ONE

AN OCCUPATION FOR GENTLEMEN



The First World War was more than half over when the United States entered it in April 1917 and well into its last year before American troops engaged enemy forces on the Western Front. By then the terrible battles of Ypres, Verdun, and the Somme had been fought, and German troops had launched their 1917 spring offensive. That belated commitment came far too late for many young American men; from the first day, August 4, 1914, they were eager to get into this war that was not theirs.

Among those eager young men were seven who joined the French cause in the first months of the war, trained with the Service Aéronautique, and were the first to join what became the Lafayette Escadrille, the first squadron of American pilots to fly for France. They came from different places and from different lives.

Their motives for joining that far-off, foreign war were various and complex. Kiffin Rockwell was the son of an old southern family and the grandson of Confederate officers who had fought in the War Between the States. He'd been a student at Virginia Military Institute and considered himself already a trained soldier who only needed the experience of battle to fulfill himself. The war in Europe was "a great opportunity," he wrote to his mother soon after he enlisted—an opportunity, perhaps, to follow his grandfathers' example in a great charge, like the rebel charge at Chancellorsville. To that motive he added another, in a letter from France: "If I should be killed in this war I will at least die as a man should … I think if anything will make a man of me, it is this giving as a volunteer one's best for an ideal." Rockwell had just turned twenty-two. At that age, manhood is not a condition but a goal, and war is a training ground, a test. And death? Death is a romantic dream.

Victor Chapman, on holiday from his art studies in Paris, joined the French Foreign Legion, as Rockwell and many of the others did, but for reasons that seem quite opposite. Rockwell wanted romantic war, a war of ideals. Chapman didn't write about such abstractions; his letters home are about the hard life of a common legionnaire, and his aim seems to have been simply to submerge himself in that life. You can speculate about why he would want to do that—perhaps to escape from his father, John Jay Chapman, a well-known New York man of letters with a high opinion of himself and high expectations for his children—but you can't know. What you do know from his letters is that when he was in the Foreign Legion he was happy.

James McConnell quit his job with a railroad company and headed for war. Like Rockwell, McConnell saw the war as an opportunity—the opportunity of a lifetime, he told a friend back home. "These Sand Hills," he said, gesturing toward the North Carolina landscape he lived in, "will be here forever, but the war won't, and so I'm going." That explanation seemed to worry him, for he added, "And I'll be of some use, too, not just a sight-seer looking on; that wouldn't be fair." But clearly his deep motive wasn't service; it was curiosity. War would be memorable, something huge and strange—like seeing Africa or the South Pole. It would be history happening, bigger than anything that could possibly happen to you back home. And he'd be right there in it. Curiosity like that is a young man's itch; whatever you're doing when you're eighteen or twenty or twenty-two, it's bound to be less exciting than the war that other young men just like you are fighting, somewhere else. Your idea of what that war is like will be far from the reality—nobody can imagine war who hasn't seen and heard and touched and smelled it—but that war in your head will have a powerful attraction nonetheless. And so you'll go where it is. So McConnell went.

William Thaw and Norman Prince had both lived in France when they were children and felt a love for the country that was a motive—something like patriotism, as though they were partly French. They were also both already sportsman-pilots, and that gave them another motive. In the air above the Western Front the world's first flying war was being fought; up there they would use their flying skills in a new kind of sport, played for the highest possible stakes. Where else would you find a challenge like that?

I don't know why Elliot Cowdin, a well-off young man of no visible employment, chose to go to war: he seems to have left no records, and there are gaps in his story. And then there was Bert Hall, a Paris taxi driver. In En l'Air!, the book he wrote toward the end of the war, he said he enlisted two days after the war began, because "if a country is good enough to live in it is good enough to fight for." But everyone who knew Hall agreed that you couldn't believe anything he said (for example, he didn't enlist on August sixth but on the twenty-first). Would an American drifter who happened to be driving a taxi in Paris love France enough to fight for it? If he had been driving a taxi in Berlin, would he have fought for the Germans? Maybe the French army looked like a better job than taxi driving—not as well-paying (a common soldier in the French army got a penny a day in 1914), but more interesting and more exciting. Give it a try.

Here they are, all seven of them, with their two French officers. The date of the photograph is May 1916; by now they're all trained pilots and are wearing the uniform of the Service Aéronautique. Most of them didn't set out to be fliers. Only Prince enlisted directly in the French air service; Thaw tried to, but was turned down. Four—Chapman, Rockwell, Hall, and Thaw—first joined the French Foreign Legion and fought in the trenches; two—Cowdin and McConnell—first served as drivers in the American Ambulance Field Service.

