A Poet Of The Air; Letters Of Jack Morris Wright

First Lieutenant Of The American Aviation In France, April, 1917-January, 1918

Jack Morris Wright, Sara Greene Wise

• Publisher: Lucknow Books
• Year: 2014
• eBook ISBN: 9781782892069
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Military Biographies
• Index: History

"THESE letters from my son, I gathered for publication just as they came, with the full joy and pride I had in receiving them, hoping to give to other boys something of his fine courage and spirit --- to other mothers comfort and hope, and to all readers the vivid, beautiful sketches of France, of War, of Idealism as he, "Poet of the Airs, " has given me.
Jack Wright, the author of these letters is an American boy of eighteen years, born in New York City. When a small child he was taken to France, where he remained until the outbreak of the war.
He was educated entirely in French schools; his playmates were the children of the artists and poets of France. French was his language. This will explain his unique literary expression, the curious blend of French and English which, even to the formation of words, I have left entirely as he writes them, feeling therein a special charm.
This will explain also his great love for France, the home of his childhood.
Although but eighteen years old when he left to make the supreme sacrifice as one of the first American Volunteers, he had graduated with special honors from l'École Alsacienne at Paris and Andover in America, and entered Harvard University.
Although only nine months in the war, he had won his commission as First Lieutenant Pilot-Aviator of the American Aviation.
While joyously compiling these letters (having even confided my plan to him) the official telegram came that announced his last flight, January 24, 1918.

A POET OF THE AIR

1917

À bord de la Touraine

Au REVOIR, chère maman, vois-tu, me voici déjà français. I can only say a word as the pilot is leaving—stop crying, read a book, work, work, work, and within two weeks you’ll feel all right. I don’t know why you shouldn’t now, for I feel absolutely at home. It’s just a trip with sights here and there—no more. A year ago we used to talk lightly of ambulanceers —my being in it cannot augment the importance or the glory or the danger of our former opinions.

We have two wonderful guns aboard, one of which is sixteen inches across the muzzle. Sharpshooters man them. Every one is friendly, and I hear with great enthusiasm that little Red Cross nurses are aboard to tickle our fancies. Ta lettre m’est chère because it is written at a changing point in your life. I notice the change, as I notice all, and am quite satisfied. You have shared the glories of Art—the such must now be re-emplaced by other beauties. You are going through a grand experience—d’envoyer un fils à la guerre—and life is only measured by the weight of its various experiences—the bigger the weight the bigger the life....

Remember to Mr. W. that this letter’s sympathies are equally his, though the pilot may refuse me permission to express them silently. I think he understands my silent gratitude as you do my silent love—at least I hope so.

Bid good-bye and tender wishes to the many complaining ones who will be pestering you for my lack of civility in not bidding them good-bye.

Miss Mack’s letter was unforgettable; it contained a background. I shall always be interested in her.

I refuse to send you Godspeed and blessing as every letter I have received has sent me, but I do send you the hope that you’ll have your own soul’s blessing.

Man’s soul is the shrine of religion, you know.

Extremely affectionately, my dear mère

JACK

Read again the poem by Henri Bataille “Mères de France” or “Mères douloureuses.” It contains a-plenty for you, and the last line has a ruggedness that is full of Saxon granite.

***

À bord de la Touraine

6 May, 1917

MA BIEN CHÈRE MÈRE:—

This is Sunday. Tuesday morning I expect to land. In other words, there’s little time left for torpedoes. Nevertheless many gunners, to the number of thirty, man our guns and scan the horizon; the lifeboats are ready; lights are kept out; extra shells are being fused; mats are being put back of each gun; torpedo boats cruise, invisible, around us; all told, we feel like a chest of gold in Chicago.

This morning I went to a Catholic mass on board and got all mixed up, but the Catholics did too, and the priest had to turn around every while and correct them.

About twenty soldiers are on board going back from leave in America. A number of Fords and some Pathé films of Joffre’s American tour complete the cargo. The boys are fun and time is slowly passing by.

The first four days I was sea-sick on account of the storm, but now not a white cap can be seen. Schools of flying fish follow us and dive under the boat.

This P.M. French soldiers are getting up a vaudeville. I mean the priest gets it up—and on Sunday.

Monday

We made 450 fr. at our vaudeville out of 100 spectators, for the benefit of Secours National.

Now all passengers must keep their clothes on until arrival at the river’s mouth, and life preservers must always be at hand.

