Dinsmore Ely

Well, this is the result: I signed for the release from the army Français. I was refused a permission to Paris and took it anyway to find out from the American authorities what would become of me. My trip to Paris was unsuccessful. I returned to camp late at night, and when I awoke in the morning I was told that the permission had been granted after all and that I had been ordered to the Front at eleven o’clock that day in Escadrille S 102, Sector Postal 160, located near Toul. I stopped over at Paris a day and a half and landed here day before yesterday. So now, God be praised, I am at the Front. It has taken eight months to come to it, but I guess it will be worth it.

    Your Son.

    Near Toul, France, February 26, 1918.

Dear Father:

Plessis Belleville was a great strain. I had to fight the curse of idleness and it is a losing fight, as with a man who is muscle bound who tires himself out. Reading, studying French, drawing and walking helped, but they were a failure through lack of inspiration. No Americans had been sent to the Front and there was a rumor that we were to be held there till the United States took us over. Then came the offer of our commissions as second lieutenants, and so inactive had our minds become that it upset us to decide. I asked for my release from the French Army although it is not what I wished to do; yet it seemed best. It means that I could hardly expect to go to the Front in French service and might have to wait months for action in United States service. I was in despair.

The next morning I asked for a permission of twenty-four hours in Paris. It was refused. I took the eleven o’clock train the next morning with an officer. I myself was mistaken for an officer. He was good company. We went and had a Turkish bath. That night I went to the opera. In the morning my marraine’s grandchildren came up to see me. I held them in my arms. Children seem to love me. I think children’s love protects people from wrong and trouble.

That day I found that I could not learn anything from the U. S. Army, so I went to the opera again in the afternoon, but it was poor. Then I walked in the crowds and laughed at all who would laugh with me. After a good dinner, I rode back to Plessis with a pretty girl who was good company. That night sleep came easily and was sound.

The hoodoo was broken.

The next morning when I awoke, they told me I was to leave for the Front at eleven o’clock. I was assigned to the French Escadrille S 102, Sector Postal 160, near Toul. Well, I was busy packing and getting papers signed and saying good-bye to everyone. So now I was just where I wished to be.

It is the custom to take two days in Paris without permission on your way to the Front. My marraine was surprised to see me back so soon. I spent the day shopping and then we went to see Gaby Deslys last night. We sat with three American soldiers who had asked us to get their tickets for them. The show was full of pep and American songs, besides having some really wonderful dancing. Between acts there was a regular New York “jazz” band playing in the foyer. It was a jolly way to say good-bye to Paris.

My marraine had received your letter telling of wiring me money. As I have received no mail whatever for more than three weeks I knew nothing of it. I deposited the money in the Guaranty Trust Company of New York, 1 and 3 Boul. des Italiens, Paris. I have a trunk at the Cécilia Hôtel, 12 Ave. Mac-Mahon, Paris. With me I have two duffelbags and a suitcase. At the “Tech” Club, University Union, 8 Rue Richelieu, Paris, are some films and key to my trunk. There are some post cards and perhaps a few odds and ends at my marraine’s. Thanks very much for the money; I hope I shall not have to use it.

Well, I went down to the station, and just naturally took the train for the Front as if I were going to Milwaukee (if such a city does exist anymore). There were three American flyers still in the French Army on the train. Wallman, Hitchcock, and another; the first two have been doing exceptional work lately. They explained to me how to kill German flyers, and I am quite anxious to try it now. We passed through some towns which had been shelled, but they didn’t look so terribly bad. Arriving at Toul I descended and informed the captain by telephone that I had arrived. An automobile was there in twenty minutes to take me out.

So I am just where I have been working for eight months to get, namely, in a French escadrille, at the Front; flying the best French monoplanes, fighting plane, and with a commission (only a second lieutenant) in the American Army waiting for me. All I wish for now is to be completely forgotten by both French and American authorities until I give them particular reason to remember me; and this may very easily happen (the forgetting part).

And now I am living in a nice little room, which with the room adjacent, is shared by four Frenchmen; one of them is an architect of the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. In the morning chocolate and toast is served to us in bed, as is the French custom. We rise at eleven and have the day to do as we wish, provided it is not good flying weather. Breakfast is served at twelve and supper at seven.

The first day was rainy, but the second day was beautiful, and the captain, who is a corker, gave me a ride in one of the best machines. It was only for forty minutes to look about the country, and of course I did not go near the lines, but I was very lucky to get a ride at all. It will be some time before I have a machine of my own and can work regularly, but that is what I look forward to. Yesterday two Boche planes came over, and the anti-aircraft guns blazed away at them, but all the good it did was to reassure me in the fear of their guns; when they hit it is by accident.

