James Norman Hall poses in front of a Blériot trainer. Hall distinguished himself by fighting under the flags of three different nations during World War I. Serving first as a soldier in the British army, he later flew for the French Aéronautique Militaire and the US Air Service. The many adventures and close calls he suffered during these years were the stuff of novels—literally. The talented writer was already on his way to becoming a world-renowned author when he joined the Lafayette Escadrille on June 16, 1917. (US Air Force)
35. CAPORAL DOUGLAS MACMONAGLE was born in San Francisco, California on February 19, 1982, to Dr. Beverly and Minnie MacMonagle. After leaving Berkeley in 1915, he traveled to France to serve with the American Ambulance Field Service. He served there for nine months, earning the Croix de Guerre with star, at Verdun for rescuing wounded men at an advanced post under fire. He enlisted in aviation in October 1916, and joined the Lafayette Escadrille on June 16, 1917.
Coffee time for the men of the Lafayette Escadrille at Chaudun, as photographed by Paul Rockwell during his June 27 to July 6, 1917, visit. This is one of a series of snapshots he took, the original negatives of which, still exist. Visible from far left: Walter Lovell, Harold Willis, Didier Masson, Chouteau Johnson, and Willis Haviland. Leaning on the pole, facing the camera are William Dugan and Ted Parsons. (Washington and Lee University Archives)
An informal gathering of Escadrille SPA.124 pilots in front of William Thaw’s Spad VII S.1456 at Chaudun. From left: Robert Soubiran, Willis Haviland, Kenneth Marr, Thaw, unidentified mechanic, and at far right, new arrival David McKelvey Peterson. Peterson reported with Douglas MacMonagle and James Norman Hall on June 16, 1917, and would prove to be a solid addition to the roster. Levelheaded and fearless, he had the ideal personality for a fighter pilot, which would contribute to his future successes. Here, it appears that the casually dressed pilots must have been saving their good uniforms for, as Ted Parsons later phrased it, “adventures in Paris, which, after all, we considered the most important part of the war.” (Washington and Lee University Archives)
36. CAPORAL DAVID MCKELVEY PETERSON was born on July 2, 1894, in Honesdale, Pennsylvania, to Dr. Person and Louise Peterson. After graduating from Lehigh University in 1915 with a degree in chemical engineering, he worked for a time at the Curtiss aircraft factory in Buffalo, New York, where he also learned to fly. In September 1916, he traveled to France and completed the flight training curriculum, during which, he proved to be a talented and exceptionally even-keeled pilot. He reported to the Lafayette Escadrille with Hall and MacMonagle on June 16, 1917.
James Hall’s Lucky Escape
On June 26, new pilot “Jimmy” Hall was scheduled for an eight-plane sunset patrol over the lines. It was only his second combat patrol. Taking off at around 8:00 p.m., as the sun was almost ready to touch the horizon, were Lufbery, Willis, Johnson, Dugan, Bigelow, Lovell, Hall, and MacMonagle. Hall’s mechanics had difficulty getting his Spad—Ken Marr’s old S.1386—started, and by the time he got off the ground, the other members of the patrol were out of sight.
Hall climbed for altitude and headed straight for the lines, hoping to catch up with his departed comrades. To his joy, he caught sight of the seven-plane formation three miles inside German lines, so he hurried to join it. However, as he approached, he was horrified to see one of the biplanes from the formation suddenly turn toward him and open fire. In the dusky sky, he had mistaken a German formation for his own, and now there was no escape. As Ted Parsons vividly described Hall’s ordeal, “Machine guns tapped at him from every angle. Tracer bullets left a tangled cobweb of phosphorescent blue smoke in the clear air, holding the little Spad in the center like a fly in a spider’s web.” Several enemy bullets found their mark. One of them knocked the goggles off of Hall’s face and creased his forehead, and another slammed into his left shoulder. The German fighters continued their deadly assault until the seriously wounded Hall lost consciousness. He tumbled from an altitude of 14,000 feet in his stricken Spad, completely out of control.
