Читать книгу With the French Flying Corps - Carroll Dana Winslow - Страница 6

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During the lecture course we always spent several hours a day on the aviation-field. We were not allowed to fly, but our presence was insisted upon. We would observe the things to avoid, so that when our turn came to go up we should be familiar with all the dangers. Every start, flight, and landing was made a subject of special study. Every time a pupil made a mistake his fault was explained to us, and we were usually impressed with the fact that he had barely escaped a bad smash and perhaps death. The pupils who made the mistakes, were immediately made examples. If the fault was corrected they escaped with a long and loud lecture for the benefit of the onlookers, but if, on the other hand, an accident followed the mistake the offenders were immediately punished with a ten days' "consigne." If a pupil continued to make mistakes he was "vidé," and sent back to his former regiment.

Loss of speed—"perte de vitesse," the French call it—is the most common and probably the greatest danger an aviator meets with—it is his "bête noire." There is a minimum speed capable of holding an aeroplane in the air which varies inversely with the spread of the wings. While in line of flight, the force of the motor will maintain the speed, but when the motor is shut off and the pilot commences to volplane the force of gravity produces the same result. There are two ways of knowing when you are approaching the danger-point—by closely watching the speed-indicator and by feeling your controls. The moment the controls become lifeless and have no resistance you must act instinctively and regain your momentum, or it is all up with you. While climbing you may lose speed by forcing the motor and climbing too rapidly. When a "perte de vitesse" is produced the aeroplane "goes off on the wing," sliding down sideways in such a manner and with such force that the rudders cannot right you or that the propeller cannot pick up your forward speed. This can happen also if, when making a vertical turn, the speed is not sufficiently increased to carry you around the corner. Occurring near the ground a loss of speed is certain to result in a smash-up. If high in the air a "vrille," or tail spin, is generally the result. By this is meant coming down in a whirlpool, spinning like a match in the waste of a basin. The machine takes as a pivot the corner of one wing and revolves about it. The first turn is very slow, but the speed increases with each revolution. The only hope of escape is to dive into the centre of the whirlpool. Even then, if the motor is turned on, the planes will fold up like a book. Among the accidents to beginners this, next to faulty landing, is the most common.

A Morane-Parasol.

I witnessed one very sad example. A young lieutenant had just been brevetted and was ready to leave the school. Just as he was saying good-by to his comrades, a "Morane Parasol" was brought out on the field. These machines are very tricky and dangerous. He had never piloted one, but wanted to show off. The monitors begged him not to take it up, but he insisted on doing so. When he had reached an altitude of about five hundred metres he shut off his motor to come down, not realizing that monoplanes do not volplane well. He did not dive enough and had a "perte de vitesse." The machine slipped off the wing. We all held our breaths and prayed that he would recover control before he engaged in the fatal corkscrew spiral. Our hopes were of no avail. The machine started to turn, and approached the earth spinning like a chip caught in a whirlpool. I turned my back, but I could hear the machine whistling through the air till it came to the ground with a sickening crash.

Faulty landings are also very common causes of accidents. It takes a beginner a long time to train his eye to make a perfect landing, and even experienced men now and then smash up on the "atterrissage." A few inches sometimes make a great difference. If the pilot does not check his speed in time he will crash into the ground and "capote," that is, turn over. If he pulls up too soon he will slip off on the wing or land so hard that the machine collapses. Not only the manner of landing but gaining the exact place of landing is difficult. If the pilot misjudges his distance, and lands either beyond or short of a given spot, he may collide with some object that will wreck the aeroplane.

Just before leaving the ground is another critical moment. If the tail is lifted too high in an effort to gain speed the wheels are liable to hit some small obstacle and the machine turns a somersault. Often one is forced to lift the tail very high to gain flying speed in a short distance, and it always results in an uncomfortable few seconds until the pilot knows he is clear. Still another mishap against which aviators are powerless may occur while rolling along the ground. The machine may be caught by a cross wind, which will turn it completely around, a "chevaux-de-bois," a merry-go-round, the French call it. If the machine is going fast when this happens it means touching the ground with a wing and a first-class smash.

For two months I studied and watched, and the result was a profound respect for the air. During this time it seems that I also had been the object of study and observation on the part of my teachers, for one day I was told that I was to receive my "baptême de l'air," my first flight as a passenger. Words cannot describe my joy or my sensations.

