Victor Chapman's Letters From France, With Memoir By John Jay Chapman.

Victor Emmanuel Chapman, John Jay Chapman

• Publisher: Lucknow Books
• Year: 2012
• ISBN:
  9781782890713
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: World War I
• Index: History

As the First World War ground into its third year in 1916, America still remained uncommitted to intervention in what some in that nation regarded as a purely European affair. This was not the course pursued by many American men, having enlisted in the British, Canadian, and French ranks since the start of the war. The Lafayette Escadrille, or American Squadron, was formed in 1916 from French and American aviators and would grow in fame and victories throughout its two year existence.Victor Chapman enlisted in the French Foreign legion in 1914, as soon as he possibly could; however, he would transfer after much rough soldiering to the French air arm. As a founding member of the famous squadron, one of the Valiant 38, Victor Chapman flew some of the most dangerous missions of all the French pilots as they sought to establish their reputation. The toll of danger never affected his unflappably high spirits, but his luck ran out in June 1916 over the skies of Verdun. His letters are filled with his and his fellow pilots exploits, written in fine style and with great detail.Highly recommended.Author — Chapman, Victor Emmanuel, 1890-1916.Editor — Chapman, John Jay, 1862-1933.Text taken, whole and complete, from the edition published in New York, The Macmillan company, 1917.Original Page Count – 198 pages.Illustrations – 8 Illustrations.

THE LEGION

Sept. 26, ’14.

Dear Alce: Well, I am having a very amusing experience; but I don’t know how long it will remain so, and when it will become dull. I joined the Volunteers Sunday night and was overcome with the kindly way everyone was treated. When I entered the Caserne the old soldiers (territorial reservists,) reprimanded me for saying “Monsieur“ to them, and tu’tuoi’d in a very friendly manner. They showed me about and seemed to take an individual interest in each recruit.

The people I am thrown with arc, for the moment, Polish in majority, for they are a crowd which carne together from Cambrai. But they are of almost all nationalities and all stations and ages of life. I am most friendly with a little Spaniard from Malaga. He has been a newspaper reporter in London and got tired of doing nothing there, so he enlisted here. So far as I have seen I am the only American (the others having been sent to Rouen a day or two before I enlisted), but I have seen a couple of negroes. There are about thirty Alsatians, a few Russians and a few Belgians, one or two Germans, a Turk, and even a Chinaman arrived this morning. There are Greeks and Russian Jews, and probably many I have not noticed.

A typical Parisian Apache has taken a fancy to me. He is a naturalized Russian Jew, but got in as a foreigner because he served a turn in prison and did not want to be sent to Algiers. Though only twenty-one he has bullet wounds in his arm and scars on his neck. I have been in this place three days so my experiences are wearing off a little and it begins to look natural. But last night I attended a very interesting argument, in which the German Socialists were condemned for their actions in the Reichstag. As an aside of the discussion a little Alsatian explained a probable cause for the atrocities of the German soldiers. He having done his service there said that the men were treated so harshly and the discipline was so strict that he used to hear them say: “In a war anyway we will have a good time and do what we like.” The present crimes are a natural reaction from the German iron forms.

Rueilly Barracks.

Same date to his brother Conrad:

The present Military Governor of Paris is said to be partial to us, therefore the first battalion got clothed and fitted out immediately. But now that the danger of the German army’s attacking Paris is removed there seems no great rush to put us in the field. All the factories closed about the first of September and everybody was taken into the Legion who presented himself. Thus the Second and Third Battalions are made up of a very low physical and social class. I am glad to hear in the last two or three days that over one hundred of the first four Companies (first battalions), have been reformed or dismissed. What surprised me was the extreme kindliness with which we were treated, and the lack of severity in the drilling. For a couple of weeks the drill masters (pompiers, who engaged voluntarily), were much too kind and gentle for the average Légionnaire. But now they are stiffening up a little. The drilling began, of course, with marching in, and changing from one formation to another. The second day they gave us rifles to drill with and by the second week we already had our pion-pion clothes, knapsacks, rifles, water bottles and bags, and, of course, the modern “Le Bel“ rifles.