Last night I heard booming and stepped out of the back door. The moon was full and the sky clear. But the whole sky in front of the moon was mackerel flecked with the puffs of anti-aircraft shells. This was literally true, the sky was speckled as thickly as with stars. A minute after I was out a plane passed before the moon, and for thirty seconds I could see the light reflected on its wing. But the number of shots they fired at it appalled me. You could see the little burst of flame which left its puff of smoke. They went off at the rate of seven a second, and they kept it up steadily for twenty minutes. Get out your pencil. The air was still and the smoke remained; probably the smoke from the first shell could be seen to the last (8,400 puffs in twenty minutes and every puff worth $100 – $840,000 without getting the effect). As a matter of fact, I imagine it was more for the moral effect upon the populace of the town being bombarded than anything. All night the sullen boom of the cannon can be heard, one boom a second, every other minute. It sounds like a heavy person walking on the floor above. We are twenty miles from the Front and we can get there in thirteen minutes.

Well, I shall probably have some interesting things to write these days, though it is possible that it will be deader here than anywhere else; that is sometimes the case.

Today it was cloudy and I went down to the village and made a couple of sketches of the cathedral which is very fine indeed. There is months of study in it alone.

Good night all; my love to everyone.

    Your son,
    Dinsmore.

    Escadrille S 102, S. P. 160, March 5, 1918.

Dear Family:

It will soon be boresome if I trouble you to read of all my narrow escapes. As a matter of fact aviation is so full of them that they become almost commonplace. What happened this time was only an incident of the training for real encounters. There is a little lake near here, and in it is a German aeroplane as a target. We go over and dive at that target and shoot. It is the second good flying day we have had. The captain told me to go over and shoot. On my first drive at the target I shot two handfuls of bullets. I had been peaking 200 meters with full motor. I pulled the machine up too quickly and there was a rip, a crash, and the machine shot into a vertical bank upward. I swung into ligne de vol by crossing controls. A glance at my wing showed the end of the lower right wing torn away. The machine was laboring but I still could guide it, so I returned to the school and landed without mishap. It was one more miracle of a charmed life that I returned. They all came out to congratulate me. Well, sir, the whole front edge of my lower right wing was broken away and bent down. The end of the wing was gone and shreds of braces and cloth dangled along. I really cannot understand why a machine has a lower right wing when you can come home without it. It was caused by too brutal handling at a formidable speed. I had been led to understand that a Spad could peak 500 meters with full motor and redress quite strongly. I had only peaked 175 with three-quarters motor, which I learned was far too much. I begin to think I am a fool, for reason tells me anyone but a fool would have been afraid. But, honestly, there was no more fear than with a blow-out on a tire. Yet all the way home I knew that it would be probable death if anything more went wrong. I came home because I knew the landing ground and it was only five minutes’ flight.

    Dins.

    March 12, 1918.

Dear Family:

In the first place, we are all sad because our captain leaves us today. He is a wonderful man and everyone loves him immediately and always. I have only been here three weeks and yet I wanted to weep. As for him, the tears ran down his cheeks when he said au revoir, mes amis (good-bye, my friends). Another takes his place.

Last night gave a pleasant diversion. It started with a visit to our squadron of a group of aeroplane spotters for the United States balloon service. At their head was the first lieutenant by the name of Grant, from Ohio. He fell into conversation and it developed that he was a very good friend of “Stuff” Spencer’s at Yale. We proved interested in each other’s work and he invited me to come over to have dinner at his camp, located some twelve kilometers from here. I said I’d be glad to some time. He left soon after.

I went over and shot a few rounds at the target, this time without mishap. At about five the craving to walk was upon me, so I took the road leading to the balloon camp, hardly expecting to reach it. With the help of passing trucks I came to the camp, and passed through a town swarming with Americans. Along the roads were blocks of American trucks and ambulances, waiting for darkness to hide their movements. Many mistook me for a French officer and saluted. Those who answered my questions of inquiry stood at attention and replied with “sir.” I wanted to shake hands with them all for they acted as if they had been at it for years. When I came to the officers’ quarters I was introduced to them as into a college fraternity. I was proud rather than angered at having to salute them. They were gentlemen. Now I know why college men will make the best officers. They had a victrola, good food, good esprit de corps. I stayed all night and came back this morning. Well, I want to be a member of the American organization. With all its youngness and inexperience, it is good. God give it speed. I shall go over there again.

