“Why, goddam, I’m tellin’ ya, them goddam sauerkraut-eaters won’t last but a month once our boys get over there ...”
“I sure hate to see you fine boys go, but I’m mighty proud o’ ya ...”
“Say, Elmer, whaddya think o’ this? My Bax is gonna join the Air Service.”
“Why, that’s great, Bax, I guess you’ll be an ace ...”
“Sure aim to, sir ...”
“Them Limeys and Frogs, they sure could use some good old American zing ... show ’em how to fly ...”
“Sure hope the war ain’t over by the time I’ve learned to fly and get into combat ...”
“Say, did you guys hear that? Hear what Bax just said? Say it again, Bax ... listen to the guy, you guys, this’ll killya ... go ahead, Bax, tell ’em ...”
“All I said, I sure hope our doughboys don’t get the goddam war finished before I have my wings and get in a combat outfit ...”
A lot of rye and bourbon went down their iron-hard gullets, toughened by lifetimes of conversing at the tops of their voices. A lot of corn-fed beef steaks went down with the whiskey. A maudlin and boastful speech or three was mouthed. The party dispersed to return to places of business and the recruiting offices.
Baxter L. Kaczinski, flatulent with conceit and over-confidence, took his first step towards the fate that awaited him in the air over northern France.
The Army of the United States had defined its parameters for the selection of airmen. There was scarcely a famous Allied or German pilot who would have fulfilled some of these demands and none who complied with all. Many of the criteria were impossible to establish, except perhaps by a long investigation by a detective. But Baxter L. considered himself ideally equipped.
The U.S.A.S. required that “The candidate should be naturally athletic and have a reputation for punctuality and honesty. He should have a cool head in emergencies, good eye for distance, keen ear for familiar sounds, steady hand and sound body with plenty of reserve; he should be quick-witted, highly intelligent and tractable. Immature, high-strung, over-confident, impatient candidates are not required.”
Not many who knew Baxter L. Kaczinski well would have attributed more than three or four of these qualities to him: good eye, keen ear, steady hand and sound body. He was destined to find out, the hard way, what his deficiencies were.
Military aviation had been neglected in America. In 1914 an Aviation Section of the Signal Corps had been formed, with an establishment of 60 officers and 260 other ranks. The Corps’s flying school started with 28 machines, and 40 pupils passed through it in its first year. A quarter of the machines were totally written off and more than a quarter of the student pilots killed themselves. By the time America went to war against Germany, the air force numbered only 131 officers and 1,000 other ranks.
Three months after the declaration of war, America had, with typical energy and large-scale habit of thought, laid down an establishment of 345 squadrons. Concomitant with this were the construction of numerous new aerodromes, the design and manufacture of new aero engines and the expansion of the training organisation.
The aircraft industry in America lagged far behind that in Europe. Whereas in Great Britain, France, Germany and Italy thousands of aeroplanes had been built since Orville Wright made man’s first powered flight on 17th December 1903, in the U.S.A. a mere 800 had been constructed between 1907 and 1917. Manufacture could not keep pace with the sudden new demand. In consequence, embryo American pilots had to be sent to France, after their initial training, to continue instruction at American bases there, under French instructors.
America already had a strong connection with the Aviation Militaire. In 1916 a squadron of American volunteers had been formed in this Service, the Escadrille Lafayette. Some 170 others were serving on French squadrons. Many American pilots gained fame for the number of their victories and all of them were outstandingly brave, self-sacrificing and idealistic to have volunteered at all. In April 1917 the Lafayette Squadron was flying French fighters, Spad VIIs, and it continued to exist as part of the Aviation Militaire for a further ten months.
Britain had neglected the U.S. Air Service and in consequence lost the opportunity to supply it with either training or operational aircraft.
Kaczinski was sent to the original Signal Corps Aviation School at College Park, Maryland for his elementary training and then to France for advanced instruction.
