OVERVIEW:
FLYING FOR FRANCE: With the American Escadrille at Verdun by James R. McConnell is a historical account published in the early 20th century. The book recounts the experiences of American volunteers who joined the French aviation service during World War I, particularly focusing on the American Escadrille engaged in aerial combat at Verdun, one of the war's most significant battles. It offers insight into the valor and camaraderie of these pilots, as well as their motivations for joining the fight for liberty and justice in a foreign land. The opening of the book introduces the reader to the protagonist, Sergeant James R. McConnell, detailing his transition from ambulance driver to aspiring fighter pilot in the French Flying Corps. It captures McConnell's initial experiences at an aviation field where the realities of war feel distant yet are acutely present as he and his comrades prepare for flight missions over the front lines. Through vivid imagery and engaging accounts, McConnell sets the stage for the dramatic encounters that await him, providing a glimpse of both the camaraderie and peril faced by the American pilots as they navigate the challenges of aerial combat amidst the horrors of war.
The following excerpt from FLYING FOR FRANCE is titled 1. VERDUN - TACTICS OF AN AIR BATTLE:
1.
VERDUN
TACTICS OF AN AIR BATTLE
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 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 [type of volley gun with barrels of rifle calibre] 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.
Rockwell, who attacked so often that he has lost all count, and who shoves his machine gun fairly in the faces of the Germans, used to swear their planes were armored. Lieutenant de Laage, whose list of combats is equally extensive, has brought down only one. Hall, with three machines to his credit, has had more luck. Lufbery, who has evidently evolved a secret formula, has dropped four, according to official statistics, since his arrival on the Verdun front. Four "palms," the record for the escadrille, glitter on the ribbon of the Croix de Guerre accompanying his Médaille Militaire. [Footnote: This book was written in the fall of 1915. Since that time, many additional machines have been credited to the American flyers.]
As it turned over, it showed its white belly for an instant, then seemed to straighten out and planed downward in big zigzags. The pilot must have gripped his controls even in death, for his craft did not tumble as most do. It passed between my line of vision and a wood, into which it disappeared. Just as I was going down to find out where it landed, I saw it again skimming across a field, heading straight for the brown band beneath me. It was outlined against the shell-racked earth like a tiny insect, until just northwest of Douaumont, it crashed down upon the battlefield. A sheet of flame and smoke shot up from the tangled wreckage. For a moment or two, I watched it burn, and then I went back to the observation machines.
I thought Lufbery would show up and point to where the German had fallen. He failed to appear, and I began to be afraid it was he whom I had seen come down instead of an enemy. I spent a worried hour before my return home. After getting back, I learned that Lufbery was quite safe, having hurried in after the fight to report the destruction of his adversary before somebody else claimed him, which is only too frequently the case. Observation posts, however, confirmed Lufbery's story, and he was of course very much delighted. Nevertheless, at luncheon I heard him murmuring, half to himself: "Those poor fellows."
The German machine gun operator, having probably escaped death in the air, must have had a hideous descent. Lufbery told us he had seen the whole thing, spiraling down after the German. He said he thought the German pilot must be a novice, judging from his maneuvers. It occurred to me that he might have been making his first flight over the lines, doubtless full of enthusiasm about his career. Perhaps, dreaming of the Iron Cross and his Gretchen, he took a chance, and then swift death and a grave in the shell-strewn soil of Douaumont.
Generally, the escadrille is relieved by another fighting unit after two hours over the lines. We turn homeward, and soon the hangars of our field loom up in the distance. Sometimes I've been mighty glad to see them and not infrequently I've concluded the pleasantest part of flying is just after a good landing. Getting home after a sortie, we usually go into the rest tent and talk about the morning's work. Then some of us lie down for a nap, while others play cards or read. After lunch, we go to the field again and the man on guard gets his chance to eat. If the morning sortie has been an early one, we go up again about one o'clock in the afternoon. We are home again in two hours and after that, two or three energetic pilots may make a third trip over the lines. The rest wait around, ready to take the air if an enemy bombardment group ventures to visit our territory—as it has done more than once over Bar-le-Duc. False alarms are plentiful, and we spend many hours aloft squinting at an empty sky.
You can find the complete eBook edition of FLYING FOR FRANCE by James R. McConnell at: https://tinyurl.com/bdd4keat
Complete World War One works of author Cotter Bass and Moonshadow Publishing: https://tinyurl.com/4v68wcy8
Next time: A YANKEE IN THE TRENCHES by R. Derby Holmes . . . . .
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