The escadrille’s mounting successes did not go unnoticed. In part, due to their recent successes, Johnson and Willis were promoted to the rank of adjudant and Thaw received yet another citation. In addition, the French Aero Club honored several of the men from the squadron—in particular, Raoul Lufbery, who became the first American to receive their Gold Medal—at an awards ceremony in Paris. Luf was still waiting for his long-overdue promotion to sous-lieutenant, but his September 16, 1916, encounter with the train station official at Chartres continued to haunt him. Fortunately, he would not have to wait much longer.
The recent losses had another effect, besides spurring the remaining pilots of the Lafayette Escadrille on to greater success: it created a need for more replacement pilots.
30. CAPORAL RAY CLAFLIN BRIDGMAN became, on May 12, 1917, the 30th American to fly for the Lafayette Escadrille. He was born in Lake Forest, Illinois, on May 31, 1895, to Walter and Leoline Bridgman. In spring 1916, near the end of his junior year at Yale, Bridgman abruptly quit school and sailed for France. Though a dedicated pacifist who hated war and all it stood for, he decided to enlist in aviation. After completing flight school, he flew briefly for Escadrille N.49 before reporting to the Lafayette Escadrille at Ham on May 1, 1917. Because of his strict moral convictions, he found it difficult to fit in with this diverse group of rough-and-tumble combat pilots. Still, he managed to earn their respect with his courage and aggressive spirit in the air.
31. CAPORAL CHARLES HEAVE “CARL” DOLAN JR. was born on January 29, 1895, in Boston, Massachusetts, to Charles and Anne Dolan. He studied electrical engineering for a year before traveling to Europe in 1914. He was employed first in England as an aircraft magneto inspector before moving to Paris to work for the Sperry Gyroscope Company. While there, he became acquainted with members of the Lafayette Escadrille. In August 1916, he quit his job and entered flight training—like every other American, via the Foreign Legion. He joined the Lafayette Escadrille at Ham on May 12, 1917.
32. CAPORAL JOHN ARMSTRONG DREXEL was born in Philadelphia on October 24, 1891, to wealthy parents Anthony and Margarita Drexel. He was attending the prestigious English public school, Eton, when he became fascinated with aviation. He learned to fly from British aviation pioneer, Claude Grahame-White in 1909, and soon became the eighth pilot—just behind Glenn Curtiss and the Wright Brothers—to earn a flying certificate from the Aero Club of America. Flying a Blériot, Drexel went on to set a series of world altitude records. In 1916, he joined the French Air Service and was officially assigned to the Lafayette Escadrille on May 12, 1917. He flew his first patrol two days later and continued to fly for the next month before leaving the squadron.
Charles Heave “Carl” Dolan, Jr. was working for the Sperry Gyroscope Company in Paris when he decided to join the Aéronautique Militaire. He reported to the Lafayette Escadrille at Ham on May 12, 1917. (Washington and Lee University Archives)
33. CAPORAL HENRY SWEET “HANK” JONES reported to the Lafayette Escadrille on May 12, 1917, the same day as Dolan and Drexel. He was born on June 6, 1892, in Harford, Pennsylvania, to Edward and Hattie Jones. He briefly attended Lehigh University before traveling to France in 1916 and joining the American Ambulance Field Service. After serving for several months, he applied to aviation and began training on November 28, 1916. He would serve with distinction in both the Lafayette Escadrille, and its US Air Service successor, the 103rd Aero Squadron.
The Lafayette Escadrille’s days at Ham had already been unlucky, claiming the lives of three men. However, as the squadron’s time there neared the end, its pilots began to think they might escape Ham without further tragedy. Unfortunately, they were wrong. On May 23, 1917, the universally beloved Lieutenant Alfred de Laage—the courageous and aggressive fighter, mentor, and inspirational leader—died the worst way possible for a combat pilot: in an accident.
