The Lafayette Escadrille: A Photo History of the First American Fighter Squadron

by Ruffin, Steven

  A few days later, on March 27, Genet received what for him must have seemed the final blow. A letter from his mother informed him that his beloved Gertrude, the girl back home who had stopped writing him months earlier, had become engaged to another man. The comment he wrote in his diary that day was telling: “It won’t make much difference after all, tho. I don’t expect to live thru to the end of the war.” He would soon fulfill his own morbid prophecy.

  * * *

  Even with the departure of Masson, Fred Prince, and now McConnell, the Lafayette Escadrille had finally, by the end of its ten-week stay at Ravenel/Saint-Just, reached full manning. Along with the new pilots came more of the new Spad VII fighters to replace the aging Nieuports. With this increased warfighting ability, the squadron prepared to move with the other escadrilles of Groupe de Combat 13 to a location 30 miles to the northeast. It was a recently abandoned German flying field on the western outskirts of Ham. Here, the men of the Lafayette Escadrille would encounter some of the most intense enemy opposition yet. It would test their endurance and courage, and it would exact yet more of their precious blood.

  One of the happiest occasions for the men of the Lafayette Escadrille was when the United States declared war on Germany on April 6, 1917. Finally, the American pilots were fighting for their homeland as well as their adopted France. Pictured here with mascots, proudly displaying the Stars and Stripes, are, from left, Harold Willis, William Dugan, Georges Thénault, Thomas Hewitt, William Thaw, Raoul Lufbery, Alfred de Laage, Kenneth Marr, Edwin Parsons, and Edward Hinkle. (Washington and Lee University Archives)

  At about the same time the squadron departed Ravenel a very significant international development occurred that bolstered morale like nothing else could have. On April 6, 1917, the reluctant US government finally ended its strict 20-month neutrality posture and formally declared war on Germany. This meant that the American “mercenaries” of the Lafayette Escadrille were now flying and fighting for their own country, as well as France. Perhaps now, the question of their loyalty and their citizenship status would cease to be an issue. In time, they might even find themselves wearing the uniform of a US Air Service officer.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE HEARTBREAK OF HAM

  “… a rendezvous with death”

  On Saturday, April 7, 1917, the planes and pilots of the Lafayette Escadrille winged their way, in small groups, to their new airfield at Ham. Here, they were lucky enough to occupy an abandoned house near the flying field, but there was little time to unpack or otherwise settle into the new space. Wartime events were happening so fast that patrols continued uninterrupted. To complicate the men’s transition to their new home, a German welcoming committee of marauding aircraft bombed the airfield only hours after their arrival and destroyed five hangars.

  The squadron soon got some measure of revenge, however. On April 8, its rapidly rising ace, Raoul Lufbery, forced an enemy two-seater down east of St. Quentin. Like many of his victories, it went down too far behind enemy lines to be officially confirmed, but no one doubted the veracity of his claim. Meanwhile, the hard-working Lieutenant de Laage had even better luck. That afternoon, he downed an enemy Albatros D.III single-seater that fell in French lines, and an hour later, a two-seater, for his second and third confirmed kills. This rare double victory earned him a well-deserved Legion of Honor, which was officially awarded two weeks later. As tragic events would soon prove, this prestigious award came none too soon.

  On April 13, Raoul Lufbery destroyed another enemy plane, a camouflaged two-seater northwest of Saint-Quentin. This one was confirmed—his eighth. His less successful fellow pilots continued to marvel at his skill and phenomenal success in the air. They knew painfully well just how difficult it was to shoot another airplane out of the sky and receive confirmation for it, yet he had now accomplished it not once, but eight times—and he was far from finished.

  On the afternoon of April 15, a new pilot arrived at Ham to replace the fallen James McConnell. His presence brought the squadron roster back up to full strength—but only temporarily.

  A typical scene with the Lafayette Escadrille at Ham. The men lived in a house adjacent to the flying field, possibly one of those visible in the background. It was here that the squadron first flew the Stars and Stripes. In the left foreground, Raoul Lufbery stands in flying gear, supervising the maintenance of a Spad VII. (Washington and Lee University Archives)

  29. CAPORAL ANDREW COURTNEY CAMPBELL JR. was born on November 19, 1891, in Kenilworth, Illinois, to wealthy parents, Andrew and Cornelia Campbell. As a youth, he developed a reputation as a daredevil, by racing around in fast boats and cars. In 1910, he enrolled in the University of Virginia but dropped out to become a professional dancer. In June 1916, he sailed for France, and soon afterward, entered into aviation training. He reported to the Lafayette Escadrille at Ham on the afternoon of April 15, 1917. Though a skillful and fearless pilot, his devil-may-care attitude and cavalier approach to the very serious business of combat flying quickly earned him a reputation as a “wild man,” to whom, according to Ted Parsons, “trouble gravitated as naturally as iron filings to a magnet.” He would become a squadron legend for pulling off a seemingly impossible life-saving feat—as well as another so foolhardy that it drove a fellow pilot from the squadron. Not surprisingly, his days among the living were numbered.

  Let the Funerals Begin

  The eight weeks the men of the Lafayette Escadrille spent at Ham were hectic, reminiscent of its hard-fought days at Behonne in the Battle of Verdun. The weather had finally improved, so that patrols were near-daily occurrences. In addition, there was enough enemy presence to keep the pilots busy, not only countering their aircraft, but also dodging ground fire while flying low to observe troop movements. This environment afforded the squadron plenty of opportunity for success but it also greatly increased the danger.

  A distressing event, occurring the day after the men arrived at Ham, set a somber tone that would remain for their entire time there. Early on the Easter Sunday morning of April 8, the pilots were lounging in their house next to the aerodrome, when their attention was drawn to a bizarre occurrence outside. As Ted Parsons later described it, they looked through their window to see a French Farman “flaming like a torch, appear like a ghost ship out of the mist and crash onto the field, burning its occupants to a crisp.” They had no idea who it was, where it came from, or why it was on fire. It was not the first—or last—fatal crash to occur before their eyes on one of their aerodromes, but to the superstitious pilots of the Lafayette Escadrille, it was a bad omen. Upcoming events would bear that out.

  Monday, April 16, 1917, would be yet another black letter day for the squadron. Young Edmond Genet was still suffering from his facial wound—and even more so from the emotional agony of McConnell’s death, coupled with the loss of his beloved sweetheart and the stigma resulting from his desertion from the US Navy. Somewhat prophetically, he had written in his diary only 12 days earlier:

  Somehow I’ve given away completely this evening. I feel sure there is something very serious going to happen to me very soon. It doesn’t seem any less than Death itself. I’ve never had such a feeling or been so saddened since coming over to battle for this glorious France.

  All of the emotional baggage that 20-year-old Genet carried was apparent to his fellow pilots—and, at least as it appears now, should also have been to Capitaine Thénault. Yet, though Genet was tired, depressed, and sick in both body and spirit, he continued to fly relentlessly and—by his own admission—ever more dangerously. As he wrote his mother after McConnell’s death, “I’ve already been told I was reckless in the air over the lines, but after this I vow I’ll be more than reckless, come what may.” Clearly, he needed a long rest, but it was not to be.

  On April 16, Genet was scheduled to fly two missions. The first was a 7:00 a.m. morning patrol with Walter Lovell and Jerry Hewitt, which lasted an hour and 15 minutes. During this patrol, flown at low level because of the cloud co
ver, Genet became separated from the rest of his flight and came under heavy ground fire, one shell barely missing the tail of his Nieuport fighter. The constant evasive action he was forced to take made him violently airsick. After landing, he looked so worn out that his fellow pilots urged him to take a rest. That afternoon, Willis Haviland, whose airplane was temporarily inoperable, asked to borrow Genet’s for a patrol he was scheduled to fly with Raoul Lufbery. Young Edmond—never a shirker and not particularly keen to allow others to fly his airplane—insisted he was feeling better and would fly the mission himself. Consequently, at 2:30 p.m., the two pilots lifted off and headed for the lines. Half an hour into the flight, Lufbery saw three enemy antiaircraft shells burst near Genet’s fighter. Genet immediately turned toward friendly lines and Lufbery, seeing no apparent damage to Genet or his airplane, continued the patrol alone. However, soldiers on the ground saw Genet’s machine eventually fall into a spiral that progressively tightened until a wing ripped loose and fluttered away. They watched in horror as his machine smashed headlong into the ground at full speed near the village of Clastres. It was not far from where James McConnell had fallen exactly four weeks earlier. Had Genet—probably still feeling ill—fainted, or had a shell fragment wounded him or disabled his airplane? No one knows, for the resulting crash was so devastating that no determination was possible. Both plane and pilot were completely obliterated. Some of the men who helped retrieve his body were appalled by the sight. Walter Lovell later wrote that he had never seen so complete a crash and Ted Parsons reported that Genet’s plane had bored five feet deep into a hard-packed dirt road, with no piece of the wreck “bigger than a match.” According to Parsons, “Every bone in his body was broken, and his features were completely gone.”

  Reminiscent of Rockwell and McConnell seemingly sensing their own impending death, Genet had made clear in his letters and diary his premonition that he too would soon die. After attending church in Ham on the day before his death, he had—for reasons known only to himself—walked all the way across town to visit the town cemetery. Did he somehow sense that he was about to occupy one of the newly dug graves he saw there?

  Genet was buried in that cemetery with full military honors. In a letter he had left behind, he had written, “If I die, wrap me in the French flag, but place the two colors upon my grave to show that I died for two countries.” Accordingly, his casket was draped with both the French Tricolor and the Stars and Stripes of the United States. He had the unenviable distinction of being the first American to die in combat after the United States entered the war.

  Courageous, sincere, and passionately idealistic, the conflicted young warrior had, during his three months with the Lafayette Escadrille, gained the respect and affection of his fellow pilots—and he fulfilled his destiny by dying for the cause in which he so ardently believed. He would have been gratified to know that soon after his death, Secretary of the Navy Josephus Daniels officially cleared his name by declaring that, “the record of Edmond Genet, ordinary seaman, United States Navy, shall be considered in every respect an honorable one.”

  Unlucky Monday Strikes Again

  Both McConnell and Genet had died on a Monday, and the pilots of the Lafayette Escadrille began to take notice. Like most men subjected to the utter randomness so characteristic of war, the pilots coped with their fears, in part, by indulging in superstitions. Each man had his own good luck charm he carried with him while flying—for example, a trinket or piece of intimate apparel given to him by a lady friend—and each came to believe that certain occurrences or actions brought either glad tidings or disaster. Now, it was Mondays they feared, and future events would further substantiate that feeling. Exactly one week after Genet’s death, the Angel of Death paid yet another Monday visit to the squadron.

  The burial of Edmond Genet at Ham. Genet died on April 16, 1917, after diving into the ground—for reasons still not clear—during a combat patrol. He was the first American killed in combat after the United States entered the war. As he had previously requested, he was buried under both French and US colors. The ceremony occurred on a dark, cloudy day, but at the conclusion of the final remarks, the sun broke through and, according to Ted Parsons, “pierced the clouds for an instant and illuminated the bier like a benediction from heaven.” The civilian in the dark coat, standing between Lieutenant de Laage and William Thaw, is William’s brother, Benjamin Thaw Jr. He was there representing the US Consulate. (Washington and Lee University Archives)

  Young Ronald Hoskier had by now established himself as a dependable pilot and a good comrade who flew often and effectively. As such, he was liked and respected by his squadron mates. He was also apparently something of a tactician. Based on his experiences over his last four months with the squadron, he had developed the notion that a two-seat airplane, properly flown and manned, could outfight a single-seater. Though a two-seater was generally not as fast or maneuverable, its extra swivel-mounted gun with its wide arc of fire and the additional set of eyes provided by the gunner/observer gave it indisputable advantages. Hence, Hoskier had begun experimenting with the squadron’s lone two-seat airplane, an old Morane-Saulnier parasol monoplane the pilots used for gunnery training and transport. When he flew it, he took along with him, as his gunner, Caporal Jean Dressy, a Frenchman assigned as Lieutenant de Laage’s orderly. Dressy was, however, more than just an orderly to de Laage. He was also an old family friend and fellow Dragoon who had, during his fateful August 31, 1914, cavalry charge, rescued de Laage after he was wounded and knocked off of his horse.

  On April 23, 1917, Hoskier and Dressy strapped themselves into the Morane and took off on a patrol. The old parasol was to have been retired from service after this mission. The formation in which they flew that day consisted of Harold Willis in the lead, followed by William Thaw and Willis Haviland, with Hoskier and Dressy bringing up the rear. At some point during the patrol, the slower Morane became separated in the clouds from the other three fighters. When it emerged, Hoskier and Dressy found themselves perfectly positioned above a lone enemy aircraft. Undoubtedly thanking their lucky stars at such good fortune, they dove on it to attack. As they did so, however, they were immediately ambushed by three Albatros D.III fighters that had been lurking in the distance. It was a classic trap the Germans employed throughout the war and Hoskier had fallen into it.

  The two airmen fought valiantly against their adversaries, nearly proving Hoskier’s pet theory about the superiority of two-seat fighting aircraft. In the end, however, they ran out of ammunition and luck at about the same time: Hoskier was struck in the head by a bullet, and the inherently unstable Morane—now with a dead man at the controls—entered into a death spiral. The doomed Dressy could do nothing other than watch in horror as he plummeted 8,000 feet downward to his death. Eventually, the parasol’s wing collapsed, and the fuselage—now, a two-man projectile—dove at terminal velocity into a field on the side of Hill 62, just inside French lines east of the town of Grugies. The German airman credited with their destruction was Jasta 20 pilot, Leutnant der Reserve Wilhelm Schunke. It was Schunke’s first victory, and it would be his last: a month later, he too would die in combat.

  Late that night, Ted Parsons, Dudley Hill, and Robert Rockwell traveled up to the lines to retrieve the crushed bodies of their two fallen comrades. After returning, they placed the remains into pine coffins at a small mortuary in Ham. They were to be buried in the same cemetery where Hoskier’s friend, Edmond Genet, had been interred a week earlier. Attending the funeral were Hoskier’s parents, Herman and Harriet, both of whom were working and living in France. Before the burial, Parsons accompanied Herman to the chapel to view Ronald’s closed casket. As Parsons described it, they stood there, alone and in sadness, for a few minutes before turning to leave. When they did, a “weird and inexplicable” incident occurred:

  For almost three days, Ron’s cold, stiffened, battered body had lain untouched in the pine coffin supported on trestles. As we started to go out, I heard a fain
t sound and, turning back, saw a steady stream of blood dripping slowly from one corner of the plain box, each drop echoing with a hollow noise as it struck the uncarpeted cement floor. It gave me a cold shock, for it seemed as if it were a sign from the dead to the living loved ones.

  After the war, the bodies of the gallant Hoskier and Genet were moved to an American cemetery, and in 1928, to a place of honor beneath the Lafayette Escadrille Memorial, where they rest today.

  Another Tragic Rendezvous

  The painful losses the Lafayette Escadrille had recently suffered did nothing to slow down the war. Flying and fighting was as intense and deadly as ever, but with the casualties came some successes. On April 24, 1917, the day after Hoskier and Dressy fell, the unrelenting Raoul Lufbery obtained some measure of revenge by downing his ninth confirmed enemy airplane east of the village of Cerizy. Two days later, Chouteau Johnson finally got—after nearly a year of continuous service in the squadron—his first confirmed aerial victory. That same day, Bill Thaw and Willis Haviland teamed up to claim yet another.

  The beginning of the dual funeral procession for Hoskier and Dressy at Ham. This sad reenactment of the scene that had occurred only a few days earlier with Edmond Genet must have given those in this photograph a distinct feeling of déjà vu. Unfortunately, they were destined to relive it yet again a few days later. (Washington and Lee University Archives)

  Hoskier and Dressy’s burial ceremony in the cemetery at Ham. Capitaine Thénault and Lieutenant de Laage are standing near the caskets, next to the padre, while Hoskier’s father Herman is standing, hat in hand, on the right, near the far end of the open grave. Ronald’s mother is also present but hidden behind her husband. Several other pilots of the Lafayette Escadrille also appear in this photograph. The valiant de Laage, who grieved every loss, was particularly devastated by the death of his faithful orderly and lifelong friend, Dressy. (Washington and Lee University Archives)