It may seem strange that six of the first seven Lafayette Escadrille pilots should have begun their war on the ground. There are practical explanations. The French flight-training program was crowded in those early days, and there were more would-be pilots than there were training planes. For foreigners, the only sure and immediate routes into the war were the Foreign Legion and the ambulance service. The Legion had always welcomed les étrangers, no questions asked; criminals, fugitives, and vagabonds could submerge their old selves in the anonymity of the Legion—all you had to do was remember the alias you made up. To some young men—romantic ones like Rockwell—the regiments of the Legion must have seemed to offer what they wanted, pure war, where the real soldiers were and the real battles were being fought, right now.

The American Ambulance Field Service was almost the opposite: it was staffed and financed by Americans and recruited its drivers mainly on American college campuses, and its mission was not killing but saving lives. You can see how appealing that would be to some young men: you could be a sightseer at the war, as McConnell put it, while also being useful. You wouldn't hurt anybody, and you might even persuade your mother that in an ambulance you wouldn't get hurt. College students could sign up to drive during their summer vacation and be home again in time for the fall semester. It would be sort of like summer camp or a guided tour of the Continent.

There was another explanation for the earthbound choices those future pilots made in 1914 and early 1915: in the first months of the war combat flying hadn't yet become romantic. The planes that flew above the Western Front weren't there to fight, because they couldn't: they weren't armed. They were observation planes—a superior means of looking around, nothing more. The heroic myth of the air war, in which single pilots fought each other as though they were chivalric knights, would come later.

One more thing remains to be said about those seven pilots. I can say it best in the form of a table:

One of the seven is missing from that table—Bert Hall. We'll come back to him.

Those six young men were all from well-off families, the kind that can afford to educate their sons in expensive schools and colleges. They were "college men"—a phrase of the time that identified not only an educational level but a small elite class; if America had an aristocracy, they'd be in it.

It's not surprising that men of that class and background were drawn to military flying; even before the war, flying, for such young men, was a dashing, dangerous sport, like ocean sailing, motor racing, and polo. The men they knew who flew were sportsmen, who did what they did for its own sake, and for the competitiveness of it, and for the danger. If you were a sportsman-flier you entered air races and air meets, or you tried to set records—altitude records, speed records, distance records, endurance records (which would then be broken by some other gentleman sportsman)—or you flew from somewhere to somewhere else—Philadelphia to New York, Boston to Albany, New York to Washington, it didn't much matter where—and dreamed of flying coast-to-coast or even across the Atlantic.

This kind of sportsman flying was expensive; you'd have to be wealthy to afford it. Two of the first seven Lafayette fliers were rich men's sons. Norman Prince was the son of a Boston financier who expected his son to be a lawyer. Norman dutifully went to Harvard (class of 1908) and Harvard Law School (1911), passed the bar exam, and joined a Chicago law firm. It must have seemed to his father that that was that: his son was settled in what would be a prosperous upper-class career. But Norman was less interested in torts and injunctions than he was in a sportsman's life. In 1912 he began to take flying lessons (he had to do it under a pseudonym to conceal his defection from his father), and in 1913 he quit the law altogether.

William Thaw had a more indulgent rich man for a father—a Pittsburgh banker who didn't seem to mind at all when his son dropped out of Yale after his sophomore year (it was 1913) to take up flying. He even bought him a plane of his own, a Curtiss flying boat that young Thaw kept moored at the family's Newport home and used to take friends cruising over Narragansett Bay, as though a plane were simply a new kind of yacht.

The social class that Prince and Thaw belonged to would provide many of the American volunteers who first flew for the French and became the Lafayette Escadrille (including all but one of the seven in the photograph). But what about the seventh, the odd man out? Bert Hall was the son of a Missouri dirt farmer. Uneducated and poor, Bert had worked as a farmhand, a section hand on a railway, a chauffeur, a circus performer (he was the "Human Cannonball"), and a seaman before he reached Paris and took up taxi driving.

Many men like Hall—wanderers, jacks-of-all-trades, free spirits—became pilots in the European war. Some flew with the Lafayette Escadrille: the great Raoul Lufbery was one; Eddie Rickenbacker was another. (Lufbery had been an aviation mechanic before he became a pilot; Rickenbacker had been a racing driver.) The use of such men as pilots didn't bother other Allied air forces (or for that matter the Germans); they'd probably serve as enlisted men, while the gentlemen pilots became commissioned officers, but they'd fly. For the Americans, however, the social class to which military pilots would belong, and from which they should be drawn, was a question to be debated.