Last night I read a little Verlaine and wrote a couple of bad poems à sa façon. I got up for lunch as usual; it is tout à fait en accord with the height of laziness I am floating in these steamer days. In fact, that’s why I wrote poetry last night, as a pill to wake me up for the arrival. The arrival, however, will probably be drizzling and lengthened out to fatigue instead of bathed in sunshine ‘neath the happiness of a rich blue sky.

***

Paris—May 11

I have seen France at Tuesday dawn; and Paris at Tuesday eve. I am just about crazy as we might say. I wander the streets in awe, like a farmer on Broadway, excepting that every two minutes I start shrieking with joy; I can hardly hold myself in; I never fully realized this beauty before—every Frenchman ought to be a genius.

I cannot write now. I can hardly talk. The only people so far seen were the Griziers, a couple of old pupils, my room (for it is a personality), and all were wild to see me.

Remember me to dear Mr. W. and trust in a nearby letter.

Most affectionately

JACK

***

May 18

DEAREST MOTHER:—

Excuse my tardiness. In the meantime I have been made foreman over a gang of twenty men to construct barracks. I was asked by our chief to go out with our new organization —the Munition Transports that supply the guns—and make sketches for articles to be published in America. I am, with sixteen others, to drive big five-ton Pierce-Arrow trucks.

This P.M. I arrived at the instruction camp twenty miles behind the trenches near where I camped one Easter (with French Boy Scouts). I can detail no more.

The country is wooded and hilly, with the sunlit villages of stone and the sheep and the songs of soldiers. I am now writing in the court of an ancient Charlemagne fort farmyard where rabbits, cats, goats, and a big dog hide and seek around the piles of country, smelling of new-mown hay, and where poilus smoke and argue and sing perched in the notch of an ancient low tower or under the tumbling arch of a door way.

The country is of such a May green and blossoming that war seems impossible and yet every night we can hear the guns and watch the distant rockets.

Good-bye for a moment.

Lovingly

JACK

***

May 19, 1917

MY DEAR NANA:—

You’ll excuse the paper when you know that this note is written from the tower of a mediaeval farm, where goats and calves mix with five-ton Pierce-Arrow trucks, spick and span for war.

As you see, and as mother has doubtless told you, I suddenly took a fancy to serve France and came within as quick a time as transportation permitted. Were it not for the warm sun that is baking the rolling hills of the peaceful French country; were it not for such a homelike and slumbering environment, I should scarcely myself be able to believe that within a week I had jumped from the petty world of academic studies to the biggest war nations ever poured their blood into.

After a week in Paris where I awaited my ambulance, I was suddenly sent with a transport section that carries munitions up to the line, so that I should make sketches to be sent to America.

Within three months, though, I will be back to a Ford ambulance unless something else turns up or unless I prefer to remain here.

Twenty boys and two Profs of my school have come with me, so I feel quite at home. But of course I am at home anyway since France means so very much to me. I have always been in Paradise here. I have often been in Hell in America. Then the war is a sight that only a fool or a prisoner would miss.

I consider what I am learning now, worth a year of schooling; although it impedes in no way in that. On the contrary, it gives me my diploma at Andover and gets me into Harvard next year.

At present I am staying at a farm; rather at an instruction camp. Within a week we form up our section and leave for the front.

In Paris I saw a number of friends, but was chiefly occupied in the shopping. That city, of course, still remains unequalled in beauty throughout the world.

For a couple of days I was foreman over twenty men for the building of barracks, etc. Now I am off for three months of steady physical work and expect to become what the war has made of millions of French men and women.

Most lovingly, my Nana

JACK

***

DEAR MR. W.:—

It may seem queer to you that I have not written you sooner, but my time has been filled to such an extent that I have only been able to write mother, out of all those who expect letters from me.

In Paris I had not even time to see my intimate friends. In the field I have not time even to draw a series of sketches which I have been ordered to do by our chief, for articles to be sent to America.

As you know, I am now running ammunition up to the batteries. The work is that of a man and will probably make men of us all. The group forming our camp is made up of Cornell, Dartmouth, and Andover. The first American flag to float alone over American troops in France is high above us on the trunk of a long pine, and as the worn-out soldiers of France march by they cheer us as saviours. The glory that we are bestowed with is so much that it becomes comical, but nevertheless it does us good to feel ourselves some of the first American troops.

As yet we have had no trouble, but any day an aeroplane or some gun fire could settle the matter.

