The extensive damage the German night-bombing attacks of September 25 and 27, 1917, did to the aerodrome at Senard. In addition to the obliterated hangars, at least seven SPA.124 fighters were destroyed. (Washington and Lee University Archives)
In seven weeks of heavy fighting, the squadron had collected five confirmed kills in 150 aerial combats—but at the cost of one man killed, one wounded, and another shot down and captured. It had been a strenuous and dangerous time, and the men were ready for a new hunting ground. On September 28, they were in the air heading back to a slightly less hostile environment and a place that already seemed like home. They were going back to Chaudun.
CHAPTER 13
FROM FALCONS OF FRANCE TO AMERICAN EAGLES
“Glory to all these volunteers. Glory to all these noble heroes, these noble forerunners.”
The men of the Lafayette Escadrille and Groupe de Combat 13 resumed operations at Chaudun two days after their September 28, 1917, arrival date. Their mission was to provide aerial support for what would be the last major French attack of 1917, the so-called Malmaison offensive. This, like the recent Verdun offensive, was limited in scope. French Général Paul Maistre and elements of the French 6th Army sought to push the Germans back from the heights of the Aisne River. Ultimately, the French would succeed in capturing the fort at La Malmaison and take control of the Chemin des Dames ridge.
The men of the Lafayette Escadrille may have been briefed on the ground strategy, but to them, it mattered only slightly. Their role in the battle was more or less the same it had always been: to clear the skies of enemy aircraft. They faced opposition in this sector—but thankfully, not as much or as aggressive as at Senard; however, as they would soon find out, the skies around Chaudun were still deadly.
Courtney Campbell Strikes Out
The men of the Lafayette Escadrille got off to a very bad start at their newest assignment. On Monday, October 1—their second operational day at Chaudun—Hank Jones and Courtney Campbell took off to patrol the area between Craonnelle and Berry-au-Bac. The two pilots attacked four enemy two-seaters flying low inside French lines, and during the hectic fight, Jones had part of his flight controls shot away. In the process, he lost contact with Campbell and never saw him again. Later, the men back at Chaudun learned that ground observers reported a French plane falling inside German lines, but did not see it crash.
The last pilot to die flying for the Lafayette Escadrille was Andrew Courtney Campbell Jr. He is seen here on the left, posing with Kenneth Marr in front of Spad VII S.1777. Campbell was killed in aerial combat on October 1, 1917—the sixth straight man from SPA.124 to die in combat on unlucky Monday. He fell behind German lines. His remains now rest in the crypt of the Lafayette Escadrille Memorial. (Washington and Lee University Archives)
The plaque pictured here is displayed in the chapel of Campbell’s alma mater, the University of Virginia. The last line of the inscription seems especially appropriate for the risk-taking Campbell. (Washington and Lee University Archives)
The particulars of Campbell’s last flight were never learned. He had lived a charmed life, defying the odds in automobiles, speedboats, and airplanes, but in the end, it was a German bullet that caused him to cash in his chips. He had the unfortunate distinction of being the last man to die while flying for the Lafayette Escadrille. After the war, his grave was located and his remains transferred to the Aisne-Marne American Cemetery. In 1928, Courtney Campbell’s body made its final journey to the crypt of the Lafayette Escadrille Memorial.
It is one of those interesting but inexplicable ironies of war that the last six men from the squadron to die in combat met their fate on Monday: McConnell, Genet, Hoskier and Dressy, MacMonagle, and now Campbell. Whatever sinister meaning this may have had is lost to history, but if the pilots of the Lafayette Escadrille had developed an aversion to flying on that day of the week, who could have blamed them?
Arrivals and Departures
On October 3, 1917, the men of the Lafayette Escadrille welcomed back an old friend in the form of the resilient James Norman Hall. He had recovered from his injuries of June 26 and returned to SPA.124 at Chaudun. The highly popular, multi-talented pilot was welcomed back with open arms. Paul Rockwell captured the general feeling the men had for him when he wrote that Hall, “was one of the finest all-around persons I have even known, and an honorable man in every way.” He was now back to stay and would soon make his mark with the squadron.
