hatred and still further stimulating it the German military authorities began early in the war a series of air raids upon English towns. They were of more than doubtful military value. They damaged no military or naval works. They aroused the savage ire of the British people who saw their children slain in schools and their wounded in hospitals by bombs dropped from the sky and straightway rushed off to enlist against so callous and barbaric a foe. But the raids served their political purpose by making the German people believe that the British were suffering all the horrors of war on their own soil, while the iron line of trenches drawn across France by the German troops kept the invader and war's agonies far from the soil of the Fatherland.



The first German air raids were by Zeppelins on little English seaside towns—Scarborough, Hartlepool, and Harwich. Except in so far as they inflicted mutilation and death upon many non-combatants, mostly women and children, and misery upon their relatives and friends they were without effect. But early in 1915 began a systematic series of raids upon London, which, by October of 1917, had totalled thirty-four, with a toll of 865 persons killed, and 2500 wounded. It seems fair to say that for these raids there was more plausible excuse than for those on the peaceful little seaside bathing resorts and fishing villages. London is full of military and naval centres, arsenals and navy yards, executive offices and centres of warlike activity. An incendiary bomb dropped into the Bank of England, or the Admiralty, might paralyze the finances of the Empire, or throw the naval organization into a state of anarchy. But as a matter of fact the German bombs did nothing of the sort. They fell in the congested districts of London, "the crowded warrens of the poor." They spread wounds and death among peaceable theatre audiences. One dropped on a 'bus loaded with passengers homeward bound, and obliterated it and them from the face of the earth. But no building of the least military importance sustained any injury. It is true, however, that the persistent raiding has compelled England to withhold from the fighting lines in France several thousand men and several hundred guns in order to be in readiness to meet air raids in which Germany has never employed more than fifty machines and at most two hundred men, including both aviators and mechanics.

It is entirely probable that the failure of the Germans to strike targets of military importance and the slaughter they wrought among peaceful civilians were due to no intent or purpose on their part. Hitting a chosen target from the air is no matter of certainty. The bomb intended for the railway station is quite as likely to hit the adjacent public school or hospital. If the world ever recurs to that moderate degree of sanity and civilization which shall permit wars, but strive to regulate them in the interest of humanity this untrustworthiness of the aircraft's aim will compel some form of international regulation, just as the vulnerability of the submarine will force the amendment of the doctrine of visitation and search. But neither problem can be logically and reasonably solved in the middle of a war. And so, while the German violation of existing international law had the uncomfortable result for Germany of bringing the United States into the war, the barbarous raids upon London caused the British at last to turn aside from their commendable abstention from air raids on unfortified and non-military towns and prepare for reprisals in kind.

From the beginning of the war the British had abstained from bombing peaceful and non-military towns. They had not indeed been weak in the employment of their air forces. General Smuts speaking in October, 1917, said that the British had, in the month previous, dropped 207 tons of bombs behind the lines of the enemy. But the targets were airdromes, military camps, arsenals and munitions camps—not hospitals or kindergartens. The time had now come when this purely military campaign no longer satisfied an enraged British people who demanded the enforcement of the Mosaic law of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, against a people whom General Smuts described as "an enemy who apparently recognizes no laws, human or divine; who knows no pity or restraint, who sung Te Deums over the sinking of the Lusitania, and to whom the maiming and slaughter of women and children appear legitimate means of warfare."

And Premier Lloyd George, speaking to an audience of poor people in one of the congested districts which had suffered sorely from the aerial activities of the Hun, said:

"We will give it all back to them, and we will give it soon. We shall bomb Germany with compound interest."

But whether undertaken as part of a general programme of frightfulness or as reprisals for cruel and indefensible outrages air raids upon defenceless towns, killing peaceable citizens in their beds, and children in their kindergartens, are not incidents to add glory to aviation. The mind turns with relief from such examples of the cruel misuse of aircraft to the hosts of individual instances in which the airman and his machine remind one of the doughty Sir Knight and his charger in the most gallant days of chivalry. There were hosts of such incidents—men who fought gallantly and who always fought fair, men who hung about the outskirts of an aerial battle waiting for some individual champion of their own choosing to show himself and join in battle to death in the high ranges of the sky. Some of these have been mentioned in this book already. To discuss all who even as early as 1917 had made their names memorable would require a volume in itself. A few may well be mentioned below.

There, for example, was Captain Georges Guynemer, "King of the French Aces." An "ace" is an aviator who has brought down five enemy aircraft. Guynemer had fifty-three to his credit. Still a youth, only twenty-three years of age at the time of his death, and only flying for twenty-one months, he had lived out several life times in the mad excitement of combat in mid-air. Within three weeks after getting his aviator's license he had become an "Ace." Before his first year's service had expired he was decorated and promoted for gallantry in rushing to the aid of a comrade attacked by five enemy machines. He entered the combat at the height of ten thousand feet, and inside of two minutes had dropped two of the enemy. The others fled. He pursued hotly keeping up a steady fire with his machine gun. One Boche wavered and fell, but just then an enemy shell from an "Archie" far below exploded under Guynemer, tearing away one wing of his machine. Let him tell the rest of that story:

I felt myself dropping [he said later]. It was ten thousand feet to the earth, and, like a flash, I saw my funeral with my saddened comrades marching behind the gun carriage to the cemetery. But I pulled and pushed every lever I had, but nothing would check my terrific descent.

Five thousand feet from the earth, the wrecked machine began to turn somersaults, but I was strapped into the seat. I do not know what it was, but something happened and I felt the speed descent lessen. But suddenly there was a tremendous crash and when I recovered my senses I had been taken from the wreckage and was all right.

Two records Guynemer made which have not yet been surpassed—the first, the one described above of dropping three Fokkers in two minutes and thirty seconds, and rounding off the adventure by himself dropping ten thousand feet. The second was in shooting down four enemy machines in one day. His methods were of the simplest. He was always alone in his machine, which was the lightest available. He would rather carry more gasoline and ammunition than take along a gunner. The machine gun was mounted on the plane above his head, pointing dead ahead, and aimed by aiming the whole airplane. Once started the gun continued firing automatically and Guynemer's task was to follow his enemy pitilessly keeping that lead-spitting muzzle steadily bearing upon him. In September, 1917, he went up to attack five enemy machines—no odds however appalling seemed to terrify him—but was caught in a fleet of nearly forty Boches and fell to earth in the enemy's country.