The Lafayette Escadrille: A Photo History of the First American Fighter Squadron

by Ruffin, Steven

  Balsley was in constant pain and had a maddening thirst, since the nature of his internal wounds precluded him from drinking any liquids. When the kind-hearted Victor Chapman—a man who had, as a soldier in the Foreign Legion, offered a battlefield surgeon 100,000 francs to save his friend’s life and had bought a cow for a sick comrade who needed milk—visited Balsley in the hospital two days later, he asked what could be done about his friend’s thirst. The attending doctor consented to allow Balsley to suck on an orange—if one could be found in the midst of a war zone. Chapman assured Balsley that he’d have those oranges if he had to fly to Paris to get them.

  On the afternoon of June 23, Victor Chapman took off from the aerodrome at Behonne, head still bandaged from his wound of six days earlier. He carried with him a package of newspapers, chocolate, a letter Balsley had just received in the mail, and some oranges he had somehow managed to acquire. Chapman’s plan was to join up with Thénault, Lufbery, and Prince, who had already taken off for a patrol over the lines, and afterward, as he told his mechanic, Louis Bley, “take the oranges and chocolate to poor Balsley at the hospital, for I think there is little hope of saving him.” Bley put the package in the airplane and shook hands with Chapman, who said, “Au revoir, I shall not be long.”

  Exactly what happened to Chapman on this last mission will never be known, but a French Maurice Farman crew operating in the vicinity later reported a lone Nieuport desperately battling four enemy fighters northeast of Douaumont. They saw the Nieuport go down out of control and break into pieces in the air. It could only have been Chapman.

  Victor Chapman’s loss was a crushing blow to the squadron. The squadron’s first fatality brought the grim reality of war painfully close to home—and as one of the most popular and courageous members of the squadron, his absence greatly affected his fellow pilots. However, given the reckless abandon with which Chapman flew, it was only a matter of time. Those around him knew it, as did he himself. As he told his “Uncle Willy”—William Astor Chanler—only three days before his death, “Of course I shall never come out of this alive.” McConnell wrote of Chapman:

  Considering the number of fights he had been in and the courage with which he attacked it was a miracle he had not been hit before. He always fought against odds and far within the enemy’s country. He flew more than any of us, never missing an opportunity to go up, and never coming down until his gasoline was giving out. His machine was a sieve of patched-up bullet holes. His nerve was almost superhuman and his devotion to the cause for which he fought sublime.

  Kiffin Rockwell was especially devastated by Victor’s loss, as he wrote to his brother on the day of Chapman’s death:

  Well, I feel very blue to-night. Victor was killed this afternoon…. There is no question but that Victor had more courage than all the rest of us put together. We were all afraid that he would be killed, and I rooming with him had begged him every night to be more prudent. He would fight every Boche [German] he saw, no matter where or what odds…. I am afraid it is going to rain to-morrow, but if not, Prince and I are going to fly about ten hours, and will do our best to kill one or two Germans for him.

  Capitaine Thénault wrote simply, “Glory to Chapman, that true hero! Men like him are the pride of a nation, their names should ever be spoken with respect.”

  A Welcome Departure and Official Recognition

  On June 25, the squadron experienced yet another—though far less painful—loss. Elliot Cowdin departed, officially, because of “ill health.” Much has been made of Cowdin’s departure over the years, but there is evidence that he was, in fact, not in good health and that his nerves were shot. Because of this and other related factors, he and Thénault mutually agreed that he should leave the squadron. In fairness, he had seen his share of combat with the previous French squadrons. It could be that the 30-year-old Cowdin—elderly, in fighter pilot years—had simply reached his limit, as nearly all combat pilots eventually did.

  Meanwhile, promotions and honors finally began to flow in the direction of the much-publicized American squadron. At a ceremony on June 28, Hall, Rockwell, Balsley (who survived but would never rejoin the squadron), Johnson, and McConnell were all promoted to the next grade. Chapman was posthumously promoted and awarded the Croix de Guerre, while Hall and Rockwell finally received their Médaille militaire. William Thaw, the only commissioned officer among the Americans, made a special trip from Paris to Behonne, his arm still in a sling, to be named a Chevalier de la Légion d’honneur—making him the first American in World War I to receive this high honor.

