Above the French Lines — Stuart Walcott's Letters 1 - 11

I AVORD,

July 4, 1917. Dear H----: My work here is going well, although slowly.

Those in my class ought to get out by October if nothing goes wrong.

There are some 150 Americans learning to fly now in France, besides the ones the Government may have sent over--more than a hundred at this one school, and the oddest combination I’ve ever been thrown with: chauffeurs, second-story men, ex-college athletes, racing drivers, salesmen, young bums of leisure, a colored prize fighter, ex-Foreign Légionnaires, ball players, millionaires and tramps.

Not too good a crowd according to most standards, but the worst bums may make the best aviators.

There’s plenty of need for all of them.

There are lots of Frenchmen here also and a big crowd of Russians, mostly happy youngsters having a very good time.

They’re always in a hurry to get up in the air and are continually breaking machines and their necks.

The Americans have an endless streak of luck in being able to fall out of the air and collect themselves uninjured from amidst a pile of kindling wood which was the machine.

As yet I haven’t done any piloting in the air, so can’t talk very wisely about the glories and thrills of slipping through the ephemeral clouds.

All I have learned is that almost any kind of a dub can be a pilot, but that there aren’t a lot of very good ones.

The idea is to get enough practice to become a good one before arguing with the elusive Boche at a high altitude.

It looks over here as though there would be about two years more of war, judging from what most people say.

It is to be hoped that after twelve to eighteen months we will be able to take France’s place at the front, for she deserves to be relieved and will have to be.

Even now, France is almost spent; it will be England and the United States who will finish the war.

This war is a terrible thing, but for America it is an opportunity as well.

I am glad that we have at last come into it and that it will be no half-way fight that we must put up.

The Canadians have been about the best regiments in the war.

Why shouldn’t America be as good?...

STUART.

II ESCOLE D’AVIATION MILITAIRE

AVORD, CHER, FRANCE.

Friday, July 13, 1917. You see it’s Friday, the thirteenth, my lucky day, and I’m happy because the work is going well.

First, I’ll tell you about a smash I had a week or so ago.

The roller or _Rouleur_ class which I smashed in has the same machine as those that fly with a 45 P motor.

Only it is throttled down, and we are supposed to keep it on the ground--just about ready to fly, but not quite getting up--a speed of about 30 m. p. h. When there is the slightest wind we can not roll, because the wind turns the tail around and swings the machine in a circle--a wooden horse--_cheval de bois_.

I rode about the end of the list Saturday--and the wind had come up as the day got on.

Work stops at 8:30 a. m.

always because there’s too much wind.

My first sortie or trip went O. K.

with a considerable breeze on the tail, but on the second there was too much wind and after I got going pretty fast--around she went.

The wind caught under the inside wing and up it went.

Smash went the outside wheel, and a crackle of busting wood.

All the front framework of wood that holds the motor was smashed--a pretty bad break.

The monitor was a bit mad and talked to me a bit in French.

The next morning I was called in to see the chief of the Blériot school, Lt. de Chavannes, a very nice officer.

He told me that my monitor was not satisfied with me--that he had told me to do something (cut the motor when the machine started to turn) three separate times, and that each time I had intentionally disobeyed, that if anything like that happened again I would be radiated (discharged from the school).

That was quite the first I had ever heard of it and I was so mad at the monitor that I could have kicked him in the head.

I tried to explain to the Lieutenant but he never heard a word, so I just gurgled with wrath and didn’t do anything.

But yesterday we got another monitor who is a different sort.

The class after _rouleur_ is _decollé_--it is the same machine, but one gets off the ground about a metre or two, then slacks up on the motor and settles to the earth.

It is strictly forbidden to _decollé_ in the _rouleur_ class.

This morning I had a sortie in the _rouleur_ and all of a sudden noticed that I was in the air a bit--managed to keep it straight and get out of the air without smashing.

The monitor said nothing so I _decolléed_ on all the sorties.