*
On the day that America committed itself to war, Frodingham S. Andretti woke with a sixteen-year-old waitress in his arms, in his apartment with its fine view of San Francisco Bay. He was the eldest of three brothers and four sisters, and when he had come of age a year ago he had, amid floods of tears from both his parents, his paternal grandmother and maternal grandfather, who lived with them, insisted on moving out of the family home. To placate his father, whose pride it was to survey three generations of his family from the head of the dining table, and his mother, whose pride it was to cook for them — assisted by a cook who came from Bologna, like the Andrettis — he ate most of his meals at the family table.
Nobody had minded when he stayed out all night, but he had never dared bring a girl to his room. This cramped his pursuit of the very young ones, who of course had no places of their own. He could only get to them when travelling around inspecting the family hotels and restaurants.
At lunch time, the first topic was the declaration of war. The Andretti family talked Italian among themselves. The two surviving grandparents had little English anyway, despite twenty-five years in America.
“I’m going to go in the Army,” Frodingham S. announced.
His father frowned. “You crazy?”
His mother wrung her hands and leaped from her chair to smother him with tears and kisses.
His grandmother wrung her hands and keened.
His grandfather wiped his rheumy eyes and mumbled. “I saw enough of war when I was with Garibaldi in Sicily. But if I were forty years younger I would gladly go to the Austrian Front and show those cowards of ours who ran away at Caporetto how to fight.”
Frod’s mother said “Papa, even if you were forty years younger you would be too old for the American Army.”
“Who said anything about the American Army? I would fight as one of our own Army.”
Frod’s father said “The American Army is our Army, Papa.”
Grandfather looked disgusted. He had never forgiven his son-in-law for giving all his children first names that sounded American. “Frodingham,” he had complained, “what kind of a name is that?”
Papa Andretti had chosen it from an advertisement for a brand of tractors. “It is an important name, that’s what it is. And look what a fine second name I have given him: Stefano. What more do you want? Frodingham S. Andretti. Sounds good, eh, old man?”
“It sounds like merda to me.” That was twenty-one years ago and grandfather was still not reconciled to it.
Mama said “If you insist on going, my dear boy, please choose something safe. The important thing is to wear an American uniform. What you do in it is not important; as long as it means you will come home safely when the war is over.”
“What do you suggest, Mama?”
“Like drive a general’s car, maybe? You are a good driver. Or ... someone has to feed the soldiers. You are a professional. Doesn’t the Army have a catering department where you could use your skill? It’s not right for those poor boys to have to fight without good nourishing food.”
“I’ll think about it, Mama.”
In the afternoon, Andretti went to a recruiting office and put his name down to become a pilot. He had given it much thought. He was convinced that someone as sharp as he would find some way of never actually having to fight. All he wanted was the uniform and the wings on his chest. That was guaranteed to get the women. Not that he needed any help, but once he got amongst a large group of men and had to go to France, he would need some distinction — apart from his handsome looks and charm — to st
and out from the others. As an aviator he would be the most conspicuous.
From the recruiting office he went to church and spent ten minutes in prayer. He prayed that his life would be spared and that he would not even have to fight, and he prayed that he would be accepted for the Aviation Service and qualify as a pilot.
Then he went to one of his father’s restaurants where there were two new waitresses, both sixteen, whom he had not yet threatened with dismissal if they did not go to bed with him.
He said nothing more at home about joining up until the day when he received his papers telling him to report to an aerodrome at San Diego. He was delighted. The family owned a hotel there. He would not go short of bedmates.
When he broke the news, his mother screamed and pretended to faint. His father burst into tears and embraced him. All his brothers and sister began to weep and fought to get their arms around him and plant kisses on his cheeks. His grandmother, who was deaf, had not heard properly but she joined in the crying and wailing just the same. His grandfather kept on stuffing himself with ravioli and mumbled something that included the word “merda” three times.