The only bit of luck Hall had that day saved his life: before impact with the ground, either he—or a divine guiding hand—directed his plummeting Spad into a trench, lengthwise, so that most of the impact was absorbed by the wings as they collapsed against the parapets on either side. Thanks to his sturdy Spad, Hall miraculously survived what should have been certain death. No other airplane could have made such a dive without shedding its wings. He was rushed, badly injured, to the nearest aid station and eventually ended up at the American Hospital at Neuilly-sur-Seine, on the northwestern outskirts of Paris. He had barely survived his very short air combat career but would live to fight again. Meanwhile, he would, as James McConnell had earlier, put his recovery time to good use. He began writing a semi-fictional account of his experiences that became, upon its publication in 1918, his second book—and in time, an aviation classic: High Adventure: A Narrative of Air Fighting in France.
There were many admiring witnesses to Hall’s disastrous fight and, though his performance was hardly anything he cared to brag about, French military authorities appreciated his aggressive spirit, his sangfroid under fire—and most of all, his ability to survive. On July 9, they awarded him the Médaille militaire for his “courage and purest spirit of sacrifice.” With Hall’s violent and abrupt departure from the squadron, new talent was needed to replace him and it arrived less than a week later.
37. CAPORAL JAMES RALPH DOOLITTLE—not to be confused with James Harold “Jimmy” Doolittle of World War II fame—was born in Chicago, Illinois, on January 6, 1894 to James and Frances Doolittle. Doolittle left Columbia University in 1916 to serve in France with the Norton-Harjes Ambulance Corps. He entered the French aviation program in October 1916, but on May 2, 1917, while at the GDE at Plessis-Belleville, he crashed his Nieuport and received serious injuries. Not until eight weeks later, on July 2, 1917, did the young pilot with a newly scarred face join the Lafayette Escadrille at Chaudun.
More Lady Luck and More New Horizons
On July 4 and 5, Capitaine Thénault granted the men of the Lafayette Escadrille a much-appreciated 48-hour leave to participate in the American Independence Day festivities. These included a ceremony held in Paris near the statue of Washington and Lafayette at Place des États-Unis. Given the recent US declaration of war, this most patriotic of all American holidays had far more meaning and appeal to the pilots than in past years. The last part of the celebration involved an impressive military parade at Chaudun on Saturday, July 7, during which, the squadron was presented a silk flag stitched by President Woodrow Wilson’s daughter, Mrs. William Gibbs McAdoo, and other women representing the US Treasury Department.
Though the flag presentation was an important occasion, July 7 was equally remembered for another extraordinary event that was not on that day’s agenda. Early that morning the irrepressible daredevil, Courtney Campbell, returned to Chaudun from a patrol and decided to treat the visitors congregating below to an impromptu aerobatic display. After overstressing his Nieuport 23 fighter with a series of violent maneuvers, he was hanging upside-down at the top of a loop when his lower left wing simply separated and fluttered to the ground below. It should have been sure death—no airplane is designed to fly without one of its wings—but Campbell somehow found a way to keep it under control as he glided down to a perfect landing in a beet field some five miles away from the aerodrome. Rather than being scared witless at his near-death experience, like any normal person, the insanely fearless pilot considered it all good fun. Riding in the ambulance that was dispatched to retrieve his smashed remains, he made the rounds at several local drinking establishments, toasting to his close call with the Grim Reaper. He received the Croix de Guerre with star, for miraculously cheating death, but for him, the clock was ticking. Only once more would he successfully defy the odds before his amazing luck would finally desert him.
On July 17, the squadron was abruptly ordered to move again—this time to Saint-Pol-sur-Mer. This airfield was l
ocated just outside of Dunkirk, only two miles from the beach. The assigned task was to support the British Flanders offensive, known as the Third Battle of Ypres or the Battle of Passchendaele.