A new French pilot arrived on October 6 to replace Lieutenant de Maison-Rouge, who flew his last patrol on October 1 and had only recently left the squadron.
LIEUTENANT LOUIS VERDIER-FAUVETY was born in Paris on February 4, 1886. Like each of his two French predecessors, Lieutenants de Laage and Maison-Rouge, Verdier-Fauvety had started his military career as a cavalryman. After recovering from a serious wound, he had transferred into aviation and was serving in Escadrille N.65, one of SPA.124’s sister Groupe de Combat 13 squadrons, when Capitaine Thénault invited him to join the Lafayette Escadrille. Because Verdier was a known quantity—already liked and respected by the American pilots of the Lafayette Escadrille—he was the obvious selection. He proved to be the same type of man as the beloved de Laage and soon became just as popular. His superb leadership, both in the air and on the ground, was the exact opposite of the more aloof management style that both Maison-Rouge and Thénault displayed. As a result, Verdier-Fauvety almost immediately turned the dispirited squadron around. Under his guidance, their effectiveness in the air improved and casualties dropped to zero. This outstanding officer would remain with the squadron for as long as it remained under French control.
There were other losses during this period, although not from casualties. Rumors were flying back and forth like artillery shells about the impending dissolution of the Lafayette Escadrille. In fact, its days were numbered, and it was only a matter of time before the US Air Service would take it over. For that reason, many of the American pilots were proactively lobbying for US Army officers’ commissions. The pay would be far better and it might provide a postwar future for them in the new field of aviation.
On October 8, the venerable Didier Masson departed. The popular and highly competent pilot had flown steadily with the squadron—with a four-month break earlier in 1917—since June 1916. He had achieved only one confirmed victory, but his unbelievable feat of downing an enemy fighter, in spite of having a dead engine, was legendary. By now, he was simply worn out and in need of a rest. He eventually reported to the large American flight training complex at Issoudun for instructor duties and would survive the war.
Other departures were in the making, as well. On October 24, 1917, Walter Lovell left the squadron after eight months of distinguished service and one confirmed victory. Well liked and highly respected as a flight leader, he was sorely missed. He accepted a commission in the US Air Service and served—to his chagrin—in various administrative positions until the end of the war. In spite of his impressive record, he never again flew combat.
Old hand Didier Masson departed for greener fields on October 8. He had been with the Lafayette Escadrille most of the time since June 1916 and needed a rest. Here, he is seated in a Nieuport 11, spring 1917, when serving temporarily as an instructor at Avord. He would finish the war instructing at the US flight training complex at Issoudun. He left the squadron with one confirmed kill. (Willis B. Haviland Collection)
The next pilot to jump from what must have seemed like the sinking ship of the Lafayette Escadrille was long-standing squadron member Charles Chouteau Johnson. He departed on October 31, 1917, to accept a commission in the US Air Service. Only Raoul Lufbery and William Thaw had been with the squadron longer than Johnson. Never a particularly aggressive pilot—and considered by at least one squadron mate, the late Edmond Genet, to be something of a shirker—he had, nevertheless, been steady. He had been good enough to not only survive 17 continuous months of aerial combat, but also bag one confirmed victory. He had also, like several
other of the “older” members of the squadron, shown a great deal of fortitude in another way. He had continued to fly after seeing at least 10 of his close friends die in the most violent way possible. It was a fate, he had once confided in a letter to Paul Rockwell, that he believed he too would inevitably suffer. Yet, he continued to fly and he survived.