In due course Andretti found himself at the same advanced flying school in France as Kaczinski. Because they both had a lot of spending money and both had been badly spoiled by their parents, they naturally drifted into companionship and went regularly to Mass together: although Kaczinski had been brought up to despise and distrust Wops and Andretti had been raised regarding Polacks as essentially crude, stupid and parochial.
The first serious conversation they had established a rivalry which henceforth underlay their superficial friendship.
“Say, Frod, how many hours you got on these Blériots now?”
The Blériot Penguin was their basic French trainer.
“Hell, I’ve gotten only three hours on these goddam birds, but I guess there’s no guy in this school can fly them better than I can.”
“Yeah? I gotten five hours already and I can almost make the birds sing and dance.”
“Is that so, Bax? Well, let me tell you something. You know that bridge across the river down the road a piece? Well I flew under it this morning. You couldn’t do that.”
“Yeah? I done it twice already. And I done something else. Know those two steeples at the front of the cathedral? Well, I flew right between them this morning and there ain’t more than a coupla inches to spare on either side.”
Neither had attempted either, but both went off secretly to emulate the other’s claim.
There was ample room under the high bridge and between the spires. The French pilots did it stacked one above the other or side by side, respectively.
“Hell, Frod, I can’t wait to get to a pursuit outfit. I’m gonna grab me a bunch of victories’ll make this von Richthoven guy look like a beginner.”
“Yeah? I tell ya, Bax, when I get in amongst the goddam Sauerkrauts I’ll knock ’em down so fast they won’t be able to keep count.”
*
Rudel was a lieutenant of Lancers when the Kaiser marched into Belgium. In the first battle his regiment fought, in France, he was charging at a French officer when a trooper got to Dupuis first and dumped him on the ground with what looked like a mortal wound.
Rudel enjoyed himself in each of the seven cavalry engagements in which he fought. He laughed uproariously while he slashed left and right with his sabre, decapitating, severing an arm here, a leg there, slashing halfway through a horse’s neck or the trunk of a Frenchman or a Briton. In return he sustained several cuts on his arms, legs and body. Finally a bayonet wielded by a Gordon Highlander ripped his right arm from wrist to shoulder and sent him back to Germany for a long spell in hospital.
Facing the facts and the casualty lists, he acknowledged to himself that his wound suggested a measure of Divine intervention: for the deaths in his regiment were appallingly high and of the officers two-thirds were lost.
He did not feel that the Almighty had spared him in order that he should fester in a muddy, rat-infested trench or serve a field gun in the rear of the front line. A cavalryman’s place was in the van. If cavalry had suddenly become obsolete, the only way of fighting at the forefront of the Army was in the air.
The cavalry was a reconnaissance arm, therefore he would be a reconnaissance flyer. In a two-seater reconnaissance machine the observer was in command. Therefore he would become an observer.
It took him three months to recover the full use of his right arm and another three to complete his training. February 1915 found him on a Fliegerabteilung of six D.F.W. B1s, two-seaters in which the observer was armed with a rifle. Rudel, as a cavalryman, disdained this type of firearm except for boar or big game hunting. He thus provided very poor protection for his pilot and himself and was twice shot down by the British. As the German Military Aviation Service never ventured beyond the German lines, his wounded pilot was, on each occasion, able to make a forced landing without risk of capture. On the second occasion, Rudel was also hit: in the upper left arm. Back to Germany and hospital.
When he rejoined his unit it had been equipped with the new D.F.W. C1, which had the centre section of the top plane cut away, enabling the observer in the rear cockpit to stand up and fire a Parabellum machine-gun which was mounted up there. When Rudel rose to his feet to shoot at the enemy, his considerable bulk offered so much wind resistance that the speed of the aircraft fell by several knots. He was not popular with the pilots as a passenger although, on the ground, he was usually the centre of a jovial group of heavy drinkers.
It was, in a way, bad luck for Rudel that the British produced a tough and stable fighter aeroplane at about the time that he joined his flight section and, by the time he came back after being wounded, a squadron of these FB5 Gunbuses was operating in the Fliegerabteilung’s sector.