  Paul Rockwell posing beside a Breguet-Michelin BM.2 bomber that happened to be parked at Behonne aerodrome, early summer 1916. Having been invalided out of the Foreign Legion, Paul now worked in Paris as a correspondent for the Chicago Daily News. He had traveled to Behonne to visit his brother Kiffin, and to report on the famed new American squadron. While there, his camera was used to take numerous photographs of the men and aircraft, the original negatives of which still exist. The light leak defect that appears here and on several other of his images serve to establish the time and location they were taken. (Washington and Lee University Archives)

  Kiffin Rockwell climbing into the cockpit of Bert Hall’s Nieuport 16 N.1208 at Behonne, early summer 1916. Pilots did not always fly the airplane to which they were assigned, but rather, whichever one happened to be available and airworthy at the time. Here, Rockwell is about to perform a demonstration flight for his visiting brother, Paul. Upon landing, he careened into one of the bombers parked on the airfield, doing considerable damage and infuriating Capitaine Thénault. (Washington and Lee University Archives)

  Chouteau Johnson, Bert Hall, and Kiffin Rockwell pass the time playing cards in front of one of the hangars at Behonne. It is a safe bet that Bert was winning, as he usually did. Their makeshift card table is the lower wing of a Nieuport fighter. A bored-looking young mechanic looks on, as does an unidentified French pilot sitting at the far right. (Washington and Lee University Archives)

  The men of the Escadrille Américaine gathered in front of their Nieuport fighters. Paul Rockwell took this snapshot just before he departed Behonne on July 10, 1916. From left to right: Lieutenant de Laage, Chouteau Johnson, Laurence Rumsey, James McConnell, William Thaw, Raoul Lufbery, Kiffin Rockwell, Didier Masson, Norman Prince, and Bert Hall. Missing from the picture are Dudley Hill and Capitaine Thénault. Hall stands noticeably apart from the others, symbolizing the differences he had with his squadron mates. (Washington and Lee University Archives)

  * * *

  June 1916 at Behonne had been a stressful and tragic month for the Escadrille Américaine. However, there would be much more flying, fighting, and discord in the weeks to come, as the battle over Verdun continued.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE BATTLE CONTINUES

  “… the hardest struggle we had to face.”

  On July 9, 1916, a young blond-haired French pilot showed up at the aerodrome at Behonne, displaying a noticeable limp, scarred face, and a gleaming row of gold teeth to match the row of medals on his chest. His name was Charles Nungesser, and he was one of France’s top fighter aces. He had come to fly with the Escadrille Américaine.

  The famed Sous-lieutenant Nungesser voluntarily latched on to the Escadrille Américaine and flew as a free agent under its auspices for the next few weeks. Already a highly decorated ten-victory ace, he was recovering from injuries suffered in a June 22 landing accident while serving with Escadrille N.65. The hard-driving warrior spent his time with N.124 as a sort of working vacation. Whether he was there because he liked the hospitality and companionship of the Americans or because he was invited there to help mentor them, he used the opportunity to continue his personal war in the air.

  Born in Paris on March 15, 1892, he was a natural for the American squadron. Besides being of similar age and temperament to most of the men in N.124, he had—also like many of the Americans—lived a uniquely fascinating life prior to the war. Among other pr
ewar pursuits, he had been a mechanic and racecar driver, before learning to fly. In 1914, he was living in Brazil on his uncle’s sugar plantation, when he learned of the imminent outbreak of hostilities. He hurried back to France and enlisted in the French cavalry, in which he served with great distinction.

  Nungesser soon joined many other former cavalrymen in transferring to aviation, and before long, had worked his way into Escadrille N.65. It was here that he began racking up kills and where he introduced his infamous macabre personal logo that he displayed on the fuselage of all his airplanes: a skull and crossbones, candles, and a coffin enclosed in a big black heart.