I walked over to the double-seater. The pilot had already taken his seat, and the propeller was turning. I had hardly climbed in and fastened my belt than we were off. I could hear the wheels bounding along the ground. Suddenly the noise stopped—we were in the air. I was sure I would have vertigo, as I often had had in high places. I did not look out of the machine until we were about five hundred feet up. Then, to my surprise, I experienced not the slightest sensation of height. The ground seemed to be merely moving slowly under and away from me. We kept climbing. I could see the country for miles. Never had I viewed the horizon from so far. The snow-clad Pyrenees were literally at my feet. Trees looked like weeds and roads like white ribbons. It was a marvellous sight. At about two thousand feet we struck some wind and "remous" (whirlpools). Each time we struck one we would drop about fifty feet, and the sensation was like being in a descending express elevator. At the end of the drop we would stop, the biplane would shiver and roll like a ship in a heavy sea, and then it would shoot up until we struck the solid air again. This was real flying.

After a while my instructor cut off the motor, and we started to come down. We were going fast enough on the level, but now the wind just roared past my ears. The ground appeared to be rushing up to meet us. We were pointing down so straight that my whole weight was on my feet, and I was literally standing up. I thought that the pilot had forgotten to redress, and that we would go head first into the ground, but he finally pulled up, and before I knew it we were rolling along the ground at a speed of about forty miles an hour.

With this preliminary experience I was ready to commence my final studies for a pilot's brevet.

Some people seem to think that the two months devoted merely to first principles are time lost, but I now realize that this is not so. I seemed to have much more confidence on account of this intelligent understanding of every detail. I felt that I knew just what I was to avoid, and just how to do the correct thing in case an emergency arose.

Perhaps I might say here that military aviators have four distinct duties to perform at the front: they must fight, reconnoitre the enemy's positions, control the fire of their own batteries, or make distant bombarding raids over the enemy's bases of supplies.

The fighting pilots do nothing but combat work. Their machines are the very small and fast Nieuports, designed especially for quick manoeuvring. They are called the "appareils de chasse," on account of their great speed—over one hundred miles an hour. Their armament consists of a mitrailleuse, which is carried in a fixed position. In order to aim it, the pilot must point his machine. The principal task assigned to the Nieuports is to do sentry duty over our own lines, in order to prevent the enemy aeroplanes from crossing over for observation purposes.

Heavier and somewhat slower, and too cumbersome for fighting, are the machines used for reconnoissance duty. They are large bimotor Caudrons, very stable and capable of carrying two men, an observer and a pilot. In addition they carry a wireless apparatus, powerful photographing instruments, and other equipment essential to their work of observing, recording, and reporting the enemy's movements and the disposition of his batteries. If attacked, they can fight, being armed with a machine gun mounted in front of the observer's seat; but attacking the enemy is not the rôle they are intended to play.

Next come the Farman artillery machines. They are like the reconnoissance machines, too cumbersome for fighting, but are best equipped for the purpose of "réglage"—controlling the fire of batteries. While the small Nieuports have a carrying capacity of only two hundred and twenty pounds, these unwieldy creatures are able to take on over five hundred pounds, which includes the weight of the two men, their clothes, cameras, the wireless, and the gun and its ammunition. In this branch of aviation the weight of the pilot does not matter so very much, whereas in the case of the little Nieuports, if the aviator exceeds the prescribed weight, he has to choose between not piloting the machine or starting on his flight with a supply of gasolene reduced by the amount of his excess weight.

Finally, there are the heavy-armored bombardment machines, with a carrying capacity of over one thousand pounds. They are the slowest machines of all, and their work is both tiring and tiresome, as their flights are made mostly by night. They are armed with mitrailleuses or small, non-recoil cannon, but on account of their low speed their daylight flights are attended by "escadrilles de chasse." They are also detailed for guarding cities.

In the early months of the war each aviator was usually assigned to any one of these types of machines at hazard. At the school which he attended the instruction he received was specialized for the work which that particular machine could perform. Since then, however, it has been found more advisable to train all beginners on one of the heavier machines. The reason is this: Fighting, although the safest work, requires the most experienced pilot. It is the most important work of all—or rather it calls for greater attributes of skill, courage, and knowledge. The famous aviators of whom we read in the daily communiqués, like Navarre, Nungesser, Vialet, and Guynemer, all gained their reputation with the small, fighting Nieuports. A pilot is consequently promoted from a reconnoissance machine to an "appareil de chasse" after he has had two or three months' experience at the front and his captain has indorsed his application.

There are exceptions to this rule. The most notable is the American Escadrille, which consists entirely of fighting machines. The volunteers from the United States who applied for this duty were considered such naturally good aviators that they were accorded the exceptional honor of being assigned immediately to the fighting Nieuports.

When I first reported at the aviation headquarters they offered to let me go directly to the combat school because I was an American. I refused. "When in Rome, do as the Romans do," I thought, and so expressed my preference for a French escadrille. I knew that by doing so I would put in a longer apprenticeship, but that in the end it would make a much better fighting pilot of me. Having chosen this course, I was ordered to report to the school at Chartres.