Although it had a speed of only 70 m.p.h. and a ceiling of 9,000 ft. and looked primitive, with its enclosed nacelle backed by spars, booms and cross-pieces, it carried either a Lewis or Vickers gun in its nose for the observer.
In order to reconnoitre, the D.F.Ws had to fly at less than five thousand feet. Rudel habitually ordered his pilots to carry out their sorties at three thousand.
He was taking photographs of the British trenches, from his own side of the line, one morning, when a Gunbus approached. Thinking to deceive it by a cunning stratagem, he leaned over to his pilot and bawled at him to go lower; and kept forcing him down until they were at a hundred feet.
The Gunbus pilot, evidently perplexed, had followed the German machine down in the teeth of fierce ground fire from rifles and machine-guns. His observer now opened fire on the D.F.W.
Rudel shouted to the pilot to throttle back, which would cause the Gunbus to overshoot and give him an easy shot at its undefended rear.
The German pilot reduced speed.
Rudel stood up.
The D.F.W.’s speed fell drastically. It stalled and pitched into the ground.
Rudel was flung through the fabric of the upper plane, which damped the effect of his fall. He broke ribs, an arm and a leg.
The pilot was killed, crushed by the engine.
Back went Rudel to Germany: earning the nickname of Brieftaube or homing pigeon from his comrades.
In another way, this was good luck for him. While he was away the Gunbuses wrought great slaughter among the crews of all the Fliegerabteilungen in the sector, including, worst of all, his.
*
Weisbach joined the Military Aviation Service some months before the war. He was attracted to it for three reasons. He revelled in male companionship and was nervous and uneasy with women. Aviators fascinated him and he was drawn strongly to them. He hoped that by investing himself with a pilot’s glamour he would in turn attract the attentions of the sort of young men whose friendship he craved.
He went through his training with considerable embarrassment. When his comrades proposed a carousal around the town, he feigned enthusiasm and quaked inwardly. He drank sparingly by habit, which
meant that when he accompanied his fellow pupil pilots on an evening’s dissipation he became drunk quickly and long before anyone else. These outings always had, as their prime purpose, a sexual conclusion. The young officers either picked up willing girls in dance halls or resorted to a brothel.
On the first such foray, Weisbach, who was an excellent dancer as well as being good-looking, was soon the envied butt of the others because all the girls wanted to dance with him and two or three made it plain that they were willing for a much closer embrace than that demanded by waltz or tango.
When his companions urged him to take advantage of the blatant offers he was receiving and go off with one of the girls, he insisted that none was pretty enough to merit his favours.
“By God,” said the ring-leader, “we’ll go to Tante Ilse’s. She has the most beautiful girls in Saxony. Expensive, but for a man of your exacting standards that’s a minor matter, as long as you get what you want.”
Among Germans this passed for wit and provoked much loud laughter. Off they went to Aunt Ilse’s. She was a henna-haired, raddled harpy with eyes like gimlets. Weisbach quailed as soon as her glance bored into him. He dropped his eyes and blushed. When he raised them again the corners of her thick lips were turned up and her gold teeth revealed in a mocking smirk.
She directed a tall, bony, flat-chested young woman to keep him entertained. The girl had bare, muscular arms and large hands. Weisbach sat drinking with her, feeling morose and discomfited but maintaining an appearance of gaiety. Tante Ilse watched them leave the room hand-in-hand with a knowing leer.
Weisbach managed fairly well by concentrating his mind on his partner’s masculine attributes and by shutting his eyes at certain moments. He had tried this sort of thing before a couple of times and it had been no good. It was a little less of an ordeal this time because he was so tipsy.
He apologised for his poor performance, the girl shrugged and, when they rejoined the others, had a whispered talk with Tante Ilse which made Tante Ilse’s eyes light up and brought a broad grin to her plump face.
No Wrath of Men Page 4