Two other important departures occurred during this period that particularly saddened the men of the Lafayette Escadrille. The two beloved squadron mascots, Whiskey and Soda, departed Chaudun and their human friends of the Lafayette Escadrille on October 15, 1917. The two cubs were growing ever larger, and though generally well behaved for lions, they were rambunctious. On one unfortunate occasion a few days earlier, Whiskey noticed the gold braid on a man walking across the aerodrome at Chaudun. That man was none other than Groupe de Combat 13 Commandant Féquant. Whiskey playfully knocked the officer to the ground and proceeded to chew up the brightly colored braid he was wearing. The enraged Féquant ordered both lions shot, but later granted them a reprieve. Instead, he ordered the men of SPA.124 to get rid of them. Sadly, they put the two cubs into their open touring car and transported them, with their ears flapping in the breeze, to a Paris zoo. They had been the heart of the squadron and now they too were gone. The eloquent Ted Parsons aptly penned their epitaph:
Another old timer transferring out during this period was Charles Chouteau Johnson. Though not an aggressive pilot, he had managed to survive for 17 months and acquire one confirmed victory. He left on October 31, 1917, and reported as a first lieutenant flight instructor in the US Air Service. He was later promoted to captain—the insignia he is wearing in this photograph. (US Air Force)
To all those dumb friends of ours, I, for one, am deeply grateful. They deserved a citation every bit as much as we humans for they were our constant companions and comforts in all the black hours and endured every hardship with us cheerfully and uncomplainingly. Knowing that we loved and appreciated them, may their souls rest peacefully in the animal heaven.
Even with the revolving door of arrivals and departures, and rumors of the squadron’s impending demise running rampant, flight operations at Chaudun continued, uninterrupted. The October weather remained relatively good, as the men of the Lafayette Escadrille patrolled the skies, in search of enemy aircraft. They were helped, in this regard, by another significant new arrival: the new Spad XIII—larger, heavier, more powerful and with twice the firepower of the Spad VII—had begun to make its appearance at Chaudun.
Men of the Lafayette Escadrille bidding farewell to Whiskey and Soda. By the autumn of 1917, more and more squadron members were leaving for other assignments, but no departure was more painful than this one. On October 15, 1917, James Norman Hall, William Thaw, Dudley Hill, Kenneth Marr, David Peterson, Raoul Lufbery, Robert Rockwell, Ray Bridgman (partially visible), and Dr. Manet, the squadron physician, gathered to say goodbye at Chaudun before delivering their beloved mascots to a Paris zoo. (Washington and Lee University Archives)
Not surprisingly, the pilot that capitalized the most on the favorable conditions of this period was the fearless and talented squadron ace, Raoul Lufbery. On the morning of October 16, he downed his 13th, a two-seater, near Vauxaillon. Walter Lovell, who was writing Paul Rockwell often during this period, keeping the war correspondent friend of the Lafayette Escadrille up to speed on squadron events, described Luf’s victory:
Today was very clear and the boche were out in force. Lufbery, who was flying alone, attacked a boche biplace [two-seater] at a very high altitude. It must have been a great scrap. Luf received several bullets in his machine but finally succeeded in bringing the boche down. It has just been confirmed making thirteen for Luf. One of the bullets that hit Luf’s machine pierced the radiator and lodged in the carburetor. It was a most fortunate thing for Luf it was not an incendiary bullet. Luf was just able to make the nearest aviation field before his motor stopped.
As impressive as this difficult performance was, it was nothing compared to the Lufbery show of October 24, 1917. In his greatest display of talent ever, he flew three grueling patrols that morning, and incredibly—within the space of six hours—claimed six enemy airplanes down. Most of these were not observed by the rapidly moving army below, so only one could be confirmed, but no one ever doubted a Lufbery claim. Unlike some pilots, he did not file a claim unless he was sure it was a kill. Dishonesty simply had no place in his mental and emotional makeup. Besides, by this time, he was so incredibly deadly that if the opportunity presented itself, he could very well have done what he claimed. When fellow pilot Carl Dolan once asked Luf how failing to receive confirmation for so many of his claims affected him, Luf simply replied, “What the hell do I care. I know I got them.” His score now stood at 14, but he was not quite yet finished.
During the first week of November 1917, as the enemy opposition slowed and the winter weather of Northern France began to make its cold and foggy appearance, a new face showed up at Chaudun. The man belonging to that face had the distinction of being the 38th and last pilot ever assigned to the Lafayette Escadrille.