We took marches in the streets at the end of the first week, and ever since we have taken a march nearly every day,—now almost always to the Bois de Vincennes. We always march four abreast and re-form à gauche en ligne or à droit en ligne, two deep. Thus every section of eight men moves as a unit. Then there is vers la gauche en ligne, which means that all the units of eight, except the first, put themselves on a line with the first. From a double-line formation, or even from a column formation, we go into a single line a pace and a half apart, called en tirailleur. This is the fighting formation usually used, from which we shoot standing, kneeling and lying, and make advances under infantry fire. Against artillery fire we do the reverse. As a column marching we diminish the intervals (serrer les intervals) and crouch, thus sheltering ourselves as much as possible under our sacks in which are, of course, our bedding, dinner-cans, and cooking-pans,—all good armor against shrapnel.

At first we only did these exercises in the courtyard, but this week we have been doing them in the afternoon at the aeroplane field of Vincennes. On Wednesday we left the barracks with all our officers mounted (the first of four companies), and a bugle corps playing all the way to the fortifications.

Your loving

VICTOR.

A few days later he writes: The time flies in the Barracks. It is the routine life, I suppose. We not only have our uniforms but almost all our equipment, and there are rumors that we depart almost any day, but I begin to doubt them. Paris is an extraordinary sight. I crossed the Place de la Concorde last week about 9 :30. There were a few lights just to show the outline of the place and the statues, but in the sky four great search-lights played. One from the garde meuble, another in the distance beyond the Champs Elysees, another from the Eiffel Tower, and a fourth coming from the distance behind the Tuileries. The night was very clear, but there were thin shreds of cloud sprinkled over the heavens. The search-lights, though their rays were often invisible, especially the more distant ones, lit up the scraps of cloud which seemed to lie at different heights, so that one often saw three tiers of cloud-flakes illuminated. All the lights on the Seine or in its proximity are extinguished, so that it is like the city of the dead, except for the occasional reflection of the slowly moving search-light in the still water. I have been, this last week, getting permission and spending the nights at home, but I have had to return to the barracks at 5:45. There being no means of travel I used to walk, and it was the most pleasurable sensation of the day,—walking the banks of the Seine from the Pont Neuf to the Gare de Lyon just before sunrise. The changing cloud effects of shape and color were beautiful, as was Nôtre Dame as seen from the east with the old houses, the river and its bridges.

The newspapers here gave little news when Paris was in greatest danger, but one could tell by the sights in the town how things were going. The food was very bad here last week, as before, so I used to eat out for lunch on alternate days; and in the subway one always met refugees with bags and children who go out at the Lyon station. In a café one day I had a map and was discussing with Herédia, my little Spanish friend, the position of the troops. A well-dressed little woman and her daughter came up and said quite simply, “We come from Creil. Our house is destroyed for military purposes. The Germans are at Compiègne. Pontoise is evacuated and the bridge broken. The Avant-poste of the French is at Écouen.” Écouen is almost a suburb of Paris. Most of this news I have since verified, but at the time we had no idea of where the Germans were, except by rumor. The German aeroplanes, you probably know, flew over us every day about two weeks ago. They dropped a few harmless bombs, and on the whole amused the population who used to gather in probable localities in crowds at about six in the afternoon to see them.

The first day I was at the Boulevard St. Germain changing my clothes, when I heard a sound like the beating of carpets, only sharper, and growing more frequent. Looking out I saw a Taube flying silently overhead, and the noise was made by people firing at it from the gardens and housetops with pistols, shotguns, or anything that came to hand.

The same afternoon one of them flew over the caserne, and the old territorials got their rifles and popped at it. Among the newly-arrived volunteers was a Chinaman. On hearing the firing and seeing the machine he turned quite pale and ran into the house, where he is said to have hidden under a bed. The next day an order was issued forbidding people from firing on German aeroplanes, as the damage, it was feared, from the bullets was greater than that the aeroplanes might inflict. Mr. Whitney Warren looked me up and I have been able to keep in touch with the doings of the outside world through him and Mr. Jaccaci, whom I see on his return from Bordeaux, or other distant points.

My best love to everyone. I think of America often, but I am enjoying this experience.

To his mother, undated:

We changed garrison yesterday, after many false alarms. The change came at 5:30 yesterday morning and we got ourselves fully equipped, and sallied forth. The complete trappings are very heavy. The water bottle over one hip, a large hag for grub and odds and ends over the other on top of the bayonet, a box containing 84 cartridges across the chest, the rifle (weighs 10 lbs.) and the sack. The sack is about 18 inches square by 5, containing change of linen and personal effects (I bought a water-color box), on top of which are strapped an extra pair of heavy army shoes, and part of the squad field-accoutrement,—such as an ax, a pail or a shovel. I have the last named. Over all is the blanket with a piece of a tent-cloth rolled up and folded about. The sack itself sits at the height of the shoulders, the personal canteen, which is perched above all, is at about the level of the head. I thought I might get a chance to see Uncle Willy, so I got permission to take my bicycle. I had to push it all the way, and carry the sack as there was no room in the food wagons which followed us. We were in all only a battalion (4 companies), who left, but we had our full outlay of mounted officers, motor cycles, and wagon train of field kitchen, besides the corps of buglers. All the wagons are requisitioned. One still bears the title “Violet Parfumerie“ and the horses are of all sorts. Only one captain has a horse worthy of the name. We halted every forty minutes for ten, and on account of traffic made an enormous detour, following the fortifications from near Vincennes to St. Cloud, where we crossed the Seine again and mounted the hill. The view was superb over the Bois,—a little misty, and filled with cattle and sheep in pens. I looked back as we descended the other side and enjoyed our winding column among the tilled fields, with the many-colored little flags sticking from the guns, the blue “couvre capet,” and the tawny tent-covers mingling with the shining gamelles.

I must leave now. I have had no letter from any of you since you left England. Perhaps they got stopped at the Caserne. They say not. Anyway, Mr. Jaccaci will take them for me in the future.

I am flourishing. The new caserne is better than the last.

Rueil Caserne, October 6th, 1914.

Dear Papa: This life is very healthy if not too exciting. Since our walk from the Barracks of Rueilly we have not been over-worked. In fact this whole procedure is as though one picked up the first lot of men in a city street and had a continuous picnic with them. The worst part is that they are sometimes still treated too well, and instead of appreciating it they grumble that they should not be expected to run in the fields, or what a farce it is to try to make them dig a ditch while lying down. These walks and stops give one a splendid chance to view the country under all conditions, even though I scarcely ever have the leisure to sketch it. We often go out about 6:30 or 7 in the morning, and now the mists are rising and one has the faded yellow Autumn coloring. Our company has been shrinking automatically through reformed men, and Germans being sent to Africa, and others to special service, such as provision-department, etc., till we now number 190 instead of 250, and yet there are men portés malades.

I had the Spaniard, Herédia, changed into my squad so as to have a little more intellectual conversation. But he is so absent-minded that I sometimes get out of patience with him. Occasionally one hears a bit of interesting conversation. A man comes in saying: “My wife heard today that her brother was killed August 15th.—News travels slowly.” Then, instead of talking about the soup or the exercise, they make interesting remarks of personal knowledge. “Yes, my cousin was wounded at seven in the morning and he was not picked up till sunset.” And similar statements which show wonderful inefficiency on the part of the field ambulances,—as, “There were only two brancardiers to a whole battalion of the 79th.” The gossip is that these evils are being speedily remedied. In fact I see it. We have a brancardier to every squad (18 men) maximum instead of a battalion (1,000 men). It might be of interest to you to know the names of the men in my squad. Markus, better class Russian Pole with French wife; Herédia, Malaga Spanish, writes for Spanish papers and has translated Mark Twain, etc.; Held, Swiss origin, born in Paris; Gabai, Turkish Jew, Constantinople, Spanish ancestry, cheap chemisier; Millet, Italian from near Monaco; Zimmermann, Alsatian, Strassburg, professional bicyclist, served as orderly to officer in Germany, speaks French with a vile accent; Zudak, Russian Pole, very greedy, speaks considerable French; Chikechki, ditto, speaks better French, a strong fellow; Bogdan, Austrian Pole, no French but German; Canbrai, miner, simple man, never gives trouple; Bajteck, Austrian Pole, greedy. These Poles are by far the best material physically for soldiers; and though not very bright, they do not give trouble. Gabai, the Turk, is all the time talking and getting into most heated arguments whenever anyone will talk to him, in fact, his presence is always felt when he is in the room by his constant flow of language. Manchiuski, the slight little Pole tailor, calls him the mitrailleuse. Recently Held got himself changed to the kitchen; the reason he gave me was that he could not stand the constant yelling and cursing.

Friday, October 9th.

I have just come in from a day’s march and received my first letters from you through Mr. Jaccaci’s messenger. We had heard rumors of this march and expected it to be difficult, but really it did not come up to my expectations. The whole Battalion left the barracks at 5:40 after a most disorderly rush to assemble, for the whistle blew half an hour ahead of time. We drank soup instead of coffee and carried with us coffee and cold meat, and each of us had a fagot of kindlings to heat the coffee. The rising mists on the Seine valley were very soft as they rolled over the poplars. Outside a town where we s...