When I got out the monitor explained that it was strictly forbidden to go off the ground in the _rouleur_ class, that I shouldn’t have done it, and then asked me if I would like to go up to the other class.

Whereupon consenting, I am now in the _decollé_ class, leaving sixteen rather peeved Americans who arrived in the _rouleur_ the same time I did, who can perform in the _rouleur_ quite as well as I can and who will remain in the _rouleur_ for some time yet.

They’ve no grudge against me, however, as it was only a streak of luck on my part.

Later in the morning I had some sorties in the _decolleur_ and got up two or three metres.

The wind was too strong, so my trips were a bit rough, but nothing was damaged--so hurrah for Friday, the thirteenth.

III

July 17, 1917. The work has been going very well since last I wrote you, which was only two or three days ago.

I told you about at last leaving the blessed roller; I never was so relieved in my life.

The first evening in the _decollé_ class, I was requisitioned to turn tails and the morning after there was too much wind to work.

The _decollé_ is the one where you go up two or three metres and settle down by cutting speed.

The first time I had three sorties in the wind, bounced around a lot, but did no damage.

The next time was first thing in the morning.

Two metres up on the first, four or five on the fifth--strictly against orders.

I even had to _piqué_--point the machine toward the ground--a little, which is not at all _comme il faut_ in the _decollé_.

But these Frenchmen are funny chaps--sometimes they will get terribly angry and punish one for disobeying, and again they will be tickled to death with it.

If I had smashed while doing more than I was told to, there would have been a lot of trouble; as it was, no objection--and the monitor personally conducted me to the _piqué_ class with a very nice recommendation.

Now there are two _piqué_ classes: one with a _piste_ about a quarter of a mile long, in which one is supposed to do little more than _decollé_, get up about five metres and _piqué un tout petit peu_--hardly at all.

After comes the advanced _piqué_ with a much longer _piste_ on which one can get up 100 metres (300 feet).

On my first sortie in the _piqué_, I was told to roll on the ground all the way, so continuing my policy, did a low _decollé_.

Next I was supposed to do a two metre _decollé_, so went up ten and _piquéd_.

Had ten sorties in that class one morning, getting as high as I could--about twenty metres--and went to the advanced _piqué_ that night--last night.

Four sorties there last night with a machine with a poor motor, so didn’t get up over a hundred feet.

And this morning I did my first real aviating.

There was a bit of wind blowing, so the monitor, Mr. Moses, only let a Lieutenant and me go up, as we had gone better than the others last night.

First it was a bit rainy and always bumpy as the deuce--air puffs and pockets which require the entire corrective force of the wing warp and rudder to overcome.

My last sortie was decidedly active.

The wind had developed into a bit of a breeze which is to a Blériot like a rough sea to a row boat.

Two or three times I got a puff that tipped the machine ’way over--put the controls over as far as I could and waited.

It seemed a minute before she straightened.

The trouble was that the machine was climbing and therefore not going very fast.

If I had _piquéd_, it would have corrected quicker.

I had no trouble at all in making the landing.

Hopping out of the machine, I saw the head monitor rushing over to Mr. Moses on the double, shouting volubly in French and berating him severely.

I gathered that he had been watching my manoeuvres, expecting something to fall every instant, and that he strenuously objected to Moses’ letting me go up.

Work stopped there for the morning, and it was very fully explained to me what the trouble was.

If I have some sorties there tonight, I go to _Tour de Piste_ (Flying Field) in the morning.

I

may be on Nieuport in two weeks.

I am now beginning to see the advantages of the Blériot training.

There is a great deal of preliminary work on or near the ground.

In all other aviation training, such as at Newport News, 90 per cent of the work is in making landings--in piquéing down, redressing at the proper moment and making gradual connections with the earth.

I haven’t made a really bad landing yet and the reason is that I have been in a machine so much on and near the ground, that I have sort of developed a sense or feel of it, and almost automatically redress correctly, and settle easily.