Henry Sweet “Hank” Jones poses at Senard on the wing of Capitaine Thénault’s Spad VII S.1417, bearing Thénault’s butterfly insignia. Jones reported to the Lafayette Escadrille with Carl Dolan and John Drexel on May 12, 1917. (Washington and Lee University Archives)
Late that day, he took off in a new Spad VII for a test flight. He held the airplane on the deck, building up speed, and then abruptly pulled up into a chandelle. This steep climbing turn is a beautiful maneuver to watch from the ground, but this time something went wrong. The fighter’s new high-compression Hispano-Suiza engine sputtered just as he began his climb. Pointing almost straight up with no power, altitude, or airspeed, he had no chance to recover. The heavy, thin-winged Spad fighter fell—as if pushed off the top of a 250-foot skyscraper—and crumpled straight into the ground. De Laage was instantly killed.
The loss of this respected, admired, and beloved veteran of so many deadly combats—right before his pilots’ eyes—distressed them and rattled their confidence like nothing else could have. If a superman like de Laage could not survive, what chance did they have? The Lieutenant’s last written words were simple but eloquent:
Since the formation of the American Escadrille, I have tried to exalt the beauty of the idea which brought my American comrades to fight for France. I thank them for the friendship and confidence they always showed me. If I die, do not weep for me. It is not good that a soldier should let himself give way to sorrow; and now, Vive la France!
The feelings the men of the Lafayette Escadrille had for de Laage cannot be exaggerated. Ted Parsons spoke for one and all when he wrote, “With him went the soul of the Escadrille, for no truer, finer gentleman ever existed, and his friendship was more precious than almost any other gift that life had to offer.” The loss of this fine officer left a void in the squadron that needed to be filled, so no time was wasted in replacing him.
LIEUTENANT ANTOINE ARNOUX DE MAISON-ROUGE reported on May 28, 1917. Born on December 24, 1892, he had—like his predecessor de Laage—started his military career as a cavalry officer before transferring into aviation in 1915. The son of a distinguished French general, Maison-Rouge was a highly competent pilot and professional officer, but he had very big shoes to fill. It would have been virtually impossible for anyone to adequately replace the fallen de Laage, so Maison-Rouge had his work cut out for him.
* * *
After the rapid-fire loss of McConnell, Genet, Hoskier and Dressy, and now de Laage, the men of the Lafayette Escadrille were in an understandably somber mood. In their grief and their concern for their own future, they might have remembered a recently published poem that was popular at the time and that would become a literary classic. Alan Seeger, a brilliant young American serving in the French Foreign Legion—and an acquaintance of several of the men in the squadron—had written I Have a Rendezvous with Death shortly before his own July 4, 1916, demise in the Battle of the Somme. After this latest tragedy, every pilot in the squadron may rightfully have felt that his own “rendezvous with death” was just around the corner.
However, there was little time to reflect on such matters. A new assignment was once again in the making. Ham had been a place of tragedy and, as far as the men were concerned, anywhere else would be better. That anywhere else was a large open field some 30 miles to the southeast. Chaudun aerodrome was located a mile and a half southwest of the village of the same name and five miles southwest of Soissons. Here, near the Chemin des Dames area of the Aisne Sector, the men of the Lafayette Escadrille hoped for better days.
CHAPTER 11
CHAUDUN AND BEYOND
“Luck Be a Lady”
As evidenced by the “Monday hex” which plagued the men of the Lafayette Escadrille, the topic of “luck” was a recurring theme in it and many other World War I flying squadrons. These young American pilots, like most other combat airmen, considered luck—they might have called it chance, fate, or the grace of God—to be an important factor in their day-to-day lives. This is not surprising, given the many perils to which they were exposed that were completely beyond their control. To them, luck was a fickle lady that sometimes
smiled on them, and other times, not. During their time at Chaudun, they would see their fair share of both her good and bad side.
The pilots of the Lafayette Escadrille made their way to the new location on June 3, 1917, with few problems—in spite of this particular aerodrome’s confusing assortment of names. The Americans called it Chaudun, after the closest town, while the French referred to it as “Maison-Neuve”—the farm on which it was located. The Germans, on the other hand, called it “Beaurepaire,” after the cluster of farm buildings that sat on the adjacent farm. All three names referred to the same flying field.