The flight from Chaudun to Saint-Pol was anything but smooth, with several pilots becoming lost in the misty overcast. Haviland and Peterson crash landed, while Parsons and Willis nearly collided with an observation balloon that suddenly appeared before them. The pilot who encountered the most trouble, however, was the new man, Doolittle. While winging his way to Saint-Pol, he became disoriented in the soup. Lost and alone, he descended to an airfield he spotted below to get his bearings but discovered, to his chagrin, that it was an enemy field. As machine gun fire from the ground began zipping all around him, he ducked back into the clouds.
A few minutes later, he again cautiously emerged from the overcast, only to see a Royal Flying Corps Nieuport battling a German fighter that had attacked a British observation balloon. He immediately went to the aid of his ally, but was promptly attacked by two other German fighters that had escaped his notice. In the ensuing melee, he was hit in the leg by German machine gun fire and his own Nieuport 24 peppered with enemy slugs. As he tried to escape the relentless attack, British antiaircraft fire opened up on the Germans but managed to hit only the unlucky Doolittle. He finally crash landed in a field behind British lines, during which his recently healed face wound was reopened. He spent weeks recovering from his multiple injuries before being released from service to return to the United States. For his courageous actions, he was awarded the British Military Medal and the French Croix de Guerre with palm.
Doolittle’s post-Lafayette Escadrille luck continued to let him down. After returning to the States, he signed on as a civilian instructor with the US Air Service. On July 26, 1918, he and his observer died after crashing near Kenilworth Field, Buffalo, New York. Doolittle, who was scheduled to be married only six days later, thus joined the ranks of Lafayette Escadrille pilots who failed to survive the war.
The carefree Andrew Courtney Campbell stands next to his broken Nieuport 23 N.3578 and laughs after his death-defying flight of July 7, 1917. After reporting to the Lafayette Escadrille on April 15, 1917, he became infamous for his bizarre flying antics. In this case, while stunting over the field at Chaudun early that morning, his lower left wing ripped loose and flapped away in the slipstream. Campbell kept his head and somehow managed to bring his crippled bird down for a successful landing in this beet field. (Washington and Lee University Archives)
Right after Courtney Campbell’s July 7, 1917, miracle, the men of the Lafayette Escadrille were treated to an impressive ceremony on the airfield at Chaudun. A regiment of elite French Chasseurs Alpins presented the squadron with an American flag stitched and donated by the women of the US Treasury Department. Here, Lieutenant William Thaw, holds the hand-made silk flag. As Ted Parsons described it, “poor Bill Thaw had to dress up, stagger out and accept it with a delightful speech which no one could hear or understand.” (US Air Force)
This Paul Rockwell photograph, taken at Chaudun on July 7, 1917, shows all but four of the assigned pilots posing with the newly presented flag. Sitting: Dudley Hill, Didier Masson (holding Soda), William Thaw (petting Fram), Georges Thénault, Raoul Lufbery and Chouteau Johnson (holding Whiskey), Stephen Bigelow, and Robert Rockwell. Standing: Robert Soubiran, James Doolittle, Courtney Campbell, Ted Parsons, Ray Bridgman, William Dugan, Douglas MacMonagle, Walter Lovell, Harold Willis, Hank Jones, Antoine de Maison-Rouge, and David Peterson. MacMonagle, Doolittle, and Peterson had only recently joined the squadron, as had Lieutenant de Maison-Rouge, who was Lieutenant de Laage’s replacement. Missing from this photo were Jerry Hewitt, Willis Haviland, Carl Dolan, and Ken Marr. The squadron roster was at this time at its peak, with a total of 24 pilots. (US Air Force)
* * *
While at Saint-Pol, the men of the Lafayette Escadrille managed to fly patrols most days, during which they encountered some enemy opposition. In addition, they experimented with the new and dangerous art of ground assault. Fortunately, however, the weather did not cooperate enough for them to get into any kind of routine, and this afforded them some much-needed downtime. A third of the 24 days they operated from there were nonflying. Even when the weather was fit for flying, the pilots were unable to achieve any significant results. Ted Parsons later remembered Saint-Pol as a “continuous round of sea bathing, poker, and drinking parties….” Even the hard-driving ace Lufbery appreciated the more relaxed lifestyle, stating in an August 1, 1917, letter to Paul Rockwell that, “we never enjoyed ourselves so much.”