This showed me another thing: it is quite simple for me to go to points of interest within a radius of fifteen miles from here and return by morning, this giving me an opportunity for seeing other branches of the service. I am reading up on ballooning, aerial photography, and map work, artillery réglage and reconnaissance, and after that I shall study U. S. Army regulations and also wireless. I may have to change at any time to the United States forces, in which case I wish to be in a position to compete with the men I shall find in it.

It seems to me in my last letter I told you of an accident while shooting and said they were common. Well, since then I have had a real accident, so miraculous in its outcome than I am superstitious as a result. You have read of bandits whose bodies could not be marred by bullets. The gods must be saving me for something. Father has always feared a speed greater than twenty-five miles an hour in an automobile. One has the impression that to hit anything at that speed is very apt to kill one. Also, you know the marked increase in speed between twenty-five and thirty-five miles per hour. Say you have gone fifty miles an hour. Now imagine yourself going twice that fast along a precipice road. Suddenly the machine comes to the edge of the cliff, and plunges out into space, at a hundred miles an hour, and down three hundred feet into a pine forest below. Picture what you would find if you went down and looked into the remains of such an accident. Well, the equivalent happened to me. As soon as I hit I cut the spark and turned the cock which relieves pressure from the gas tank, to prevent fire; released the belt which held me in my seat; reached up and pulled myself out of the wreckage by the limb of a tree which had fallen over my head; and made my way through the underbrush without turning to look at the machine. As I stepped out upon a road half a mile away, a Red Cross Ford came along and took me to a near-by village. There I ate a heavy meal while talking to the madame’s daughter, and then telephoned for them to come and get me. When they arrived we were all singing and playing at the piano.

It was my first flight over the lines. I had been flying alone up and down our sector for half an hour. I had seen seven Boche planes a few miles off, but they had immediately disappeared in the clouds. From the first my motor had been running cold. I had attained the height of 4,700 meters. When I started to come down I found it impossible to descend and yet keep the motor warm enough to run. Clouds had gathered below. I tried to wing slip, but still the temperature of the motor dropped. So I wing slipped through the clouds. I had not planned on it, but they were 2,000 meters thick. I came down from 2,800 to 800 meters in some fifteen seconds, a rate of considerably over 250 miles an hour. If the fog had not been so thick the outcome would have been different for the engine would not have gotten so cold, but by the time I could think of adjusting my motor I was at 400. When I found the motor would not work it was fifty, and over a pine wood. I tried to turn back to a field, but started to wing slip, which is death, so I straightened out, let it slow down a bit, and then pointed it down into the trees at an angle of thirty degrees. It is less dangerous to hit an object that way than in line of flight. Things happened just as I expected. The plane mowed down seven or eight six-inch pines. The motor plowed ahead of me and the trees took the shock as they broke. Just before the machine hit the ground it pivoted on a tree and cut an arc, which slowed it up more. All this happened with the suddenness and sound of a stick broken over the knee, yet I was not jolted. The pine trees fell around me without touching me. The wings and framework and running gear and propeller were shattered, but I was not scratched. I was pinned in the very heart of all this débris, without a bump, a bruise, or a broken bone. Goggles on my forehead, a mirror within an inch of my face, and the glass windshield in my lap were unbroken, though the steel braces all about them were bent and broken. The gasoline tank under me did not have a leak. The rest of the machine was good for souvenirs. It was too big a mystery for me to understand.

    Yours in a horse-shoe halo.
    Son.

    March 21, 1918.

My Dear Mrs. Hamilton:

It was a pleasure to hear from you, for if ever letters were welcome it is here. People are so kind in writing that I really cannot pretend to answer as I should, but as you were so near my family, I hope you will forgive me if I let you learn the personal side of my experiences from them. Your letter came yesterday. The box has not yet arrived, but thank you for it in advance.

The great German offensive began last night and we wait the results of the distant thunder. Our sector is quiet. If this is not the final scene of the war, I cannot look far enough ahead to see it.

Aside from the war, I like my work. Wonderful architecture abounds. New peoples fascinate. If not a pleasure, it is a privilege to serve in this war.

    As ever,
    Dinsmore Ely.

    Wednesday, April 5, 1918.

Dear Family:

So long since I wrote, can’t remember where I left off. Last ten days spent as follows:

Mar. 25. Over German lines.

Mar. 26. Ascension in United States balloon.

Mar. 27. Orders to leave Toul with entire escadrille.

Mar. 28. Packed and left Toul, arriving in Paris.

Mar. 29. In Paris preparing to go to Front.

Mar. 30. Reported to aviation center near Paris where escadrille was to receive new equipment of planes.

Mar. 31 – April 1 and 2. Reported each day to headquarters and returned to Paris in evening.