Raoul Lufbery stands next to Nieuport 17 N.1485, wearing the standard-issue flight suit that was specifically designed to protect pilots from the intense cold. Lufbery reported to N.124 at Behonne on May 24, 1916. He was not impressive in appearance or speech, and he initially had so much trouble mastering the fast, maneuverable Nieuport fighter that his instructors nearly washed him out. Understandably, no one could have imagined that he would develop into one of the war’s deadliest aces. (Washington and Lee University Archives)
When war broke out, Pourpe enlisted in the air service, while Raoul joined the Foreign Legion in order to remain Pourpe’s mechanic. Pourpe was killed in a flying accident in December 1914, which prompted Lufbery—who vowed to avenge his friend’s death—to apply for pilot training. He first served with Escadrille V.B.106, flying slow, cumbersome Voisins, before being accepted into training as a chasse pilot. Surprisingly, the future ace and virtuoso of aerial combat had difficulty mastering the fast and highly maneuverable Nieuport fighter. However, he finally qualified and received orders to Escadrille N.124, at Behonne.
9. CAPORAL HORACE CLYDE BALSLEY was born on July 27, 1893, to Reverend Enos and Elizabeth Balsley and was living in San Antonio, Texas, when the war in Europe erupted. In January 1915, intending, as he later wrote to his mother, “to see the war, to see it well,” Balsley answered a newspaper ad for “white and colored men to take care of horses and mules from here to Europe.” He soon found himself aboard the S.S. Dunedin, sailing from New Orleans to Great Britain. After arriving, he needed a job, so he crossed the English Channel and signed on with the American Ambulance Field Service in Paris. He remained here until his transfer to aviation in September 1915. On May 27, 1916, he reported to the Escadrille Américaine at Behonne.
10. CAPORAL CHARLES CHOUTEAU “CHUTE” JOHNSON was born in St. Louis, Missouri, on September 18, 1889. His parents, US Army Captain David and Anne Johnson, were prominent members of St. Louis society. Like fellow Escadrille Américaine pilot James McConnell, Johnson attended the University of Virginia, graduating in 1909. The two were close friends, having partnered in business and shared an apartment in New York City. Soon after the war began, Johnson sailed for France and joined the American Ambulance Field Service, before transferring to aviation on September 2, 1915. He reported to Escadrille N.124 with Clyde Balsley on May 27, 1916.
11. CAPORAL LAURENCE DANA RUMSEY JR. was born on September 2, 1886, in Buffalo, New York, to wealthy parents, Laurence and Jennie Rumsey. After graduating from Harvard in 1908, he played professional polo until the war in Europe began, at which time he volunteered for the American Ambulance Field Service. Here, he served from January to July 1915. The following September, he entered into French aviation and was assigned to N.124 on June 4, 1916.
Laurence D. Rumsey Jr. poses with his Nieuport 11 N.1290 “RUM” at Behonne on June 16, 1916. After reporting to the squadron on June 4, his tenure there would be relatively short and disappointingly undistinguished. He and Norman Prince had been classmates in Harvard’s Class of ’08. (Washington and Lee University Archives)
12. CAPORAL DUDLEY “DUD” LAWRENCE HILL reported to N.124 at Behonne on June 9, 1916. Born in Peekskill, New York, to Edward and Jessee Hill, he—like most of his squadron mates—grew up in an affluent family. He graduated from Peekskill Military Academy in June 1914, and spent a short time at Cornell and New York University, before sailing for France to join the American Ambulance Field Service. That he was later accepted into aviation—he was blind in one eye and had once ruptured an eardrum—illustrates the lack of medical scrutiny these men typically received. Hill’s acceptance was, however, due more to deception than examiner apathy: he passed the eye exam by memorizing the chart. His handicap was eventually discovered, but only after he had demonstrated superior skills as a pilot.
