Though small, these early Nieuport fighters had a deadly stinger. They were armed with a single .303-caliber Lewis machine gun, fastened to the top of the upper wing so that it could fire forward, just above the arc of the propeller. Because of this innovation, coupled with its superior flying performance, the Nieuport 11 was the first French design capable of countering the infamous German Fokker monoplane fighter. The Germans had been using its “Eindecker,” designed and built by the young Dutchman, Anthony Fokker, with such devastating success over the past year that Allied pilots had come to consider themselves “Fokker Fodder.”
This machine gun arrangement was an innovation that evened the score for Allied pilots. They had for some time been up against German aircraft equipped with an interrupter gear that allowed their pilots to fire a belt-fed machine gun straight ahead through the propeller. Now, Allied pilots could also “point and shoot” by firing a Lewis machine gun over the top of the propeller arc. However, the early Lewis ammunition drums, like the one seen here, held just 47 rounds and delivered a brief five-second burst—provided it didn’t jam. Pilots had to change drums and clear jams in a 100-mile-per-hour gale, while flying the airplane and evading the enemy with the control stick held between their knees. (Source Unknown)
The secret of the Eindecker’s success was not its flight performance, but rather its armament. It was equipped with a revolutionary interrupter mechanism that allowed its belt-fed 7.9-mm machine gun, mounted in front of the pilot, to fire forward through the spinning wooden propeller without hitting and splintering it into a million pieces. German airmen had dramatically capitalized on this feature, which allowed them to aim the machine gun simply by pointing the nose of their airplane at the target. Many Allied aircraft had fallen victim to Fokkers, particularly those flown by the early German aces, Max Immelmann and Oswald Boelcke. The Nieuport pilots now had the upper hand, thanks to their own forward-firing gun and the sparkling performance of their Bébé. The nimble, fast Nieuport was superior to the Eindecker in almost every respect, but the primitive-looking German monoplane was still a deadly adversary.
* * *
An excellent air-to-air view of a Fokker Eindecker E.III in flight—in this case, a replica with famed late stunt pilot Frank Tallman at the controls, circa early 1960s. Though the plane’s flying characteristics were mediocre at best, it featured a machine gun synchronized to shoot through the propeller. For that reason alone, the E-series Fokker became the favorite mount for the earliest German aces—and a dangerous adversary for the pilots of Escadrille N.124. (American Aviation Historical Society)
The unique new Escadrille Américaine now had officers, trained pilots, support personnel, and first-rate fighter planes on hand. It was finally time for the world to see, for the first time in history, what an American fighter squadron could do.
CHAPTER 3
FIRST BLOOD
“The heavens are their battlefield; they are the Cavalry of the clouds.”
Life at Luxeuil for the men of the new Escadrille Américaine was far better than any of them could ever have expected in the midst of a world war. They were quartered in a large, comfortable villa located in a resort town dozens of miles behind the frontlines, they ate their meals in a fine hotel restaurant, and they were chauffeured around in an open touring car like famous celebrities.
The American pilots reporting to Escadrille N.124 at Luxeuil-les-Bains in April 1916 lived the good life. They were quartered in a villa near the thermal baths and for their meals walked a short distance down Rue Carnot to the Hôtel du Lion Vert restaurant, where they dined in elegance. Until their fighting aircraft arrived, they amused themselves with the local ladies or, as pictured here, playing billiards at Madame Voge’s. From left: James McConnell, Victor Chapman, Madame Voge, and Kiffin Rockwell. (Washington and Lee University Archives)
The Good Life
All aviators in the world’s first air war—and especially single-seat fighter pilots—were members of an elite club. These pioneers were among the very few with both the courage and the skill to take to the skies to do battle in warfare’s newest weapon. For that reason, they captured the public’s imagination. When compared to the grinding, muddy, vermin-infested killing grounds of the trenches, war in the air seemed clean, heroic—even romantic. The one-on-one aerial dogfights, observed for miles around by those on the ground, seemed part of an exciting game. It is, therefore, not surprising that these pilots, twisting and turning all over the sky, were more like sports heroes than fighting men.
They were far more than sports heroes, however. These specially trained men who waged combat in a world arena for all to see were fighting not only for their country, but for their very lives. They flew and fought mostly alone, and when they died, they typically died alone. They were in many ways comparable to the gladiators of ancient Rome or the knights of the Middle Ages. The manner in which British Prime Minister David Lloyd George described these “knights of the air” in an October 29, 1917, speech to the House of Commons expresses how the public typically viewed fighting airmen of that era:
The heavens are their battlefield; they are the Cavalry of the clouds. High above the squalor and the mud … they fight out the eternal issues of right and wrong…. Every flight is a romance; every report is an epic. They are the knighthood of this war, without fear and without reproach. They recall the old legends of chivalry, not merely the daring of their exploits, but by the nobility of their spirit, and, amongst the multitude of heroes, let us think of the chivalry of the air.
All combat aviators of this period enjoyed an exalted status, but the Americans who volunteered to fly for France were on an even loftier pedestal. The amount of worldwide publicity the new Escadrille Américaine had already received was staggering. The French were only too happy to put these heroic Americans on public display. It was good for morale and it made for excellent propaganda. Likewise, an increasingly pro-Allied American public was proud to read about its young countrymen who had volunteered to fly and fight for a cause in which they believed. The press coverage converted these men into worldwide celebrities. Their pictures appeared in newspapers, magazines, and newsreels, and everywhere they went, they were hounded by reporters for interviews and photos. The new Escadrille Américaine and the names of each American in it soon became known the world over.
Some of the American pilots not only welcomed this attention, they also contributed to it. One of those who did not was Kiffin Rockwell, who wrote to his brother Paul in a May 6, 1916, letter:
The original members of Escadrille Américaine who reported to Luxeuil in April 1916. From left: Victor Chapman, Elliot Cowdin, Bert Hall, William Thaw, Capitaine Thénault, Lieutenant de Laage, Norman Prince, Kiffin Rockwell, and James McConnell. The captain’s German shepherd Fram, along with two other squadron members from the animal world, pose in the foreground. (Washington and Lee University Archives)
In regard to photographs, every single fellow seems to be trying to beat the others in sending news to the newspapers, so there is going to be a damned sight too much publicity as it is, and every time the least thing happens, four or five will be sending telegrams to the papers. So I had rather not bother with any of it as all this junk they pull off makes me sick.
Accompanying the American pilots’ new degree of notoriety was a new lifestyle. For all of them, it was dramatically different from anything they had experienced in the Legion, the ambulance service, or even in flight training. As James McConnell described it in Flying for France:
Rooms were assigned to us in a villa adjoining the famous hot baths of Luxeuil, where Cæsar’s cohorts were wont to besport themselves. We messed with our officers … at the best hotel in town. An automobile was always on hand to carry us to the field. I began to wonder whether I was a summer resorter instead of a soldier.
Kiffin Rockwell was equally impressed with the fine reception they received at Luxeuil. After his months in the trenches and the Spartan lifestyle of a student aviator, it must have
seemed as though he had arrived in paradise. As he wrote to his mother on April 20, 1916:
I am at last in escadrille but a good distance from the front and, so far, it is like being on a pleasant trip to a resort…. We all eat together at a hotel where wonderfully good meals are served. We occupy a villa that has been requisitioned for us, with orderlies to wait on us. We go down each day about one hundred yards from here to bathe in a bath-house that is over two hundred years old…. If it were not for looking in the glass and seeing myself in uniform I should not be able to believe that I am at war, or that there is such a thing as war.
The quaint Vosges town belonged to the young Americans as they swaggered around the streets of Luxeuil, as did the hearts of many women there, young and old. Deprived of their men by the raging war, the lonely ladies of Luxeuil were completely enamored with the dashing and famous “aviateurs américains.” They were veritable gods, and as suggested by letters the men wrote during this period, their opportunities for amour were abundant and their conquests numerous. James McConnell wrote in an April 30, 1916, letter to Paul Rockwell, “Why it’s an effort to avoid being raped. I’ve obliged a couple but have settled down to occupy myself with a very interesting looking young lady of Italian birth…. They’re not used to soldiers here and so things flow our way.”
Political Opposition
Not everyone, however, approved of the newly formed Franco-American flying unit. Many Americans who strongly favored maintaining strict neutrality decried the establishment of the American squadron as a step closer to US entry into the war. Other detractors felt that these trained pilots should return to the United States and help develop their own country’s woefully deficient air service. Most of all, pro-German Americans joined the German government in strongly opposing Americans taking up arms against Germany. Charging that it was a flagrant violation of existing neutrality laws, they bitterly protested to the American government.
The flames of German resentment for the American fliers had been fanned even hotter back in December 1915. William Thaw, Norman Prince, and Elliot Cowdin, all of whom were, at the time, flying with French squadrons and would soon become founding members of the new all-American squadron, returned to the United States for Christmas leave. They arrived on December 23 to great public fanfare and extensive press coverage. The articles in US newspapers regarding the US fliers and their efforts in support of the French were nearly all favorable. These glowing reports about their exploits greatly pleased the French government, but the Germans understandably had an entirely different take on the matter. The issue was brought to a head by a chance encounter and a less-than-friendly exchange of views in a New York barbershop between the German Ambassador to the United States, Herr Johann Heinrich von Bernstorff, and William Thaw. As a result, the three aviators decided to hightail it back to France before US authorities decided to intern them as belligerents in a neutral country. For now, however, the complaints about the Americans flying for France had no tangible effect.
Not everyone approved of citizens from neutral America flying for France. Back in December 1915, Norman Prince, Elliot Cowdin, and William Thaw (pictured here, from left to right)—all of whom had been flying in French squadrons—returned to the United States for Christmas leave. It was a newsworthy event on both sides of the Atlantic, but not all the press was good. An open letter from the editor of the pro-German weekly newspaper, The Fatherland, appeared in the Christmas edition of the New York Times, urging the arrest of the three fliers for neutrality violation. Fearing detainment, they cut short their leave and returned to France. (Library of Congress)
First Mission
When the first Americans arrived at Luxeuil, the new squadron was already well on its way to becoming operational. As James McConnell described it, in his typically colorful way:
Everything was brand new, from the fifteen Fiat trucks to the office, magazine, and rest tents. And the men attached to the escadrille! At first sight they seemed to outnumber the Nicaraguan army—mechanicians, chauffeurs, armourers, motorcyclists, telephonists, wireless operators, Red Cross stretcher bearers, clerks! Afterward I learned they totalled seventy-odd, and that all of them were glad to be connected with the American Escadrille.
More work was necessary, however, before the new squadron was ready for wartime missions. Most of the airplanes arrived from the factory in pieces, packed in crates and canvas-covered trailers, so they had to be assembled, and machine guns installed and adjusted. As part of the preparation process, each pilot also instructed his “mécanicien” to paint a personal insignia on his assigned airplane. Though partly ego-driven, it was also a matter of practicality: it allowed the pilots to recognize each another in the air. Most chose as their personal trademark their initials or a nickname: Rockwell was “R,” Hall was “H,” and McConnell was “MAC.” In the ensuing months, personal insignia would evolve into many different forms, but the practice continued throughout the life of the squadron.
Bert Hall posing with his Nieuport 16 N.1208 “BERT.” He later flew with his name reversed on one side to read “TREB,” so that, as he put it, “Pilots can now tell who I am, no matter how they pass me.” Most of the Escadrille N.124 pilots displayed some type of personal insignia so they could be recognized in the air. (Charles Woolley)
Capitaine Thénault also used this time to familiarize his pilots with the surrounding Vosges countryside and to develop some semblance of the teamwork they would need to accomplish their mission—and remain alive. Specifically, that mission was to fly protection for the French Groupe de Bombardement 4, with which they shared the aerodrome at Luxeuil. This group, led by the famed Capitaine Felix Happe, was planning a series of strategic bombing missions into Germany.
All of the many preparations needed to make the new squadron an effective operational unit took time, but by May 13, 1916, it was ready. At sunrise, five Nieuports took off from the aerodrome at Luxeuil. Leading the “V” formation was Kiffin Rockwell, with James McConnell and Victor Chapman just behind and to either side. The veterans, Capitaine Thénault and Sous-lieutenant William Thaw brought up the rear. They patrolled the lines at an altitude of 13,000 feet, with the Swiss Alpine mountain peaks to the south “glistening like icebergs in the morning sun,” as James McConnell described it. After an hour or so, they returned to Luxeuil, very cold but with nothing to report other than scattered antiaircraft fire. It was an uneventful mission, but Escadrille N.124 had its first patrol under its belt and was now officially open for business.
All nine pilots of Escadrille N.124 in flight gear at Luxeuil, May 14, 1916. From left: Victor Chapman, Elliot Cowdin, Bert Hall, William Thaw, Lieutenant de Laage, Norman Prince, James McConnell, Kiffin Rockwell, and Capitaine Thénault. In the background, mechanic Michel Plaa-Porte stands in front of the Nieuport. This photo was among the many taken at Luxeuil on May 14, 1916, by a professional film crew. (Library of Congress)
To mark the occasion, a film crew and United Press reporter that Cowdin and Prince had brought back with them from Paris recorded for posterity scenes of the men and machines of the famed American escadrille. This interesting and revealing footage still exists today. As Victor Chapman described it in a May 14, 1916, letter:
Well, we pulled it off this morning despite the rain and low clouds. I never was so be-photo’d or ever hope to be again. In large groups and small ones; singly, talking, and silent; in the air, and on the ground, by “movies” and in poses…. Then one at a time we bumped out [in our planes] and rushed by [the cameraman out in the middle of the flying field]. I must say that he had nerve for we décolle’d [took off] just before him, and, after a turn of the field, we each dived just over him, then came round and landed…. Kiffin and Berty Hall were much peeved to think that some—person was going to make heaps of money out of us, and we’d risked our necks for nothing. (None of us liked to maneuver so close together with the plafond [cloud ceiling] at 300 metres). “Think of the honor,” said I. “Oh, no, give me the cash and keep it,” sai
d Bert.
Kiffin Rockwell also mentioned this film session in a letter to his mother when he wrote, “About a week ago, we all gave flights before a moving picture concern. The pictures are going to be shown in America. If you see them advertised be sure and go, and look for a machine with an “R” on the side and that will be Kiffin.”
The original members of Escadrille Américaine posing at Luxeuil on May 14, 1916, with the bomber pilots of Groupe de Bombardement 4, with which they shared the aerodrome. The tall, bearded Capitaine Felix Happe, who commanded the bomb group, stands to the right of center between Elliot Cowdin and Capitaine Thénault. The Americans left Luxeuil before flying any missions with Happe but would rejoin him a few months later. (US Air Force)
The Lafayette Escadrille: A Photo History of the First American Fighter Squadron Page 5