Two Fewer “Bad Boys”
Other changes were also taking place during this time. The situation with Bert Hall had finally come to a head. Hall’s biographer, Blaine Pardoe, discusses Bert’s standing within the squadron, which was both complicated and controversial, in his book The Bad Boy. According to Pardoe, many of the offenses that authors have attributed to Bert over the past century were true: he probably was, in fact, “a liar and a scoundrel.”
On the other hand, some of the more unsavory things generally ascribed to Hall were, according to Pardoe, exaggerations or out-and-out fabrications by his lifelong enemy, Paul Rockwell. The self-appointed squadron historian never forgave Hall for skipping out on Kiffin’s funeral. Rockwell believed that Bert had, instead, scooted off to Paris to “peddle” the story of Kiffin’s death to the newspapers. Because of this, the bitter elder Rockwell made it his life’s mission to denigrate Hall in every way possible; and being the primary source of information about the squadron, Paul’s assertions have generally been taken at face value and repeated verbatim by almost every author who has ever written about the Lafayette Escadrille. Thus, the historical picture of Bert Hall that resulted from this lifelong smear campaign is probably far worse than was really the case.
In spite of Bert’s transgressions, either real or perceived, there is no evidence that he was “kicked out” of the squadron, as often alleged—neither Capitaine Thénault nor anyone else asked Bert to leave. It seems, instead, that his colleagues—led by James McConnell, who never liked Hall—reacted to his roguish behavior and rough manners by ostracizing him to the point where he no longer felt wanted. A few days after Kiffin Rockwell’s death, he requested a transfer, and on November 1, left the squadron and reported to Escadrille N.103. After he left, McConnell made his feelings clear about Hall’s departure when he wrote to Paul Rockwell, “I’m damned glad he’s gone….” Bert also had a final comment, as remembered by Emil Marshall, an American non-pilot temporarily assigned to the squadron, who was present when Hall left. According to him, Hall shook his fist at his ex-friends as he walked out and shouted angrily, “You’ll hear from me yet!” He proved true to his word.
The next “bad boy” to leave the squadron was Laurence Rumsey. Since reporting back in early June, he had flown only a few missions—his last one recorded in the squadron log was on September 9. Moreover, he had become so dependent on alcohol that he could no longer fly sober. On one notable occasion, he took off while in an excessively inebriated state and got completely lost. He was finally forced to land on a field he decided must be in German territory. Remembering the instructions that had been drilled into him, he promptly set his Nieuport on fire. Only too late did the muddle-headed pilot discover that he was on an Allied field several miles behind French lines.
Rumsey’s heart had always been in the right place, and just to be where he was proved his exceptional courage and ability; but like a few of the other 38 men who eventually served with N.124, he was simply not cut out to be a fighter pilot.
The incident that sealed his fate occurred soon after the squadron arrived at Cachy. The beloved mascot Whiskey liked chewing on things, and when Rumsey—in a state of advanced intoxication—caught him eating his service cap, he grabbed a walking stick and clubbed the little animal in the head, blinding him in his right eye. Rumsey undoubtedly regretted this act, but it was just another indication that he was unraveling. Soon afterward, he broke out in a rash of painful boils and had to be hospitalized. By November 25, he was no longer with the squadron and was soon thereafter on his way back to the United States.
A Flashy New Insignia to Match a Flashy New Name
The squadron log indicates that the inclement weather and thick Somme River mist kept the squadron grounded for 51 of the 86 days they spent at Cachy. Consequently, significant operational events were few and far between during this period. However, other significant things were occurring within the squadron.
Germany continued to complain to the still-neutral American government about the outlaw “amerikanischen Piloten” opposing them. The much-publicized deaths of Rockwell and Prince highlighted to an even greater extent the role the Americans were playing in the war, and this only increased German outrage. It eventually became enough of a concern to the American government that on November 13, 1916, the French Minister of War ordered, “for diplomatic reasons,” that the Escadrille Américaine henceforth be called the “Escadrille des Volontaires.” This lackluster name appealed to virtually no one, so a new order, dated December 6, 1916, decreed that the new unofficial name for Escadrille N.124 would be “l’Escadrille Lafayette”—the Lafayette Escadrille. This new name did not solve the problem of pilots from neutral America serving in the French Air Service but it at least disguised the squadron’s “national character” that had so offended the German government. Moreover, it was an appealing name that everyone could embrace.