38. CAPORAL CHRISTOPHER WILLIAM FORD was born on October 2, 1892, in New York City to immigrant parents Christ and Anna Ford. Unlike most of the other men to serve with the Lafayette Escadrille, Ford did not come from a family of wealth. Orphaned at an early age, he was forced to work his way up in the world, eventually becoming a reporter for the Wall Street Journal. He soon developed an interest in aviation and, in 1916, traveled to San Antonio, Texas. Here, he learned to fly at the school the famed flying Stinson family was operating south of town. In 1917, he traveled to France, enlisted in the Aéronautique Militaire, and recorded his first flight with the Lafayette Escadrille on November 8, 1917. Initially, this pilot of modest beginnings seemed out of place in a squadron of millionaires, but he quickly became a highly capable pilot and a welcome addition to the squadron.
The 38th and last American to join the Lafayette Escadrille was Christopher William Ford. He made his first flight on November 8, 1917, and remained with the squadron until its February 18, 1918, transfer to the US Air Service. Ford established a solid record with SPA.124 and later, the US Air Service, before being brought down by ground fire on October 15, 1918, and finishing the war in a German POW camp. (US Air Force)
The End of an Ace and an Era
On December 2, 1917, the highly touted “Lufbery Show” made its final performance, and it was a good one. On this morning, in two separate patrols, the great ace achieved his 15th and 16th confirmed kills. The first of these he scored while flying one of the squadron’s new Spad XIIIs, S.1970. He and four pilots from Escadrille SPA.88 shared the two-seater. Then, during a second patrol later that morning, Luf downed his second of the day, also a two-seater—this time, unassisted. No one could have guessed it, but this rare double victory—which marked the pinnacle of Lufbery’s career and occurred on the three-year anniversary of the death of his friend Marc Pourpe—would constitute the last two confirmed aerial kills of his life.
On January 5, he too would leave the squadron to accept a commission in the US Air Service—appropriately, as a major. After languishing behind a desk for several weeks, he eventually found a way to resume flying combat missions with the 94th Aero Squadron. However, even the great Lufbery’s luck had its limits, and it was about to run out.
On May 19, 1918, Major Raoul Lufbery, US Air Service, watched from his American airdrome near Toul, as one of his young pilots botched an attack on a nearby German two-seater observation plane flying low inside Allied lines. Luf hurriedly jumped into the closest available Nieuport 28 and took off to intercept the impudent Germans. He quickly caught up with the airplane and engaged it. His first attack was thwarted by a gun jam, which forced him to pull away and clear it. As he began his second attack, witnesses saw Lufbery’s plane suddenly flip upside-down and, to their horror, saw his body exit the plane and began falling to the earth. He landed in the backyard of a house in the village of Maron, a few hundred
feet from the banks of the Moselle River. He fell on a picket fence, part of which penetrated his throat, and died soon after impact. Only one battle-related injury was noted: his right thumb had been shot off.
No one knew exactly what had happened. Some claimed that Lufbery’s airplane was on fire and that he jumped to escape the flames. The pilotless Nieuport did definitely burn after it crashed on a distant hillside, but witnesses watching from the town below swore that it was not burning when Lufbery fell from his airplane. Another possible scenario is that he took off in an unfamiliar plane in a great hurry and failed to properly secure his seatbelt, or perhaps had loosened it to clear the gun jam. As he violently maneuvered the Nieuport—maybe when his thumb was hit—he was accidentally ejected from the cockpit. Regardless of the cause, it was an ignominious end to a courageous man and his brilliant career.
On December 7, 1917, the men of the Lafayette Escadrille made their final move. They took off from the aerodrome at Chaudun, turned their Spad fighters to an east-southeast heading, and flew for 60 miles, before landing on a large grass field. The new aerodrome was Ferme de la Noblette, located on the southwestern outskirts of the town of La Cheppe.
The purpose of the move was to help counter an anticipated German attack—which, as it turned out, never materialized. Consequently, opposition there was light and the winter weather often unsuitable for flying. As a result, little of significance occurred in the squadron during this period—with two exceptions: first, almost all the American pilots eventually decided to apply for releases from the Aéronautique Militaire in preparation for being accepted as officer pilots in the US Air Service. The only exception was Ted Parsons, who was on leave in the United States. When the requests were processed and accepted, the pilots remained in place “sans statut official”—without official status. Though still flying combat patrols, they were technically civilians.
The Lafayette Escadrille: A Photo History of the First American Fighter Squadron Page 19