  French ace Charles Nungesser at Behonne, stands next to Nieuport 17 N.1490, bearing his personal logo. He arrived there on July 9 and temporarily attached himself to Escadrille N.124, while convalescing from injuries received in a crash. Already with 10 confirmed victories, he finished the war as France’s 3rd-ranking ace with 43 confirmed kills. He was destined to disappear in 1927 while attempting to fly nonstop from Paris to New York. (Washington and Lee University Archives)

  Nungesser was well known as a hard-partying ladies’ man, rumored to have consorted with the infamous Dutch exotic dancer and spy known as Mata Hari. This, along with his outstanding combat record, placed him in good stead with the men of N.124. They also admired the flamboyant gold-toothed Nungesser for his grit and resilience. Though already a physical wreck from his numerous wounds and crash injuries, he continued to fly—sometimes having to be lifted into and out of the cockpit—and blast enemy aircraft out of the sky. He would end the war with 43 confirmed kills to his credit, making him France’s third-ranking ace and among the war’s top 20 aces from all nations.

  While at N.124, he flew almost exclusively lone-wolf patrols—18, to be exact—during which, he recorded his 11th victory, by downing a German two-seater on July 21. Otherwise, his contributions to the squadron—other than providing nonstop photo ops—are unknown. Presumably, the highly successful ace spent at least some time sharing his expertise with the relatively green American pilots—knowledge they sorely needed.

  Norman Prince and Didier Masson stand in the foreground as Charles Nungesser (center) talks with two unidentified officers, near Behonne, early July 1916. (Washington and Lee University Archives)

  More Grumblings and More Victories

  Escadrille N.124 achieved further successes against the enemy during the remainder of its stay at Behonne, luckily without any additional deaths or serious injuries. However, the rigors of the heavy fighting helped bring squadron morale to new lows. This occurred partly because of the physical and emotional stresses involved with day-to-day combat flying, but also because of the inherent personality and cultural differences between the men in the squadron. A third contributor to the sagging morale may have been the squadron leadership. Kiffin Rockwell, in particular, continued to find fault with Thénault’s management style.

  On July 27, Rockwell assisted Lieutenant de Laage in achieving the gallant French officer’s first official victory with N.124. Rockwell, who was becoming increasingly bitter about life in the squadron, vented in a letter to his brother that same day:

  Am pretty disgusted; have been working my poor head off lately, and don’t even get thank-you for it. I may ask any day to change escadrilles. Everyone here is scrapping and discontented, and I am about the worst of any…. This morning Lieut. de Laage and I brought one down in their lines. I attacked him first and he went over on his nose. As he came up, the Lieut. opened up on him and he fell. The Lieut. deserves all the credit one gives him, but I certainly ran the most risk this morning, and if I didn’t hit him myself, which I may have, I made it possible for the Lieut. to hit him. Yet do you think I got any credit for it? Not at all! Fifteen minutes later I made another German land just within his own lines, having attacked two, and was seen by Prince, but nothing is said about it. The trouble is that I fight all the time, instead of trying to curry favor in useful quarters. I had a hell of a scrap with the captain about the popote [squadron mess] right after you left, and refused to have anything more to do with it. I think the best thing I can do is to go to another escadrille, but I hate to lose what work I have done here, and to tell you the truth, I want the Légion d’Honneur and a Sous-Lieut.’s grade. I don’t give a damned how conceited it may appear, but I think I have well earned the two.

  A few days later, he added:

  I want to be changed to a French escadrille unless certain conditions change here, and several others will follow my example. I think I have the most hours of flight and the most fights for the month of July on the Verdun front of any Nieuport pilot …. I don’t think, however, that a full report of my work has gone out of this office, and a number of times my report on a fight has been changed.

  Paul, who was always quick to come to his younger brother’s defense, replied in a letter that he had spoken to a “Monsieur L” who was going to recommend to the French Minister of War that Thénault be replaced. He cautioned Kiffin to keep quiet about it and that “an investigation will surely be made, and I believe a new man will take his place.” Thénault was never replaced, but these letters show the degree of dissatisfaction that existed at the time.

