Falcons of France

Charles Nordhoff

Description

This antiquarian volume contains 'Falcons of France'; a novel about flying, World War I, and contemporary moralities. It was written by two American veterans of the 'Escadrille Lafayette', and contains thrilling tales of aerial battle and life during the war. This is a text that will appeal to anyone with an interest in aviation, and will especially appeal to those interested in aviation in World War I. A great addition to any bookshelf, this is one not to be missed by the discerning collector. The chapters of this book include: 'A Soldier of the Legion', 'Sprouting Wings', 'The School of Combat', 'At the G. D. E.', 'To The Front', 'First Patrol', 'Over the Raid', 'In Pyjamas', 'Still in Pyjamas', 'Silent Night', 'At Lunéville', 'Shot Down', 'The Great Attack', 'Villeneuve', 'July Fifteenth', 'Prisoners of War', 'The Escape', etcetera. We are republishing this vintage book now in an affordable, modern edition - complete with a specially commissioned new introduction.

Sujets

• Birds
• Sciences et techniques
• Animals
• Nature

Informations

• Publié par: Read Books Ltd.
• Date de parution: 15 janvier 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781447482192
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

FALCONS OF FRANCE
BY CHARLES NORDHOFF AND JAMES NORMAN HALL
CONTENTS
I. A S OLDIER OF THE L EGION
II. S PROUTING W INGS
III. T HE S CHOOL OF C OMBAT
IV. A T THE G. D. E.
V. T O THE F RONT
VI. S PAD 597
VII. F IRST P ATROL
VIII. O VER THE R AID
IX. I N P YJAMAS
X. S TILL IN P YJAMAS
XI. S ILENT N IGHT
XII. A T L UNÉVILLE
XIII. S HOT D OWN
XIV. T HE G REAT A TTACK
XV. V ILLENEUVE
XVI. J ULY F IFTEENTH
XVII. P RISONERS OF W AR
XVIII. T HE E SCAPE
XIX. A FTER THE A RMISTICE
FALCONS OF FRANCE
I
A SOLDIER OF THE LEGION
T EN years have passed since we declared war on Germany, but the events of those days are etched indelibly on my mind. Like thousands of other young Americans, I thought of the war by day and dreamed of it by night; all the everyday interests of life had gone flat and stale, and their places in my mind were filled with day-dreams of trench warfare, heavy artillery, observation balloons, and aeroplanes. Particularly aeroplanes—small hornetlike ships manned by a single pilot, swooping down to spit machine-gun fire into the enemy’s ranks, or manoeuvring high above the battlefield in duels to the death with German airmen.
My father, long past military age, but no less interested in the war than I, had subscribed to a great New York daily paper and a couple of illustrated English weeklies, read eagerly by every member of the family. When my turn came, I remember how I used to skip through the military and political news, on the lookout for less conspicuous paragraphs which told of the exploits of famous French and English fighting pilots. And when I read accounts of the American volunteers flying for France in the Escadrille Lafayette, I read them twice or three times over, fascinated and in a mood of despairing envy.
Envy and despair are not pleasant words, and my state of mind in those days was not a pleasant one. I was seventeen; my eighteenth birthday was still some months ahead, and each month seemed longer than a peace-time year. The newly authorized volunteers would accept no man under eighteen, and I knew that the same limit would be set by the Selective Service Act, soon to become law. Those were great times, of great events, and I longed to play my little part in them as I have never longed for anything before or since. There seemed nothing to do but hang around my father’s ranch, trying to keep my thoughts on the daily round of work, all through the summer and autumn, until I was old enough to pass the critical eyes of an examining board. The prospect was a depressing one; the admission makes me smile to-day, but many a time in that spring of 1917 I was conscious of a desperate fear that the war might be over before I could get to the front.
My father’s only brother, my Uncle Harry, was a trader and planter in French Oceania, far off in the South Pacific. His schooner, which flew the French flag, had been sunk by a German raider the year before, and after a determined effort to join up in San Francisco, he had sailed south again, planning to build a new vessel in the South Seas. Neither the Army nor the Navy would have him, for Uncle Harry’s eyes had been damaged by years of tropical sun. Toward the end of May I had a radio message from my uncle, asking me to run up to San Francisco to look after the shipment of a lot of material he had ordered—lumber, marine hardware, cordage, and an eighty horse-power Diesel engine. It proved to be a two-day job, for I had to cross the bay to Oakland, where the engine was built, and in the course of my work I had to call on M. Duval, the French consul, over some matter of shipbuilding material passing the French customs duty-free.
The consul was a great friend of my uncle’s, and I had met him before. His secretary recognized me, and I was ushered into his office three minutes after I had presented my card.
M. Duval, a short stout man with gold-rimmed pince-nez, and the narrow red ribbon of the Legion of Honour in his buttonhole, seized my hand warmly and waved aside the sheaf of papers I held out to him.
“I know what it is,” he said; “the new schooner, eh?” He turned to the secretary. “Take the papers and have the certificate made out; everything on the invoice is for shipbuilding, and there will be no duty to pay.” He waved me toward a swivel chair. “Sit down, Charlie,” he went on. “I’m not busy to-day and we’ll have a chat while you wait. So you’ve had a wire from Harry. He’s in Tahiti, then?”
“Yes,” I said; “he wanted to get into the war, but they wouldn’t have him—turned down on account of his eyes. He felt pretty badly about it. I think he’s building this schooner partly to keep his thoughts off the war, for he told me he couldn’t do much with labour as scarce as it is down there. All the able-bodied men have gone overseas.” M. Duval nodded sympathetically.
“I know—I know. Ce pauvre Harry!”
The sympathy in his voice gave me an excuse to air my own small troubles, the full extent of which I had not made known even to my father. I wanted to talk.
“I’m in the same fix,” I said mournfully. “I can’t get into the Volunteers, and they won’t even let me be conscripted till I’m eighteen! I’ll have to wait for months—it makes me sick!”
The consul looked me up and down with an air of astonishment. “You’re not yet eighteen? I would have guessed your age at twenty, at least!” He took off his glasses and wiped them carefully with a silk handkerchief before he spoke again. “What branch of the service would you like to join?” he asked. I smiled.
“Oh, I’m like every other young fellow,” I told him.
“I’d like to fly, of course!”
“You’d like to fly, eh? Your parents would not object to your enlisting if the Army would take you now?”
“Not a bit.”
He took from his desk an enormous pipe of cherry-wood, with a long curved stem, stuffed it carefully with coarse French tobacco, lit a match, and exhaled a cloud of smoke.
“How would you like to join the Lafayette Flying Corps?” he asked.
My heart seemed to skip a beat, and I caught my breath.
“Do you think they’d take me? Would there be a chance?”
M. Duval smiled at the note of eagerness in my voice. “An excellent chance,” he remarked. “But do you know what the Lafayette Flying Corps is?”
“I suppose you mean the Escadrille Lafayette—I’ve read about it in the papers.”
“That’s only a part of it—a single squadron composed of fifteen men. The Corps which was built up from this unit is a larger organization—a hundred or more young Americans, enlisted in the Foreign Legion for the duration of the war, transferred to the Aviation, and serving with many French squadrons at the front. Think it over, and if you decide seriously that you’d like to join the Corps, let me know. Dr. Gros, who looks after the volunteers as they arrive in Paris, is a very old friend of mine.”
I sprang up nervously. “There’s nothing to think over!” I said. “M. Duval, if you could get me into the Lafayette Corps I’d feel indebted to you all my life! I’d start to-morrow if I could!”
“You’re sure—quite sure?”
“Yes, sir!”
“It’s settled, then. There’ll be a preliminary physical examination, but you’re almost certain to pass. Let’s see.” He took up a pencil and tapped the desk softly as he reflected.
“First the doctor; can you take your examination this afternoon if I make an appointment for you? Good! Then your passport; that will take time—three weeks, I’m afraid. Make out your application to-day and let me forward it to Washington for you. Meanwhile you can be getting ready, and when your passport arrives, come straight to me. I’ll give you a letter to our consul in New York, so there will be no trouble about a visa, and another letter to Dr. Gros. Call on him as soon as you reach Paris. You’ll find him the kindest and most charming of men; it is mainly due to him that the Escadrille Lafayette has been enlarged into a Corps.”
A moment later the secretary appeared with my uncle’s papers. M. Duval stood up, so I judged that our interview was at an end.
“Thank you, sir, a thousand times!” I said. He gave my hand a friendly pressure.
“You’re at the Palace, eh? I’ll telephone you at lunch time to let you know where and when you’re to take your examination. Odd to think of it, eh? In less than two months you’ll be a soldier of France!”
At eight o’clock that night, when I boarded the southbound train, I had made out my passport application, and passed with entire success a searching physical examination administered by a French doctor to whom M. Duval sent me. He was an old resident of San Francisco, and when I had stripped and been questioned and stethoscoped, had my eyes tested, and hopped about blindfolded on one foot, he told me to put on my clothes.
“Sound as a dollar!” he said as he shook my hand. “You’ll live to be a hundred if the Bosches don’t get you. Good-bye and good luck!”
The summer night turned very hot an hour out of San Francisco, and as I lay half naked in my lower berth, my thoughts were to