* * *

By early 1915, Kiffin Rockwell had spent enough time—some four months—in the trenches to know what war in the Foreign Legion was like. It was, he had found, a small-scale, anonymous business in which the dying was grotesque and random and without glory and the space between battles was filled with mud, lice, bad food, shell fire, and blistered feet. In a letter to his brother Paul, who had been invalided out of the trenches and sent back to Paris, he wrote, "The reason I keep writing you not to come back here is because I know that you are not able to stand it, and then there is no romance or anything to the infantry. It is not a question of bravery, it is a question of being a good day laborer. So if you don't want to leave the service, get into something that requires education and not brute strength." Kiffin will stay in the Legion for another eight months, fight in some fierce battles, and be badly wounded, but he has served without belief in the war he is fighting; as he says in that February letter, he has rejected two of the big words of war: "romance" and "bravery." Reality has revised his dream.

But to Rockwell one big word remains: "gentleman." To realize that word, he will turn to aviation. That move will be more than a change in the work he does; it will be a change of class. To switch from infantry to flying, he wrote to his mother, was to "jump from the lowest branch of the military service to the highest. It is the most interesting thing I have ever done, and is the life of a gentleman, and I am surrounded by gentlemen." The move meant, among other things, comfort: clean clothes on your back, clean sheets on your bed, a bath when you need one, a little money in your pocket. With all those comforts, you are a gentleman. And you are treated like one. Rockwell had been a day laborer at war long enough.

Victor Chapman felt differently about the Legion; he had found a kind of contentment in the ordinary life of a machine gunner. "We, the Mitraille, are joyous," he wrote to his father, "good chiefs, fair treatment, and sure fighting before us." But his father wanted more for his son than that; he wanted a war that would reflect glory on himself. That spring John Jay Chapman was in Paris pulling strings to transfer his son to the Service Aéronautique. "It is perfectly obvious," Victor wrote to his stepmother, "that I am not wanted [in the Air Service] and have been foisted on them by Uncle Willy and Papa." (Uncle Willy was his mother's brother, who lived in Paris and had connections.) But his father insisted, and so Victor left the Legion and became a pilot.

At the same time, Americans in the ambulance service were also beginning to look toward aviation as a better route to war. James McConnell, who had come to France as an ambulance driver, reflected in 1916 on his fellow drivers' motives for transferring to aviation: "There seems to be a fascination to aviation, particularly when it is coupled with fighting. Perhaps it's because the game is new, but more probably because nobody knows anything about it. Whatever the reason, adventurous young Americans were attracted by it in rapidly increasing numbers." The young drivers had come to France expecting excitement, adventure, danger, and the company of other young idealists, and some of them had been disappointed. They had imagined steering their ambulances full of wounded men to safety through exploding shells and whistling bullets; instead, they often found themselves driving supply trucks or simply hanging around, waiting. Even if they reached the front and drove an ambulance there, they often didn't feel altogether in the war. McConnell explained that feeling: "All along I had been convinced that the United States ought to aid in the struggle against Germany. With that conviction, it was plainly up to me to do more than drive an ambulance. The more I saw the splendour of the fight the French were fighting, the more I felt like an embusqué—what the British called a ‘shirker.' So I made up my mind to go into aviation."

In December 1915 three of the Americans who were flying with French squadrons—Elliot Cowdin, Norman Prince, and William Thaw—returned to the United States. Ostensibly, they were simply home on leave, but in fact they were there to demonstrate to their fellow Americans that the war in Europe was also an American war.

When the three arrived in New York, they were photographed on the deck of their ship, and the picture was distributed among American newspapers.

The publicity point of their visit is in the accompanying headlines: "Daring Flyers … Brilliant Exploits." If you read the copy below the photograph, you'll find their work described more soberly; they've been doing the ordinary scouting jobs that pilots have done since the war began—observing enemy troop movements, directing artillery fire. There's no mention of air-to-air combat: that kind of fighting, which makes pilots into heroes, is still ahead. But the material for heroes is already here—three young American gentlemen, two from Harvard, one from Yale, in their gentlemen's clothes, on the first-class deck of the Rotterdam.

Airplanes were rare in America in the years before the country entered the European war; in 1917 many citizens would never have seen one. They were almost as rare in the armed services as they were out on the farms: in the summer of 1913 the Army's airpower (it was called the Aviation Section of the Signal Corps) consisted of fifteen operational planes; in 1916, twenty-three; and in the spring of 1917, when the United States declared war, fifty-five, of which all but four were obsolete. The Army had used its planes in action only once, in 1916, when General John Pershing led a force into northern Mexico in search of the rebel leader Pancho Villa, who had been raiding over the border into American territory. The First Aero Squadron, with eight Curtiss JN-3s (known as Jennies), went along as part of the Signal Corps, to do Signal Corps jobs—to reconnoiter, to search, and to serve as couriers between Pershing and his separated units. The pilots were under orders not to respond to any attack by enemy forces, which they couldn't have done in any case, since they were unarmed.

The Secretary of War in those years, Newton Baker, expressed American thinking of the time on the subject of airplane use: "The aeroplane service is, of course, the scouting service." Of course. An airplane was like a balloon freed from its cable or a more powerful pair of binoculars—a device for observing the enemy from a better viewpoint than a patrol of cavalry had.

That might have been understandable in 1914, but in 1916, when Pershing marched into Mexico and Baker made his remark, it seems surprisingly ignorant. By then the British, the French, and the Germans had all been busy for two years inventing war in the air: the plane-against-plane combat, the many-plane dogfights, the bombing and strafing of troops. They had devised tactics of attack and defense, as the advantage and control of the air shifted and new models of planes were brought into action.

When the United States entered the war in 1917, American pilots couldn't do any of these air-war tricks, and neither could American planes. Furthermore, their country lacked the means to correct those shortcomings—the factories to mass-produce competitive fighting aircraft, the pilots to fly them, the instructors to train those pilots, the training fields to fly from, the staff to organize it all. All of these necessities for a modern air service would have to be created from scratch. The Air Service would enter the war in Europe two and a half years late, ill-equipped, ill-trained, and undermanned—a part of a nineteenth-century army in the world's first twentieth-century war. Belatedness would be like a second enemy: Americans would still be fighting against it when the war ended.

America was belated in every aspect of war-making in the spring of 1917: short of troops, guns, shells, rifles, uniforms, gas, tanks, tents, rations—everything. But the Aviation Section's belatedness was special, because aviation represented a new way of making war. Adding more infantry battalions would be relatively easy; you simply drafted enough men and taught them military skills that were already defined and in practice—marching and saluting and wrapping puttees, or leggings. And most American males would know how to fire a rifle already. But for an air service an entirely new military subculture would have to be created. What kinds of men do you want? What should their qualifications be? Should they all be officers? All volunteers? How should they relate to nonflying officers? To enlisted men? What should their uniforms look like? Some of these questions you could call training questions, but others are more a matter of imagination—imagining a service with no tradition, composed of young men who will not exactly be soldiers and whose war will often be fought alone, in a place where war had never been fought before, in the great vacancy of the sky.

To answer such questions, and to create a training program that would put the answers into practice, the Signal Corps might have turned to a senior officer on the Army List—some experienced old brigadier from the cavalry, say; that would have been the Army way. Instead, the Corps chose an Ivy League professor—Hiram Bingham, professor of South American history at Yale. It seems an odd decision: What could a university history professor have that an air service could use?

But Hiram Bingham wasn't your usual professor. He had learned what he knew about South America on mule-back expeditions into the mountains and jungles there, on one of which he had rediscovered the ancient Inca city of Machu Picchu. The books he wrote about those expeditions had earned him a reputation that reached far beyond New Haven and was more romantic than professorial.

Bingham certainly didn't think of himself as a professor: he preferred the term "explorer" (when he wrote his war memoir, he titled the book An Explorer in the Air Service). The New York Times went further; in an article on Machu Picchu in 2006, it called Bingham a "swashbuckling explorer." And he did look like one: tall (he was six feet two), lean and athletic-looking, and handsome in a hawk-faced way, with an intense, penetrating gaze. In 1917, forty-one years old and gray-haired, settled in New Haven with a wife and seven children, he must have felt that his swashbuckling days were over and that only years of teaching history and rearing children lay ahead. I can imagine that such a man might well have seen military aviation in a time of war as an honorable escape route from all that, a last shot at adventure.

So the Army didn't have to go looking for Bingham; he went looking for the Army. Even before the United States entered the war, he traveled all the way from Yale to Miami to enroll in the flying school that Glenn Curtiss, the aviation pioneer and plane builder, had established there. Bingham learned to fly both land and sea planes and earned his license as an "aviator pilot." It wasn't difficult, he said, a man could be taught to fly in a few days of good weather. (Actually, it took him two months.)