To go with their catchy new name, the men of the squadron decided that they also needed their own unique insignia to distinguish them from other French squadrons. Since a US flag was out of the question, they had to find another, less obvious image to convey their national pride. When someone noticed a handsome Seminole Native American warrior logo on a case of Savage Arms Company ammunition, the issue was resolved. What could be more American than an American Indian? William Thaw then asked one of the squadron’s more artistic mechanics, Caporal Suchet, to paint his interpretation of this image onto the fuselage sides of the squadron’s aircraft. The Lafayette Escadrille now had its own unique logo. From now on, an Indianhead would adorn N.124 aircraft, and forevermore symbolize the Lafayette Escadrille.
Willis B. Haviland standing beside his Nieuport 17 N.1887 at Cachy, winter 1916-1916, ready for a patrol over the lines. Here, the plane is not yet fitted with an overhead Lewis gun. The white vertical band on the fuselage behind the newly applied Seminole warrior insignia was Haviland’s personal marking. (Washington and Lee University Archives)
A Formidable New Mount
Another important development occurring during this period was the arrival of the squadron’s first Spad VIIs. This highly acclaimed new fighter was in many ways a great improvement over the Nieuport 17, although the pilots did not universally welcome the change. Their beloved Nieuport was light on the controls, maneuverable, and easy to fly; whereas, the snub-nosed Spad—whose name was derived from the acronym of the company that built it, the Société Pour L’Aviation et ses Dérivés—had none of these characteristics. In fact, this thin-winged, inherently unstable machine seemed almost clunky by comparison.
The Spad, however, had some redeeming qualities that made it a better fighting machine than the Nieuport. Though more challenging to fly, especially from the small muddy fields so characteristic of WWI aerodromes, it was fast, incredibly sturdy, and it provided an exceptionally stable gun platform for the single .303-caliber Vickers machine gun mounted in front of the pilot. Thanks to its 140-horsepower Hispano-Suiza V-8 inline engine, it could cruise at 120 miles per hour and climb to an altitude of 6,500 feet in less than 5 minutes. Perhaps best of all, pilots could dive a Spad vertically to speeds approaching 250 miles per hour without fear of the wings shedding—a very useful feature during a diving attack or with an enemy fighter glued to their tail spitting hot steel into them. Even more so than the now-aging Nieuport, the Spad would become the favorite of the aces. The newly named Lafayette Escadrille would receive progressively more copies of this outstanding airplane in the ensuing weeks and months, until eventually, the official squadron designation of N.124 would change to SPA.124.
The remainder of 1916 progressed for the squadron at dreary, muddy Cachy with relatively few significant missions. One of the more noteworthy of these began in the early morning darkness of November 17, when German bombers attacked the aerodrome, set one of the hangars afire, and destroyed several airplanes. Paul Pavelka, who had been experimenting with night flying, took off in hot pursuit, aided by the light of the blazing hangar. He fail
ed to encounter any bombers, and because his primitive signal system failed, he was unable to return for fear of being shot down by nervous French antiaircraft gunners. He wandered through the air for the next two and a half hours, becoming hopelessly lost in the blacked-out darkness of the Somme River haze. His engine eventually sputtered to a stop from fuel starvation, and he glided blindly down to a safe—and very fortunate—landing in a field some 25 miles from home. By the time he made his way back to the squadron, a new member had joined its fold.
19. CAPORAL RONALD WOOD HOSKIER was born on March 21, 1896, in South Orange, New Jersey. After completing a year and a half at Harvard, he decided to travel to France to join his father, Herman, who worked with the Norton-Harjes Ambulance Corps, and his mother, Harriet, an auxiliary nurse. Ronald drove an ambulance until entering into flight training in May 1916. He reported to the Lafayette Escadrille at Cachy on December 11, 1916. There, the intelligent and idealistic young aspiring author—seemingly poured from the same mold as the late Victor Chapman—would soon become a valuable and respected member of the squadron. Unfortunately, also reminiscent of Chapman, his time there would end tragically all too soon.