The large, smooth, rolling field of grass was an ideal place from which to fly, except for one hazard: a deep drainage ditch at the far border. All the pilots had been made aware of this obstacle and were easily able to avoid it, except for one particular pilot. On the day of the move from Ham to Chaudun, Jerry Hewitt did a low, slow flyby of the field in order to locate the offending ditch. He then proceeded to land and roll directly into it, almost as if had been aiming for it. His overturned Spad was a write-off. An angry Capitaine Thénault punished Hewitt by sending him back to Ham in an automobile—a long, arduous journey over shell-torn roads—to bring another airplane back. When Hewitt finally returned, he once again landed—and once again rolled into the ditch at almost the same place as before. The luckless—and hapless—Hewitt, who had by now acquired the disparaging nickname “Useless,” would continue his mostly ineffective service with the squadron for a few weeks longer before Thénault lost patience with him and cut him from the roster. His last recorded combat mission was on August 5, 1917, and on September 17, he was sent to the rear.
The Lufbery Phenomenon
Escadrille N.124, soon to be re-designated SPA.124 because it now had more Spad VIIs than Nieuports, would spend the next six weeks at Chaudun. During this time, pilots of the Lafayette Escadrille would take advantage of the long summer days and good weather by flying some 400 sorties of all types: escorting reconnaissance and bombing aircraft, attacking enemy observation planes and enemy troops, and occasionally flying reconnaissance missions themselves.
On June 12, Raoul Lufbery became a “double ace” by achieving his 10th confirmed victory, a German two-seater he picked out of a formation and sent down in pieces. This earned him a sixth palm to his Croix de Guerre, and yet another citation—this one describing him as a “marvelous fighter pilot” and “living example of audacity, coolness, and dedication.” More importantly, it paved the way for his belated promotion nine days later to sous-lieutenant. His phenomenal success in the air had finally overcome his career-retarding encounter with the station attendant at Chartres. He and William Thaw were destined to be the only Americans ever to fly with the Lafayette Escadrille as commissioned officers.
The skillful Lafayette ace was making the fine art of shooting down enemy planes look easy; however, it was anything but. Although a certain measure of luck was always a necessary ingredient, Luf minimized the need for it by laboring diligently for each of his victories. He spent hours on the ground maintaining his airplane to keep it in top shape. He even measured and polished each machine gun round to minimize victory-killing jams. Otherwise, he practically lived in the air, methodically stalking his prey like a big game hunter. As with most of the successful aces of this war, he made his move only when he was perfectly positioned for a lightning-quick surprise attack and an equally quick diving escape.
However, even with this systematic—almost scientific—approach, coupled with his superb eyesight, quick reflexes, and brilliant flying and shooting skills, Lufbery failed to score in at least a dozen attacks for each time he succeeded in bringing down an enemy plane. Air combat was an ultra-challenging endeavor that might be compared, in baseball terms, to hitting a 90-mile-per-hour fastball. Just as the great Babe Ruth hit a homerun only once in every 12 times at bat, even the highest-ranking aces in World War I failed far more often than they succeeded. Perhaps their biggest distinction from less successful pilots was that they possessed the confidence and drive to keep trying until they found the right combination—or until they were, themselves, killed.
The stringent requirements for confirming victories made running up victory scores even more difficult. Most aces never received official credit for many of the aircraft they legitimately brought down. For example, most of Lufbery’s contemporaries agreed that he had far more victories than the number with which he was officially credited. For every claim, one or more independent witnesses on the ground or in the air had to see the aircraft go down in flames, break up in the air, or crash; otherwise, credit could not be granted; and if a different pilot operating in the area also put in a claim, as sometimes happened, credit could wrongly be assigned to him.