Bingham was still in Miami when war was declared. He applied at once for a commission in the Aviation Section of the Signal Corps and was summoned to Washington. He was appointed a major and ordered to plan a training program for thousands of new pilots. He immediately set to work, and as he interviewed and traveled and observed, a conception of what he was aiming for took shape in his mind. What he would create would not simply be a training syllabus—nothing so plain and pedagogical as that. It would be a process of selection and education that would produce ideal pilots—a swashbuckler's vision of flying heroes.

Bingham's account, in his 1920 war memoir, of how he came to imagine and define the ideal pilot candidate ends with this summarizing passage:

It was borne in on us by all those with whom we talked that the first necessity in the Air Service was to get the right type of personnel: fellows of quick, clear intelligence, mentally acute and physically fit; that the next thing was to make soldiers of them and teach them the value of military discipline; finally, that we should eliminate the unfit as fast as possible and avoid giving them flying instruction unless they proved themselves to be morally, physically, and mentally worthy of receiving the most expensive education in the world.

When I first read the end of that long sentence, I thought it had a familiar ring: surely I had read it in my boyhood, in some important text. I went back to the Boy Scout handbook, and there it was, in the third promise of the Scout Oath: "To keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight." So there was to be an element of the Boy Scout in the American combat pilot.

This ideal American pilot—wellborn, well educated, athletic, patriotic, and honorable in all his doings—wasn't invented by Bingham; he was simply endorsing a type that already existed in upper- and upper-middle-class American society. That ideal figure was there in the Yale men Bingham taught and took with him on his expeditions: he was Dink Stover of Yale; he was Princeton's athletic hero Hobey Baker; he was the young American gentleman, circa 1917. By accepting the assumption that such young men were the best possible material for combat pilots, the Service made a class distinction: flying—American combat flying—would be an occupation for gentlemen.

That assumption came up in Congress that summer when the Military Aviation Appropriation Bill was debated. Members of both houses were aware that they were engaged in an extraordinary process, the creation of an entirely new military force, and they struggled to explain to each other what the differences were. In the House of Representatives, Lenroot of Wisconsin tried to define an aviator: "An aviator is very different from a man in the Infantry or a man in the Cavalry. To fly requires altogether different qualifications. It requires nerve, bravery, and those things that can not be acquired, because each man has got to be his own boss and must act on his own initiative." And in the Senate, Norris of Nebraska said, "When [a pilot] flies out over the enemy or anywhere else he must necessarily in a sense be his own commander. He is really supreme."

Most of these congressmen had never flown, but they all seemed to have an idea—a romantic idea—of what a pilot should be: a solitary seeker, brave, supreme in his lonely element, self-reliant, self-commanded. Miller of Minnesota summed up this hero's qualities. "There is being attracted to the Aviation Corps," he said, "the brightest, nerviest, most efficient of our youth—what might be called the flower of our chivalry."

Congressmen worried about the implications of this idealized figure. If pilots were to be chivalric heroes, was it reasonable to draft them? If they were to be so independent and self-commanded, should they be college-educated? Wood of Indiana protested that "there are many men who have these diplomas who are not fit and can not be made fit to do the work required in the Aviation Service. Upon the other hand there are many men who have not college diplomas or high-school diplomas, but who have the intelligence, the nerve, and all the qualifications fitting them for this extraordinary service, who would make excellent aviators." Wood had a point: if only 3 percent of young American men were in college in 1917, was it just and sensible to exclude the other 97 percent from aviation service? In the end, Congress compromised: there would be regulations, including educational requirements, but the War Department would have the authority to waive them.

One other element from Bingham's vision of the perfect pilot made it into the final bill. "No person," it reads, "shall be … promoted, appointed, detailed, or attached until he shall have been found physically, mentally, and morally qualified under regulations prescribed by the Secretary of War." He'd not only be a college man and a gentleman (with perhaps some exceptions); he'd also be a Boy Scout.

These assumptions about flying and class would have consequences for the selection of pilots, but more than that, they would affect the way the young pilots thought about themselves and their pilot culture. From the beginning they would consider themselves an elite, separate from the rest of the military, and a bit superior. They'd be officers and gentlemen, but they would also be adventurers, explorers, sportsmen, romantic heroes. An aura of personal danger and possible sudden death would hang over them, and they'd absorb it. It would get into their letters home and into their conversations with one another. They'd fight their war in their own element, apart from the rest of the army, and that separateness would affect the way they lived, and the way they fought and died.



Copyright © 2014 by Samuel Hynes