  Kiffin Rockwell at Behonne, summer 1916, in Nieuport 11 N.1148, adjusting its Lewis machine gun. Mechanic Michel Plaa-Porte stands at the propeller, while the unidentified man at the far left loads cartridges into the ammunition drum. Note the patch on the fuselage below Rockwell. This was the aircraft in which Victor Chapman had been wounded on June 17. Rockwell was forced to use this well-worn machine because his was out of commission. The lack of airworthy fighters was a chronic problem and a constant source of irritation for the pilots. (Washington and Lee University Archives)

  Bert Hall, for all his failings, was doing good work, having bagged his second confirmed victory on July 23. As he later described it in his book One Man’s War, the German “turned over on his back, then slipped over on his nose and spun like a bastard for more than 10,000 feet.” Regarding this victory, Hall’s friend Kiffin Rockwell complained on Bert’s behalf to brother Paul that, “X did his best to prove that it wasn’t brought down, and so far Bert hasn’t even been proposed for a citation.” The “X” in this case refers to Rockwell’s arch-enemy, Norman Prince. Hall would get yet another confirmed kill—his third—on August 28, by forcing an enemy aircraft to land northeast of Douaumont. However, by this time, his days in the squadron were numbered. He was just a little bit too good at poker, and his personal behavior fell well short of his more cultured squadron mates’ standards.

  Self-Inflicted Pain

  Crashes during this period seemed to be a nearly daily affair, as evidenced by the many photographs of smashed up planes and numerous accounts describing them. James McConnell mentioned in a July 25 letter that, “out of eleven machines in escadrille only four are in commission at present moment from various causes.” One of the more notable accidents occurred that same day, as Raoul Lufbery was flying low and fast over the field. Suddenly, he yanked his Nieuport into a steep climbing turn to avoid a Farman that was landing from the opposite direction. Instead of climbing, however, Luf snagged a wing on the ground and cartwheeled across the field at a rate of 100 miles per hour. His Nieuport disintegrated “into bits of wood, iron, and cloth,” as he later wrote to a friend. Somehow, he crawled from the wreckage and walked away from it. A couple of days later, it was McConnell’s turn. As he colorfully described it later:

  Capitaine Georges Thénault posing with his new Nieuport 17 N.1372, already sporting his personal butterfly insignia. One of the squadron’s first of this type, it was equipped with a synchronized, belt-fed Vickers machine gun mounted in front of the pilot. Thénault’s performance as a commander was not always appreciated by his men. (Willis B. Haviland Collection)

  I had another beautiful smash-up. Prince and I had stayed too long over the lines…. On my return, when I was over another aviation field, my motor broke. I made for the field. In the darkn
ess I couldn’t judge my distance well, and went too far. At the edge of the field there were trees, and beyond, a deep cut where a road ran. I was skimming ground at a hundred miles an hour and heading for the trees. I saw soldiers running to be in at the finish and I thought to myself that James’s hash was cooked, but I went between two trees and ended up head on against the opposite bank of the road. My motor took the shock and my belt held me. As my tail went up it was cut in two by some very low ‘phone wires. I wasn’t even bruised. Took dinner with the officers there who gave me a car to go home in afterward.

  McConnell may not have been bruised, but his back was severely wrenched. He remained in pain for the next month before Capitaine Thénault finally ordered him to the hospital, where he would remain for another two months. Even then, he would never again be pain-free from this injury. Thankfully, the down time he received was not wasted, as he spent it penning Flying for France.

  Also during this period, Sergent Lufbery, a pilot Capitaine Thénault called “simple, modest, silent, and hard-working,” finally started to make his presence known. Since reporting to the squadron more than two months ago, he had well over a dozen combats without a decisive victory.

  On July 30, his long run of bad luck ended when he shot down a two-seater over the Fôret d’Etain. Apparently figuring out, at long last, how the game of aerial combat was played, he proceeded on a ten-day romp, downing three more enemy airplanes on July 31, August 4 (shared with a French Escadrille N.57 pilot), and August 8. Any doubts about him before that ceased to exist. Nothing could stop him now. Even at this early stage in his meteoric career, his squadron mates recognized and appreciated his exceptional qualities. Kiffin wrote on July 31, regarding Luf’s first victory: