Letters From the Front

Dated:

This is an extract from a private letter:

Today is bitterly cold, with driving snow. Coming after a summer day it caught us unprepared and we felt the cold. I'm glad I am not living in a tent. Our barracks is cold but the classroom is OK and I have three sweaters and a muffler on. The sun is coming out warm but there will be no flying for you few days. The camp is about a mile square and our quarters and hangers are on the north side. Only a road separates us from the hangers in the aerodrome. We have an ideal landing square; in the center is a large white ring, which is quite distinct from the air. We usually fly around the aerodrome, but all in the same direction, according to wind. I've seen 40 planes at one time on the circuit. We keep away from one another as far as possible and have a strict code of flying rules about passing, etc. No plane must go over the aerodrome at less than 4000 feet high. Our altitude test is 8000 feet. We commence flying with or before sunrise, about 7 a.m., and stop at dark; 6 p.m. In the squadron to which I am attached, are 15 or more planes. Our flight have five running all the time. The mechanics work all night when there is a crash, and there are many as a whole, but our bunch have been exceptionally fortunate. A punctured tire, torn wingtip, broken propeller or undercarriage being the extent of our damage so far. Already I have done about six hours flying and have made many landings. They started me first in the front seat, tending nothing, but to break me in the officer placing the machine in steep banks, almost vertical dives and slips. They did not frighten me, but I caught my breath when her nose went down at a terrific speed for the first landing. I was well prepared for a bump, which did not come. The earth that day seemed to come up very fast, but now it is the opposite; I think I will never touch. Next trip, when well up, I was given hold of the front and tried to steer straight ahead and on the correct level. It was at first difficult, as one has to control several directions at once, up, down, sideways, and laterally. The wind pressure on the wings exaggerates any slight movement of the control stick, which is called the joystick, it is kept between your legs, while, a little to the front, the rudder banking, is operated by your feet. Next came banking, then taking off, and lastly landing. The latter is the most difficult, as you must light as a bird does, feet and tail at the same moment. Once in landing I bounced as high as 15 or 20 feet. I didn't stop, but kept on going up, which is safer than trying to land again. Like a cycle, an airship is easier to manage at high-speed, at least 50 miles an hour must be maintained or she will pancake, that is, drop or slip into any position. Expert flyers turn them straight on and end and dive, make spirals, spin, do most anything. The sensations are, at times, alarming, and others, enjoyable. Another time I was put in the backseat, the instructor in front. I had control of the engine. Soon the instructor was riding with his hands over the side, watching and waving to other machines. After that came the solo, when I went up alone. I took off okay, flew okay, once around and made a perfect drop, lighting on my wheels without bumping. I ran along the ground tail up, and thought I was all right when suddenly, as I drew her down, she swerved and turned slowly on her nose, breaking the propeller. I was perfectly safe and not very jarred but I was very angry, for I had landed correctly. The observer said it wasn't my fault, that a tire blew, but I was disappointed. However, I landed right the next time. I am not nervous and find the machines handle more easily with just one in it. When I put in 39 more landings I leave the squadron for higher training in another squadron. Of course there are some terrible crashes, but seldom anyone is seriously damaged although the machines are smashed to atoms. Some are repaired, some are beyond repair, and go to the scrap heap. The engines are beautiful machines and run at high speed, 14 to 16 revolutions per minute.

The weather is wonderful and the nights beautiful. Wind is our greatest enemy, for when it is too strong we are not allowed to fly, and every cadet wants to go up once a day. Flying becomes a hard habit to break. What the fascination is I don't know, but it sure seems to get everyone, for even the officers must have their little spin every morning, and what beautiful flyers some of them are. We think we're driving about 20 miles an hour in the air, and wonder at the ease with which we pass an express train, it is only when another plane passes us that we realize our terrific speed. In the air things happen quickly. My experience with the old motorcycle was good training to look and think far ahead. It is possible to glide down with an engine stopped, in fact that is to how we land, (engine almost stopped). Negroes are numerous and the mules are a novelty to me. The Texan is an odd character, quite like his pictures. We have a reading room, boxing ring and a piano. I box now and then and must weigh about 160 pounds. The mud is odd, more like black tar, lumpy and sticky.