On January 19, 1917, another new man—the 20th American assigned to the squadron—showed up at Cachy, unexpected and unannounced. He had come from the GDE at Plessis-Belleville to retrieve a worn out Nieuport; however, since his assignment to N.124 was pending, he stayed. He later wrote, “Meals here are splendid, the service is excellent and everyone seems to be in unison from the Captain down to the last of us. It’s fine.”
20. CAPORAL EDMOND CHARLES CLINTON GENET, of Ossining, New York, had—like several other members of this elite squadron—an impressive pedigree. Born on November 9, 1896, to Albert and Martha Genet, he was a direct descendent of New York’s first governor and two-time Vice President of the United States, George Clinton. He was also the great-great grandson of Edmond-Charles Genet, the French envoy to the United States, who in 1793, instigated the infamous “Citizen Genet” incident.
The small, cherubic Edmond, who attended church and wrote his mother faithfully, was the youngest pilot to fly for the Lafayette Escadrille—and he looked even younger than his 20 years. This prompted Edwin Parsons to refer to him as “the baby of the Lafayette,” but he was no baby. In addition to having previously served in the US Navy, he had, before entering into flight training, completed 16 months of service with the Foreign Legion. Here, he had fought his way through some of the war’s bloodiest battles. However, Genet’s sterling qualities—his cheerful demeanor, impressive war record, and proven courage and flying ability—were offset by a darker side of his rather complicated personality. As is clear from his own writings, he was plagued by feelings of guilt and self-loathing, stemming in part from the fact that was a fugitive from the law in his own country—he had, before coming to France, deserted from the Navy. Equally burdensome was his love for a young woman back home who had long since lost interest in him.
Ronald Wood Hoskier reported to the Lafayette Escadrille on December 11, 1916. Here, he poses in early April 1917, wearing the horizon-blue greatcoat he had recently purchased in Paris. He stands in front of the squadron’s recently acquired Morane-Saulnier parasol monoplane, MSP.1112, in which he would die a few days later. Courageous, idealistic, and a skilled pilot, the scholarly Harvard student exemplified the very best of the Lafayette Escadrille. (Washington and Lee University Archives)
The big 1916 Christmas bash at Cachy. Sitting near the stove in the front, James McConnell, Willis B. Haviland, and Dudley Hill. Back row: Paul Pavelka, unidentified British officer, Robert Rockwell (standing), Alfred de Laage, and Raoul Lufbery. The five men on the right, above Hill, were probably also British guests. McConnell noted the number of men present that evening and was heard to exclaim, “My God! Thirteen of us here. That’s sure death. Wonder who’ll be the next to get it?” On December 29, 1916, he wrote in a letter about this wild evening, “Lufbery and I got lit and pulled off a Wild West show. He held a basin while I shot holes in it. Fortunately the Captain took the revolver from me as I was to essay knocking a shaving brush out of our ‘ace’s’ mouth.” (Washington and Lee University Archives)
Meanwhile, as the two new men were busy trying to adapt to the damp, cold climate pervading Cachy, the squadron’s ace suffered from a painful bout of rheumatism. Even so, the irrepressible Raoul Lufbery continued his outstanding work. December 27 dawned a brilliantly clear day, and Luf made the most of it. He ended this very significant year in style by downing an Aviatik C two-seat observation plane, southeast of Chaulnes. Then, on January 24, he repeated this performance for his seventh confirmed victory.