13. SERGENT PIERRE DIDIER MASSON, like so many of the other men of N.124, already had a fascinating life before joining the squadron. He was born in France on February 23, 1886, to Jules and Sarah Masson. In 1909, he went to work for French aviator Louis Paulhan and soon learned to fly, making him one of history’s earliest aviators. The next year, he accompanied Paulhan to the United States to participate in an air exhibition in Los Angeles, and remained in the United States, flying exhibitions and making a name for himself. His greatest pre-war claim to fame, however, was as one of history’s first combat pilots. Beginning in May 1913, he flew in the Mexican Revolution as a paid mercenary for General Álvaro Obregón. Flying a Martin biplane, he made a series of attacks on the Federalist gunboat General Guerrero with makeshift pipe bombs. When World War I began, Masson returned to France and joined the Aéronautique Militaire. After breezing through flight training, he served with Escadrilles C.18 and N.68 before joining N.124 at Behonne on June 19, 1916.
14. CAPORAL PAUL “SKIPPER” PAVELKA was the last pilot to join N.124 at Behonne. Born on October 26, 1890, to Hungarian immigrants Paul and Anna Pavelka, he did not come from a family of wealth. He did, however, come with a wealth of experience. At the age of 16, he left his father’s Connecticut farm and struck out on his own, supporting himself with a series of odd jobs in the United States and Canada that took him all the way to the West Coast and then to Central and South America. Along the way, he was once mistakenly shot by a guard, while stowed away on a freight car, and nearly died of exposure walking across the Andes Mountains. After signing on with a Pacific freighter, he made his way around the world, and later served a stint in the US Navy. It was these latter experiences that earned him his nickname. In 1914, he traveled to France and joined the Foreign Legion, where he befriended Kiffin Rockwell. After several months of hard fighting, Pavelka transferred to aviation. He arrived at Behonne on August 11, 1916.
Dudley Hill reported to N.124 on June 9, 1916. He managed to transfer from the ambulance service into aviation despite being blind in one eye—a defect even the desperate French Air Service had trouble ignoring. He outwitted the medics by memorizing the eye chart and went on to become one of the squadron’s longest-serving pilots. (Washington and Lee University Archives)
Paul “Skipper” Pavelka poses beside Nieuport 21 N.1615 at Behonne, where he arrived on August 11, 1916. He had recently transferred from the trenches, fighting with the Foreign Legion. Note the ammunition drum for the wing-mounted Lewis machine gun and the castor oil on the fuselage and wing blown back from the Le Rhône air-cooled rotary engine. Pilots sometimes breathed and swallowed enough of this natural laxative while flying to suffer its unpleasant effects later. (Washington and Lee University Archives)
* * *
Meanwhile, the air fighting over Verdun continued in its deadly intensity, and for Escadrille Américaine, the bleeding was not yet finished.
CHAPTER 5
SEASON OF DISCONTENT
“I think that in a few weeks I will be pretty sick with the outfit.”
On the early afternoon of June 1, 1916, a formation of German bombers flying at high altitude slowly approached the flying field at Behonne and adjacent residential areas of Bar-le-Duc. Bomb payloads were severely limited in 1916, and the art of bomb aiming virtually nonexistent; nevertheless, their projectiles hit both the aerodrome and town, indiscriminately killing dozens of innocent civilians and maiming more than a hundred more. The men of the squadron responded to this outrage by taking off and giving chase to the enemy but could not gain altitude rapidly enough to achieve any positive results. The enemy gunners in the high-flying bombers, on the other hand, had better luck: they scored decisive hits to Thénault, Prince, and McConnell’s Nieuports, forcing them to land. McConnell’s landing turned into a crash when he tried to glide into a neighboring field where, as he put it afterward, “the only way to land was the direction I didn’t take.” Thus ended the career of his Nieuport, “MAC.”