Also I can tell pretty closely what is flying speed because of the work on the rollers.

It’s the same way with all the other students only I know it now from my own experience.

And this morning I began to realize that my hundred minutes at Newport News was invaluable.

I not only found out some of the tricks of a master hand (Carlstrom) but also developed a bit of confidence in the air, and air sense, without which I could have got into trouble this morning.

My bumpy ride this morning is absolutely invaluable.

I’ll probably never have so much trouble in the air again, because a fast machine or even a Blériot with a good motor, would hardly have noticed these puffs.

It was a bit risky, I guess, or the head monitor would not have been worried, but now that it’s over, I know a lot more.

IV

August 11, 1917. Dear ----[B]: You have certainly developed into a wonderful correspondent.

Honest-to-goodness, a letter you started my way about a month ago was quite the most satisfactory and amusing thing I’ve received since I’ve been over here.

Based on practically no material, yet it was alive with interest, every line.

There’s nothing like a finishing school education.

If I thought that you could knit, I would immediately appoint you as my _marraine_ (godmother), for it’s quite possible for one person to have more than one soldier and I am but a soldier of the second class in the French Army.

As I understand it, the chief duty of a _marraine_ is to write letters--you’ve started that in good style--and to knit wool scarfs, which the devoted soldier hands to a French peasant woman to unravel and make a pair of socks out of....

Many Yale boys have wandered in upon us of late, Alan Winslow, Wally Winter, George Mosely, and others.

Also Chester Bassett, late of Washington and Harvard University, who I believe has the good fortune to be acquainted with you, a very recommendable young man.

They tell me that Cord Meyer is aviating at some camp nearby, but, not having any machines, they have to spend their time touring the country in a high powered motor.

Had a long and gossipy letter from Pat the other day, containing details of many weddings and engagements, even unto young ---- ----.

All my classmates are doing the same stunt.

How about being original and waiting until the war is over and seeing who of the competitors are left?

I quite expect to be, but it’s luck I’m trusting to; there’s a lot of war left in the nations of Europe.

One never can tell; I may come home on permission in a French uniform with a wing on my collar....

When the American Air Service is a little further along, it may be that we will be taken over from the French Army.

I finished up in one division of the school the other day and passed to another for brevet, the tests for a military aviator.

I sort of have the impression that I wrote you a few weeks ago about it, but not being sure, run the risk of repetition, which, if any, I hope you will excuse.

This epistle is being written out at the _piste_ (flying field), waiting for the wind to drop enough to fly, and with me seated amidst a bunch of Russians, so if there are any superfluous “iskis” or “ovitches” in this, you will understand why.

The Russians are great fliers; in fact they know so much about it that they never listen to their monitors and as a result break more machines than all the other pupils combined.

A month ago five of them went to the next school for acrobacy and in a week every one of them had killed himself.

I pulled a bit of the same Russian stuff in the spiral class of the Blériot.

All the work is solo--never a flight double command so one has to get instructions on the ground and follow them in the air.

I used my head and senses in performing my first spiral, instead of shutting my eyes, doing what I had been told and trusting to God.

The result was that I made one more turn than I expected to and that quite perpendicular, not at all _comme il faut_ in a Blériot.

Why something did not break has been the wonder of the Blériot school.

But nothing did and we got down all right.

Another time I planted a cuckoo on her nose, which is not at all encouraged by the monitors.

’Tis quite a trick to balance a monoplane on its nose on the ground, but I did it--quite vertical she lay, with me in the middle struggling with the safety belt and wondering which way it was going to fall.

My final appearance in the Blériot school was likewise spectacular.

The left wing hit a hole in the air which the right one didn’t. Naturally things tipped; then they wouldn’t straighten and the only thing to do was to dive to the low side.

I did, but forgot to shut off the motor.

A very steep and fast spiral resulted in which I lost 500 feet in a half-turn in about two seconds, I think, all with the motor going to beat the cars.

I must have been travelling at many hundreds of miles an hour.

Once again nothing broke, but it was no fault of mine that it didn’t....

Sincerely, STUART.

V

August 25, 1917. I started for my altitude test three days ago.

The requirement is one hour above 2,000 metres.

I got to 1,950 metres and one cylinder refused to fire, so I was forced to come down.

The next morning I tried again, got to 900 metres and the magneto ceased to function, thereby stopping all progress.

I glided toward home, but didn’t have quite the height to make the _piste_, so had to land in a nearby field, just dodging a potato patch.

A flock of curious sheep came around and carefully examined the machine, getting considerably mixed up in the wires of the open tail construction and leaving considerable wool thereon.

When the mechanics eventually got the motor going, I started off, didn’t get quite in the air before the motor went bad and then I ran into a bean patch, gathering about a bushel of beans with the same tail wires.

Yesterday morning I tried again, climbed to 2,000 in fourteen minutes and to 3,500 metres (11,500 feet) in forty minutes.

I went up through some light clouds and when I got to 3,500, the top of my recording barograph, more clouds had formed and I was practically shut off from the earth, nothing but a beautiful sea of clouds below me, a very beautiful sight.

One other machine was in sight, far below me, but on top of the clouds.

Not wanting to get lost I came down through the clouds and stayed out my hour just above 2,000 and below the clouds, where the air was very much churned up, keeping me very busy.

Just as soon as the time was up I came down with a pair of very chilled feet, making the 2,000 metres in five minutes to the ground.

No work since then on account of bad weather.

This morning I attended my first Catholic funeral, that of the commandant of the school who was the victim of a mid-air collision, a very unusual accident.

The other machine got down safely though badly smashed.

Everybody in camp attended the funeral in the chapel of the Artillery Camp next door.

I understood none of the service, but the music by a tenor and a ’cello was excellent.

While the cortege was going down the hill to the cemetery, a Nieuport circled overhead very low for half an hour or more and dropped a wreath.

It was a very impressive ceremony.

I expect to start on triangle and _petit voyage_ in a few days.

When they are done, I will be a breveted flier in the French Army.

Then comes _perfectionné_ work and acrobacy, so it will be quite a while yet for me.

VI

August 31, 1917. Dear ----[C]: Here it is almost September and I am still a dog-goned _élève pilote_.

Verily, every time I think of how the time passes along without results, I go wild.

My complaint is caused by the west wind, which has blown about twenty-five days during the month of August and seems likely to continue well on into September.

The only variety is an occasional storm.

For the past two weeks I’ve been waiting to start my voyages, two trips to a town forty miles away and back and two other triangular trips about 180 miles long each.

When they are done, one becomes a _pilote élève_; and there’s a great if subtle difference when the words are reversed.

An _élève pilote_ is the scum of the earth, looked down on by mechanics, pilots, monitors, and everyone else; a _pilote élève_ can wear wings on his collar and is as good as any one else.

He is permitted to fly in rough weather, to take chances and is not in so much danger of getting radiated if he gets in trouble.

The proper thing to do on a triangle or _petit voyage_ is to have something bust directly over a nice château; make a skilful landing on the front lawn under the eyes of the admiring household and then be an enforced guest for a few days until one is rescued by a truck and mechanics.

One has to be very careful where the _panne de moteur_ catches him lest he have to make his landing in a lake or on a forest, which is apt to be a bit awkward.

One chap, an American, has been out on a triangle for two weeks, staying at some country place, and there are four others at another school near a big town waiting for weather to return.

Reports give us to believe they are having a much better time there than we are here.

Between here and the point for the _petit voyage_--a little bit off the route, is the big future American aviation camp and also an Artillery camp.

There are quite a bunch of fellows there, Quentin Roosevelt, Cord Meyer, etc. , I think.

Every American that has left on his voyages in the last month has stopped there against all orders and been bawled out by the monitor.

One has to keep a recording barometer or altimeter machine, a barograph, during the voyages, which indicates all stops.

One chap came back home the other day with a barometer record showing beyond the shadow of a doubt that he had made a stop of about fifteen minutes _en route_.

The monitor saw it, said, “_Alors_, all you Americans stop off there, I don’t like it.

” Then the chap tried to explain how he had had a _panne_ and come down in a field out in the country somewhere, fixed the motor and come on home.

He almost got away with it, but the monitor happened to snook around a bit and noticed on the tail very clearly written a good Anglo-Saxon name, the name of the town, and the date--quite indisputable evidence.

I fully expect to have a _panne_ there myself before long.

By the way, to declare a short pause in my chronicle of aviation, how about all those “letters that are to follow”?

If you try to tell me how good you are to your Belgian soldier, I refuse to believe a word until you treat me in the same way.

And I also refuse to accept anyone as a _marraine_ (isn’t that what you call these fairy godmother persons one is supposed to correspond with during the war and marry afterward?

How inconsiderate some of them are, to take three or four soldiers, just assuming that not more than one will survive; however, they may be wise to have more than one iron in the fire.

But my parenthesis grows apace.

)--I say I refuse a _marraine_ until she approves her ability.

But let me see again.

Does said _marraine_ have to be a complete stranger?

It seems to me that is customary, and also usually they are of different nationalities.

All of the foregoing weak line will be interpreted as a mere plea for that other letter.

I’ve never made this “absence makes the heart grow fonder” stuff at all.

Even ---- has given me up; I remain to her only another of the forgotten conquests (?

) of the dead past....

This odd person, Bassett, wandered in all dressed up like a patch of blue sky and I just had to let you know he was here.

With absolute confidence in each other’s integrity, we put our loving messages side by each.

By the way, he _is_ a good scout, don’t you think?

I have gotten to like him immensely since he has been here.

I never had a better time in my life than one evening in Paris with Chet.

However quiet the party, he is the life of it.

It must be that I take my weekly shave--in cold, cold water, with a dull, dull razor.

Oh, happy thought!

Tell the father and brothers hello from me.

Also tell ---- to drop me a line of what he’s doing and when he’s coming over.

STUART.

VII

September 1, 1917. The wild man in the Nieuport was out again this morning giving some one a joy ride.

There is a long straight stretch of road in front of our _piste_ and he came down that several times, a nasty puffy wind blowing which bothered him not at all, flying only two or three feet off the ground.

In front of the _piste_ is a telephone wire crossing the road.

He came along the road 100 miles an hour until almost on top of the wire and jumped up just in time to clear it by a few feet--really beautiful work.

He goes all over the surrounding country flying low, hopping over trees and houses, sometimes turning up sideways to slip between two trees a bit too close together to fly through; sometimes dragging a wing through the space between a couple of hangars or doing vertical _virages_ just in front of them.

It doesn’t seem possible that any man can be so much a part of his machine, can be so consistently accurate that he never misses.

For this chap, Lumière, has never had a smash....

A chap named Loughran started off on one of his brevet voyages a few days before I got ready for brevet.

He got quite a ways along, ran into a storm, went above it, got caught in a cloud, kept on for quite a long way being drifted by a strong wind, then came down through the clouds and found that they were only 400 feet above the ground.

After a while he found a place to land and came down safely.

He went to a farmhouse, got his machine guarded and tied down.

In the meantime word had spread over the countryside that an aviator had come down there and the entire population came out to look him over.

A grand equipage drove up with a Count who lived in a nearby château.

He insisted that Eddie come to the château and accept their hospitality.

There the fortunate Ed stayed five days; the Countess talked English, and also some house guests.

He hadn’t brought a trunk so borrowed razor, etc. , from the Count; went down to see the machine every day in the baronial barouche.

Whenever he went to the little town in the vicinity all the kids followed him around the streets and when at last he left, he was presented with a multitude of bouquets and had to kiss each and every donor.