Edmond Genet poses beside a Nieuport 17 fighter. Barely 20 years of age, he was the youngest pilot to fly for the Lafayette Escadrille, but his boyish appearance belied a fierce toughness and dedication to the cause. Plagued by a troubled past, a lost love, and a sense of guilt from losing a comrade in aerial combat, the emotional agony he felt may have contributed to his demise. (Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum)
Also on January 24, the popular and hard-working Paul Pavelka left the squadron. The wandering world traveler had grown weary of the miserable cold and dampness of the Somme and was anxious for a new environment. Both he and like-minded Willis Haviland had requested a transfer, but only Pavelka’s was approved. He reported to the Armée de l’Orient in Salonika (Thessaloniki), Greece, where he saw a great deal of action and accorded himself well while flying for French squadrons on the Macedonian front.
His career came to a tragic end on November 11, 1917, after he volunteered to help an old Foreign Legion comrade—now serving in the English cavalry—break a wild horse. The former cowpuncher Pavelka mounted the vicious animal and somehow stayed with the bucking bronco until it wildly threw itself to the ground and rolled over on its human tormenter. Mortally injured, Paul Pavelka died the next day. It was as ironic as it was tragic for a man who had survived so many death-defying experiences—including months of desperate combat in the trenches and numerous deadly aerial dogfights and emergency landings—to die in such a way. He was buried with honors at Salonika, and in 1928, his remains were transferred to the crypt below the Lafayette Escadrille Memorial, located at Marnes-le-Coquette, on the western outskirts of Paris.
* * *
The much-anticipated Somme experience had been, for the most part, a bust for the squadron. They had arrived at Cachy just as the big offensive and the good flying weather were each drawing to a close. After huddling around a stove in their shack for three dreary months, they shed no tears when orders came to move again. On January 26, the pilots of the Lafayette Escadrille lifted off from Cachy and turned their planes south. Their new aerodrome—like Cachy, a field at the edge of a wood—was located between the towns of Ravenel and Saint-Just-en-Chaussée, 20 miles due south. They hoped the new location would bring with it more livable accommodations and better flying weather.
CHAPTER 9
MAC GOES WEST
“Wonder who’ll be the next to get it?”
At just after noon on January 26, 1917, 11 warplanes bearing the colorful image of an American Indian warrior roared in from the north and buzzed low and fast over the makeshift aerodrome at Ravenel/Saint-Just. After the short 30-minute hop from Cachy, the pilots of the Lafayette Escadrille had fuel to spare; so in keeping with custom, some of them pulled up and went into a series of wild aerobatics in the sky above the field before side-slipping their motley collection of Nieuports and Spads in for a bumpy landing onto the rutted field of frozen mud and snow.
More Losses and More Replacements
One of the aircraft in the formation that flew in to Ravenel from Cachy on January 26 was manned by a new pilot who had just arrived from the GDE.
21. CAPORAL EDWIN CHARLES “TED” PARSONS was born in Holyoke, Massachusetts on September 24, 1892 to Frederick and Grace Parsons. Like most of the others who flew for this unique squadron of American volunteers, Parsons was a truly re
markable young man—a high-achieving, risk-taking adventurer. By the time he was 24, the slight, dapper pilot’s biography already read like an adventure novel, and he was destined to distinguish himself even further before the end of his long and productive life.
After dropping out of the University of Pennsylvania, young Parsons headed west to America’s land of opportunity. He worked at various pursuits, including cattle herding and gold mining, and somewhere along the way, made a brief and unsuccessful attempt at marriage. His life took a fateful turn in 1912 when he met famed aviation pioneer Glenn Curtiss, at Dominguez Field, near Los Angeles. Parsons immediately caught the flying bug and learned to fly a Curtiss pusher biplane.
Before long, the young pilot came into contact with an agent for the notorious Mexican revolutionary general, Francisco “Pancho” Villa. Anticipating fame and fortune, Parsons accepted a commission in Villa’s División del Norte and delivered a Curtiss flying machine that Villa had purchased. In it, Parsons attempted to teach some of Villa’s officers to fly. Ironically, he was making military aviation history at about the same time and location as fellow future Lafayette Escadrille member, Didier Masson, who was flying for General Álvaro Obregón. However, neither apparently knew of the other’s role in the conflict until they later compared notes as squadron mates in France.
The Lafayette Escadrille: A Photo History of the First American Fighter Squadron Page 12