The Grumbling Begins
These frantic days of almost constant aerial combat, made worse by the bombing attacks, were grating on the men’s nerves. As a result, frictions were developing—not only
between the men, but also between them and their Capitaine. Kiffin Rockwell complained to his brother Paul about Thénault in a letter he wrote on June 5, 1916:
My citation hasn’t yet gone through, so can’t send you a copy yet. Don’t think there is much doubt of the Médaille, but don’t expect two citations. There is no reason why I shouldn’t have them, except that we are very unlucky in having a captain who is a nice fellow and brave, but doesn’t know how to look after his men, and doesn’t try to. I have been fighting with him ever since being back, mainly about the fact that I have no machine, he having given my old one to Prince and not managing right about getting me a new one. I think that in a few weeks I will be pretty sick with the outfit.
A bit of drama in front of one of the Bessonneau hangars at Behonne aerodrome, early June 1916. Kiffin Rockwell appears to be having serious words with Capitaine Thénault, as Raoul Lufbery looks on at the far right and Clyde Balsley approaches from the left. Rockwell was, at this time, irritated that he had not yet received the medals he thought he deserved, and that he not been assigned a new airplane since returning from convalescent leave. He complained to his brother Paul that Thénault “doesn’t look after his men.” Paul responded by trying to exert political pressure to have Thénault replaced. (Washington and Lee University Archives)
There was also discord within the ranks. It had started back at Luxeuil, when James McConnell wrote Paul Rockwell on April 25, 1916, that, “Prince cannot stand the horrors of our warlike existence and is beating it back to Paris to stay until our machines arrive. Kiffin and I are disgusted.” Then, on June 8, he wrote, “There seems to be a split up in this outfit. Thaw & Co. v. Cowdin, Prince et al. I don’t give a damn and won’t join either club.” In a later letter dated June 15, 1916, he explained further:
I don’t mean I’m neutral in opinion as to the camps here but I can’t see any good in putting my voice in. Here’s the way I’ve got the outfit sized up. Kiffin, Bill, Chapman et cie [& Co.] are the most serious, Lufbery included. They are all one could ask for. Prince and Cowdin are in it for the sport, especially the latter and while they do their work, will never ring any gongs. Hall is minus a few cogs but runs along in the average. Johnson & Rumsey, frankly dislike the game and I believe Balsley needs a new pair of drawers whenever he goes out. Hill is a nice sort and I believe will try hard.
One thing about which both “camps” seemed to agree was their disdain for Bert Hall. With his crude, conniving ways and lack of formal education, he was the odd man out with this crowd. Bert was, in just about every way, diametrically opposite from most of the other educated and cultured members of the newly formed squadron. He came from a rural background west of the Mississippi River, his family had no wealth or social standing, and the only college Bert had ever attended was the time-honored school of hard knocks. For his entire life, he had been forced to work for a living—as a farm hand, a chauffeur, a deck hand, and even a “human cannonball” in a circus. Accordingly, his manners and language were rough, and he reputedly lied, cheated at cards, and wrote bad checks. Though sometimes characterized as a “lovable rogue,” many of those who knew him best did not find him lovable at all. Consequently, he was branded a boor and made an outcast in this new escadrille of gentlemen. The only men in the squadron sympathetic to Bert were his fellow former Legionnaires—Rockwell and Thaw, in particular. Even with his notable success in aerial combat, it was a situation that would grow worse in the weeks to come.
This cliquish behavior and petty squabbling, though typical of any group of ambitious and diverse young men operating under such pressures, remained a constant throughout the life of the squadron. To these men’s credit, they managed to keep most of it among themselves, so that very little of this discord ever escaped the confines of the squadron, except in private correspondence.
Not only did the men have issues with each other, some also begrudged the American newcomers who were arriving in France by the dozens to join the French Air Service. James McConnell particularly seemed to resent these new volunteers that the Aéronautique Militaire now welcomed with open arms. He wrote on June 15, 1916, that, “The general run of see-the-war boys from Amerika [sic] are going to hurt us like hell by coming in. It makes me sore for they are taking the place of good Frenchmen. In other words hurting the cause.” He later added that when these “parade loving chaps” learned of the dangers involved, they would “say their country calls them and hie back to the land that likes only picnic wars.”
A Bag of Oranges
The air activity around Verdun remained intense and very dangerous. On June 17, Victor Chapman once again impetuously broke formation and went hunting on his own. In a letter dated that same day to his brother, Kiffin Rockwell explained what happened:
Chapman has been a little too courageous…. He was attacking all the time, without paying much attention. He did the same thing this morning, and wouldn’t come home when the rest of us did. The result was that he attacked one German, when a Fokker … got full on Chapman’s back, shot his machine to pieces and wounded Chapman in the head. It is just a scratch but a miracle that he wasn’t killed. Part of the commands [control cables] on Chapman’s machine were broken, but Chapman landed by holding them together with his hand.
Victor Chapman, with head bandaged, posing beside his damaged Nieuport 11 fighter N.1148 after his narrow escape of June 17, 1916. The marksmanship of his German opponent is clearly evident. The bullet entered the fuselage behind him, zipped past his head, taking some scalp with it, and exited through his windscreen. The extreme risks Chapman was taking made it apparent to his comrades that his days were numbered. (Washington and Lee University Archives)
Leutnant Oswald Boelcke was the enemy pilot most likely responsible for grazing Victor Chapman’s skull and shooting his airplane full of holes during the June 17, 1916, encounter. Boelcke, who at the time had 18 victories, went on to even greater success, becoming one of Germany’s top fighter pilots and aerial tacticians. He was killed on October 28, 1916, after colliding in midair with a fellow squadron member. At his death, he was credited with 40 downed Allied aircraft. (Library of Congress)
The talented pilot of the Fokker that nearly killed Chapman was, according to some historians, the famed German ace, Oswald Boelcke. If so, the impetuous American was indeed lucky to have survived. After Chapman’s plane was repaired and his wound dressed, the aggressive New Yorker insisted on going back up immediately to renew the fight. Only Thénault’s promise to give him a new 110-horsepower Nieuport kept him safely on the ground.
Two days later, it was new kid Balsley’s turn to pay the piper. The young Texan, who Capitaine Thénault later described as having “all the shyness and gentleness of a girl,” did not initially impress some of his new squadron mates—as evidenced by McConnell’s rather unkind comment about Balsley “needing a new pair of drawers whenever he goes out.” Although Balsley would only spend three weeks with the squadron, McConnell and others would soon change their opinions about him.
On June 18, Thénault, Prince, Rockwell, and Balsley were out on an early morning patrol, when they became embroiled in a dogfight with a formation of five German aircraft. Balsley dived on a two-seater, but after firing one solitary round, his Lewis machine gun jammed. When he pulled his Bébé out of the fight to clear it, he found himself centered in a deadly crossfire. One of the enemy bullets found its mark on Balsley, slamming into his leg, splintering his femur, and sending bone and bullet fragments throughout his lower internal organs. The devastating hit, which he later compared to being “kicked in the thigh by a mule,” sent him into what could easily have been a death spin. Fortunately, his survival instinct gave him the strength and presence of mind to straighten his fighter and pull up just before he hit the ground. As he was losing consciousness from the intense pain and loss of blood, he managed a hard crash landing just behind the frontline trenches. He somehow crawled free of the wreckage before four French soldiers dragged him “like a sack of grain” to the
nearest dressing station, and from there to the evacuation hospital at Vadelaincourt. He had barely survived his first and last fight, but his great ordeal had just begun.
Balsley hovered between life and death for the next few weeks, as he underwent one surgery after another to remove fragments and debris that had been driven deep into his intestines and other organs. The courageous manner in which he handled this horrendous experience gained him the respect of his fellow fliers—including McConnell, who made a point of writing to Paul Rockwell, “Take back everything I said about the poor boy. He’s been very brave and decent during his suffering.” Similarly, Kiffin Rockwell related in a June 19 letter:
Well, yesterday was a rather bad day for us. You know we didn’t think much of Balsley. It was because he is young and inexperienced, but when he got here to the Escadrille I began to like him fairly well and better every day, as I saw he had plenty of good will to work and was not afraid.
The Lafayette Escadrille: A Photo History of the First American Fighter Squadron Page 7