On August 11, 1917, the men of the Lafayette Escadrille were once again ordered to move, this time back to the Verdun sector. After their pleasant interlude on the beaches of Saint-Pol, their new assignment was a large field just outside the village of Senard, 185 miles to the southeast. Here, they would find an abundance of good weather and intense air fighting that would bring them additional victories—along with more losses.
CHAPTER 12
HARD TIMES AT SENARD
“… I just let him have it. He came all to pieces in the air.”
The quiet little town of Senard sits in a clearing at the lower edge of the Argonne Forest, and on the town’s southern outskirts is a sprawling pasture where cows now graze. In August 1917, that pasture, through which the emergent Aisne River still meanders, was a busy aerodrome, housing the planes and pilots of the Lafayette Escadrille and its sister squadrons of Groupe de Combat 13. At that time, this area was part of the now-relatively quiet Verdun sector, but it was about to become much more active. French Général Philippe Pétain was about to launch a new offensive, which would ultimately push the German Army back to where it had begun its massive February 1916 attack on Verdun.
As was now abundantly evident on both sides of the trenches, aerial superiority was a critical element to success on the ground. Commanders needed their eyes in the sky—their two-seat photo reconnaissance airplanes and observation balloons—to keep them apprised of enemy movements and help direct artillery fire. In order for these aircraft to operate effectively, control of the skies was a must, and this was the responsibility of the pilots of Groupe de Combat 13. In addition, they would be called on to support bombing missions into enemy territory. Thus, the men of the Lafayette Escadrille had their work cut out for them.
Harold Willis down, but Not Out
It was not until August 16 that SPA.124 was ready to commence flight operations from Senard. With the generally good weather and long summer hours of daylight, the pilots began racking up flight hours and filling their logbooks, diaries, and letters with accounts of deadly encounters with exceptionally hostile enemy airmen. The pilots of SPA.124 would remember their seven weeks here as some of the most intense and exhausting of all the campaigns in which they had participated.
A German reconnaissance photograph of the aerodrome located on the southeastern edge of Senard. Note the numerous hangars lined up along the Aisne River, which ran through the field. The Lafayette Escadrille and other squadrons belonging to Groupe de Combat 13 arrived at Senard on August 11, 1917. (Source Unknown)
August 18, the squadron’s third operational day at Senard, brought with it an abundance of action. The mission that day for Escadrilles SPA.124 and SPA.65 was to protect a group of 13 Sopwith bombers from Escadrilles SOP.66 and SOP.111. Their objectives, all several miles inside enemy-held territory, included the railroad yard at Dun-sur-Meuse and munitions depots at Banthéville. After crossing the lines at about 12,000 feet altitude, the large formation came under a series of running attacks by formations of determined German fighters. During one of these melees, Walter Lovell downed an enemy Albatros fighter, which he shared with a SPA.65 pilot, for his first and only confirmed kill of the war. However, that welcome event was offset by some very bad news involving Lovell’s friend, Harold Willis. The Spad VII flown by the highly competent architect-pilot Willis, vanished from the scene. None of his fellow pilots saw what had happen
ed to him, and though they hoped for the best, they feared the worst. The men of SPA.124 grieved the popular pilot’s loss. He had been a good friend and a valuable pilot who had done stellar work in the five months he had served with the squadron. On the day Willis went missing, Walter Lovell wrote about him in a letter to Paul Rockwell:
Right from the start, his work was characterized by a conscientious and a thoroughness second to none. His reconnaissance work on which he specialized always proved to be of great value. On account of his splendid work, he was proposed for sous-lieutenant about two weeks ago. Willis was one of the most valuable men in the escadrille and his loss is going to make a tremendous hole.
The Lafayette Escadrille: A Photo History of the First American Fighter Squadron Page 17