He brought back pictures of the château--a delightful looking old place--and numerous addresses.

[Illustration: STUART WALCOTT AT THE FRONT] VIII

September 4, 1917. At last the two weeks of wind and rain has ceased and now it is perfect weather--a bit of a breeze and lots of sun for the last two days.

Yesterday morning there weren’t enough machines to go around so I did not work, making the eighth consecutive day I hadn’t stepped in a machine.

Last evening I at last and with much rejoicing started out on my “maiden voyage” to another school about 60 kilometres away (37. 5 miles).

It was delightfully easy--nothing to do but climb two or three thousand feet and just sit there and watch the country unfold, comparing the maplike surface of the earth spread out below with the map in the machine.

In good weather it is very easy to follow, spot roads, towns, woods, rivers and bridges.

Railroad tracks get lost at high altitudes and are harder to find anyway.

One has to keep an eye open for a place to land within gliding distance in case of a _panne_ always, but the country is so flat and so much cultivated around here that it is absurdly simple.

I endeavored always to keep some pleasant looking house or château in range in case of trouble, for the French are proverbially hospitable to aviators _en panne_ (lying to, descending).

Coming back yesterday evening, the sun was pretty low and the air absolutely calm, nothing but the drone of the motor and the wind; the only movements necessary an occasional slight pressure on the joy stick to one side or the other to keep the proper direction.

I came very nearly going to sleep, it was so peaceful up there; several times closed my eyes and swayed a bit.

As a matter of fact one is perfectly safe at that altitude--anything over a thousand feet--because the machine, at least this particular type, won’t get into any position from which one cannot get it out within 200 metres at most.

But nevertheless I haven’t tried any impromptu falls as yet.

This morning I repeated the same identical performance, because for some reason we have to do two _petits voyages_, and had much the same kind of a time as yesterday.

On the way home one cylinder quit its job and threw oil instead, covering me from head to foot and clouding up my goggles so I had to wipe them off about every minute.

When I got back the mechanics decided that that motor had died of old age and would have to be repaired, so I am again without a machine.

Have watched a beautiful afternoon pass by from the barracks when without my luck I’d be working.

But with a machine and weather, I can be finished tomorrow;

two triangles to do about 200 kilometres (125 miles) each and I can do one in the morning and the other in the evening and then I’m breveted.

Perhaps by day after tomorrow I’ll start _perfectionné_ on Nieuport.

I

hope so.

IX

September 9, 1917. Since my last to Father, I have had some very interesting times.

First, I finished my _brevet_ with very little excitement, made all my voyages and only got lost a little bit once.

Then I saw two machines on the ground in a field, made a rather dramatic spiral and steeply banked descent amidst a crowd of villagers and got away with it; then found that the machines belonged to two monitors who were bringing them from Paris and had effected a _panne de château_.

Being asked what I was doing, I fortunately found a spark plug on the burn and got that repaired.

The rest of it was very easy, a bit of flying in the rain which stings the face a bit, but is not bad otherwise.

Since I have been on the Nieuport.

There are three sizes of machines on which one is trained, starting with the larger double command and going to the smallest.

At Pau, we get another even smaller, about as big as half-a-minute.

Four times I went out without a ride--bad weather, crowded class and busted machines, the same old story.

Then last night I had my first rides with a monitor who is rather oldish, crabbed and new at his job, a brand new aviator.

As you know, when an airplane takes a turn, it does not remain horizontal but banks up: _comme ça_ (if you can interpret that illustration--it shows signs of remarkable imaginative power)--_alors_, one banks to take a turn and uses the rudder only a very little because the machine turns along when banked.

There is a sort of falling-out feeling the first few times until one becomes a part of the machine.

To get back to the story, this monitor does not like to bank his machine and sort of sidles round the corners, keeping it quite flat and almost slipping out to the outside of the turn.

I have done many fool things in a machine and made many mistakes, but never have I been so scared in anything in my life as when riding with this monitor.