A dapper Edwin C. “Ted” Parsons posing with his medals. Like several other of his squadron mates, he learned to fly before the war. He achieved one confirmed kill with the Lafayette Escadrille and would later score seven more while serving with French Escadrille SPA.3. (Washington and Lee University Archives)
Ted Parsons’ uniform and medals are displayed at the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum’s Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center. The medals, displayed below, are (l–r) the Legion of Honor, Médaille militaire, French Croix de Guerre with eight palms, Belgium Croix de Guerre, and the Belgian Order of Leopold. (Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum, Steven A. Ruffin)
An iconic shot of the men of the Lafayette Escadrille as they prepare to take off on a mission. Conferring in the foreground, from left to right: Walter Lovell, Edmond Genet, Raoul Lufbery, and James McConnell. This photo was taken at Ravenel in early March 1917, only days before McConnell’s death. Pictured right is McConnell’s hat—a little worse for wear—as displayed at the University of Virginia. (Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum; Steve Miller)
A surviving example of a Lafayette Escadrille Sioux Indianhead insignia, taken from Spad VII S.1227 that was wrecked by Harold Willis at Ham on May 21, 1917. It now resides at the American Friends of Blérancourt Museum. Note the fierce visage and the brilliant red, white, and blue colors representative of both the United States and France. Willis and Edward Hinkle designed the image so as to be visible in the air from a great distance. (Art Resource)
Within months of McConnell’s death, French soldiers built a more elaborate memorial for the fallen aviator, as seen here. His machine gun remained at the site. (Washington and Lee University Archives)
Friends of the fallen James McConnell congregate outside the American Cathedral of the Holy Trinity in Paris, following his memorial service on April 2, 1917. Edmond Genet, Chouteau Johnson, and Robert Soubiran were the only Lafayette Escadrille pilots able to attend. Pictured from left to right are Robert Donze and Granville Pollock (both American pilots assigned to other French squadrons), Fred Prince, Paul Rockwell, Chouteau Johnson, and Robert Soubiran. Partially visible at the far right is Didier Masson. Prince and Masson were, at this time, no longer with N.124. Genet later complained that the service “was too long and badly arranged.” He also took exception to the “vast array of American Ambulance Corps fellows” that filled the church, writing that they were “entirely too much of an eyesore for us all.”
The same scene, as it recently appeared. (Steven A. Ruffin)
The James McConnell crash site and marker as it appears today at Petit-Détroit, one mile south of Flavy-le-Martel (Aisne), France. A local French woman planted these flowers in 1917, vowing they would never die. A hundred years later, they still thrive, thanks to the efforts of local French citizens who still remember McConnell’s contributions. His body was transferred to the Lafayette Escadrille Memorial in 1928. (Steven A. Ruffin)
Artifacts from the James McConnell crash site, as displayed at the University of Virginia. At left, a piece of shrapnel from his plane and a button from his uniform, and on the right, a strip of fabric removed from his aluminum-painted Nieuport 17 by a French soldier after it crashed on the outskirts of Petit-Détroit. (Steve Miller)
&
nbsp; Another significant monument to James McConnell is “The Aviator,” which stands on the campus of his alma mater, the University of Virginia at Charlottesville. Inscribed at the statue’s base is the phrase, “Soaring like an eagle into new heavens of valor and devotion”. The University established this memorial soon after McConnell’s death; the sculptor was a then relatively unknown Gutzon Borglum, who would later gain fame as the creator of the presidential faces on Mt. Rushmore. (Steven A. Ruffin)
Mishaps in the squadron continued to be an almost-daily event. Here Nieuport 17 N.2297 “ECP”, formerly flown by Edwin C. Parsons, lies on its back on the railway embankment at the northern edge of the aerodrome at Ham. On April 8, 1917, Ken Marr had engine problems and overshot the field while trying to land. This may have been that accident. (Washington and Lee University Archives)
The scene of the mishap revisited nearly a century later. (Steven A. Ruffin)
The devastating crash of Ronald Wood Hoskier and Jean Dressy. The two were shot down on April 23, 1917, during a vicious dogfight with three German fighters. They were flying the obsolete Morane parasol MS.1112, trying to prove the superiority of a two-seater. The translated inscription on the cross reads, “Here Sergeant-Pilot Ronald Hoskier and Machine Gunner Jean Dressy fell on 23-4-16, Lafayette Escadrille. Died for France.” In the top photo, looking on with unidentified French personnel are Robert Soubiran (second from the left) and Edward Hinkle (wearing the beret). (US Air Force)
The Lafayette Escadrille: A Photo History of the First American Fighter Squadron Page 15