With such surroundings I have become quite a little heathen. I work about a big Pierce-Arrow like a regular chauffeur; I never read a book; I eat war bread and cheese, with guns flashing next to me and while sitting on a truck load of ten thousand pounds of dynamite. It isn’t exactly the trigonometry propositions and the little tea parties of Andover or New York. It is still further from the entanglements of Broad Street and Wall Street, yet I am so sure that you would have the time of your life here that I cannot understand why you should not take a vacation of six months, see something you’d never believe and go back to work again fully five years younger.

There are pages I could write you about my present life, but neither of us have time for them. I would like to ask you how things are going in New York, but I know that most of your existence there consists of hard work and on that subject I can’t converse yet. All I can say is that I hope you will understand that I fully appreciate your regards towards me, and that though I may appear somewhat neglective, now and then, my respect and my sympathies axe none less than my appreciation.

Very sincerely

JACK

***

War Zone of the French Armies On the Eastern Front

May 25, 1917

DEAREST MOTHER:—

This is not a very sacred place to answer such a sweet letter. I am in a large camp tent with boys singing, sleeping and smoking. Right next door in some fake trenches, Alpine chasseurs are throwing hand-grenades that shake the guts out of you. Overhead the constant purr and buzz of aeroplanes keep up the time of twenty kilometres behind the lines.

Yesterday our trucks pounded along a trip of five hours or so, during which time I had to drive past rolling field artillery for miles.

We arrived at —, the first big town since Paris. It is of very Spanish inhabitants so that our one hour there was ringing with merriment and flirtation from us drivers up to our French officers.

In the morning we had target practice. You see with the job I’ve got now we carry guns and cartridges. The day before yesterday, a brigadier of the section we’re bound for was killed by our bombardment while trying to hide himself.

The valley is merry with May sunshine, new leafage, blue sky, Alpine chasseurs, and the mixing of wine and spring songs. Just now I’m waiting to learn when I take my twenty-four-hour leave to Paris from this training camp before leaving for the front.

I have very little time to myself as yet.

***

June 1

Just back from the leave. We got to Paris at noon. I invaded the coiffeur’s. He was on permission too. Then lunch and shopping. A French lady helped me out in the post office and I thereby made her delightful acquaintance. Such things, though, are only a matter of daily event in this Parisian swimming pool.

I had an early dinner at the Café des Lilas where by chance I sat next to a charming girl I had met last night in Paris. She is the beautiful “amie” of an ambulanceer and a very good camarade. Then I walked through the grand Luxembourg Gardens; its terraces where the artists’ models and young family girls just learning to pose stroll carelessly in its caressing atmosphere. I had a “Fraise” at a café just to watch the types walk the “Boul. Miche.”...

We took the evening-train at eight o’clock with high spirits, but low hearts. Then from ten to one o’clock at night we had a truck ride. That, of course, is like riding on artillery wagon seats at full gallop, in the dust of a whole army through the cold of the North Pole. The rest of the night I slept in my bunk without bothering to undo my shoe laces, having been going since four in the morning before, to one that morning, and “some going.”

To-day, Friday, we are taking our last day of rest (it’s the only one too) before packing bags for a trip unknown. The sun in coming out, brought out the mandolins, and between the two, vague thoughts of yesterday’s Paris and a month ago’s home, filter through our weariness as the souvenir notes of a song from out the past.

I received quite a love letter from my little unknown girl way down along the twining Doubs river. But hélas! such other things call me with such other forces that my idle, magnetized soul cannot hypnotize myself to going down to see her—though I easily could....

By the way, an adjutant of chasseurs whom I was talking with two days ago is now being buried. You see some hand-grenades went off too soon during practise work and—well, a number of other soldier friends had their faces wiped off at the same time.

I will write you more whenever I get time. You will learn much more, though, of my trip from my diary when I get back, than from the little side notes of those hasty careless letters. With much love,

Your affectionate son

JACK

Give all my best wishes to Mr. W. Remember me to my friends and thank all those who sent me their vague wishes of love with an equal amount of very...

Table of contents

• Title page
• TABLE OF CONTENTS
• DEDICATION
• PREFACE
• FOREWORD
• INTRODUCTION
• A POET OF THE AIR
• LETTER OF LIEUTENANT BRUCE C. HOPPER
• LETTER FROM PIERRE BOURDELLE TO THE MOTHER OF JACK
• LETTER FROM THE CELEBRATED FRENCH SCULPTOR ÉMILE ANTOINE BOURDELLE TO THE MOTHER OF JACK
• LETTER FROM JACK TO ÉMILE ANTOINE BOURDELLE
• LETTER FROM THE CELEBRATED FRENCH SCULPTOR ÉMILE ANTOINE BOURDELLE TO THE MOTHER OF JACK