A

monitor is supposed to let the pupil drive as much as he is able, but this bird never let me make a move, and when we got through told me I was too brutal.

I was never madder in my life and cursed nice American cuss words all the way home.

There’s a fifteen kilo ride in a seatless tractor back to camp to improve a bad humor.

Well, this morning I saw some more rides impending and didn’t like it, so asked the _chef de piste_ to put me with another monitor.

He had to know why and I registered my kick, which practically said that the first monitor didn’t know his business and couldn’t drive, that I was scared to ride with him.

The _chef_ was a bit sarcastic and told me to take two rides with another monitor to show how _I_ could make a _virage_.

I did it the way I’ve been accustomed to, made a fairly short turn; when we got down, the monitor said “_Epatant_” (Am.

“stunning”) or something like that to the _chef_.

The _chef_ had meanwhile communicated my complaint to the first monitor and he was the maddest man I ever saw.

Demanded what “_Ce type là_” (indicating me) wanted, said the _virages_ I had just made were dangerously banked (the monitor I was with didn’t mind, though) and then all three started arguing at once at me and I spelled all the French I knew.

About that time I thought of what you had just told me in a letter about trusting in Latin, which advice and remarks I have come to agree with very much (my admiration for the French has waxed less daily), and here I realized that I had very successfully made a fool out of a man who was supposed to be my teacher, and he fully resented it.

Then, of all things, the lieutenant, without further remarks, said I was to continue with my first monitor.

My heart sank into my feet.

I had visions of staying in that class without rides or with only rides and fights for months; I rode no more this morning and what was my delight to find this evening that my bewhiskered pal had left on permission.

I got another monitor, a fine one who put his hands on the side of the machine and let me do everything with a bit of assistance on the landing, which is different from what I’ve been doing on the Caudron.

Seven rides and a finish--the twenty-three-metre tomorrow morning.

I wasn’t very good, but got by.

X

September 14, 1917. Things for me are going all right.

Have made progress on the Nieuport since last I wrote and will fly alone soon.

As regards the U. S.

Army, things are at a standstill until I get to Paris which will be a week or so.

I hope to go to the front in a French _escadrille_ and in an American uniform.

Some say it can be done; some that it cannot.

It sounds so sensible that I am afraid there must be some regulation against it.

XI

September 27, 1917. Since last I wrote a regular letter, considerable has taken place.

First, I am now at Pau, having finished up Avord.

Have sent postcards to Father right along to keep track of movements.

After _brevet_ was over, I did not take the customary permission of forty-eight hours, but went straight to work on Nieuport, D. C.

(double command).

One cannot learn a great deal riding with an instructor--only about enough to keep from smashing in landing, because one never knows when the instructor is messing with the controls, when it’s one’s self.

There are five kinds of Nieuports--differing mainly in size, the smaller being faster and more agile in the air, better adapted to eccentric flying.

They are 28, 23, 18, 15, 13 (the baby Nieuport).

At Avord I had about a week of D. C.

on 28 and 23 (the numbers refer to size of wings) with several days of no work.

Then some days on 23 alone and finally on 18 alone.

The landings are a bit different from those of the machines I had been flying as they are faster and the machines are quite nose-heavy.

In the air the nose-heavy feature makes them “fly themselves”--that is, according to the speed of the motor the machine will rise and climb or _piqué_ and descend, with never a touch from the pilot.

If the weather is not very bad, the Nieuport will correct itself automatically from all displacements.

But in landing the nose-heavy feature causes a great many _capotages_.

If the landing isn’t done about right with the tail low--over she goes on her nose or all the way onto her back.

It is a very common occurrence and has become almost a joke.

When a pupil capotes, everybody kids him--no one hurries over to see if he is hurt, not at all; he climbs out from under, usually cursing, and in ten minutes the truck is out to salvage the wreck.

It is astounding the way smashes are taken as a matter of course.