WAR

with an instructor. Although this sounds dangerous, it wasn't, because the classes
progressed by easy stages from non-flying to flying machines. The beginners
debutants—started out on "Penguins." The Penguin was a Bleriot monoplane
powered with a 35-horsepower Anzani engine, incapable of flight because its
wings were clipped. Sitting in a Penguin, the student got a good idea of what it
was like to sit in a real aeroplane. After a brief instruction on the engine and a
few rudiments of flight, the student climbed into the cockpit and strapped the
seat belt across his lap. With ignition off and chocks against the wheels, the
propeller was rotated once or twice by hand to draw fuel into the cylinders.
The ignition was switched on and the mechanic spun the prop. The motor burst
into life . . . sometimes. Sometimes several tries and a considerable amount of
earnest swearing were necessary. When the engine was running, the chocks were
removed and the Penguin rolled forward. The student shoved the stick forward
and the tail came up, then if he could get the "feel" of the rudder bar with his
feet
he could keep the machine rolling on course. When the student had mastered
the knack of steering with his feet he was able to zip along the ground at a speed
of 35 or 40 miles an hour keeping to a more or less straight line across the field.
Passing out of the Penguins, the student moved up to the rouleur (roller)
class. In this class real aeroplanes were used, Bleriot monoplanes without clipped
wings, powered by 60 to 80 horsepower rotary engines. The student repeated his
Penguin lesson, racing back and forth along the ground trying to describe a perfectly
straight line. When the instructor was satisfied that the student was able
to keep the machine under control he was considered to be in the next class, the
decolleur (unsticker). In this class the student was allowed to "unstick" himself
from the ground. Starting up the motor as usual he rolled forward over the
ground, holding to a straight course by controlling the rudder bar with his feet,
holding the aeroplane in a level position with the stick at the center. Then, easing
back a shade on the stick,
the student caused the aeroplane to rise off the ground.
His altitude, if you can call it that, was not to exceed three feet. In what he fondly
hoped was his element, the student sailed along at full throttle, three feet off the
ground, endeavoring to hold to the familiar straight course. That's all there was
to it, and in wartime the program was gradually speeded up, the students who
looked fairly promising being passed through in a few days. Biddle went through
all the courses thought necessary to train him as a combat pilot inside of five
months.
The "Bleriot system" in use at Avord when Biddle went through the school
was expensive since it used up a great many machines. There were accidents
every day, but hardly anyone got hurt. The steps were gradual; the student who
paid attention was not likely to get himself in
trouble. The system had the advantage
that a few instructors could handle masses of students.
Metre by metre the students ventured into the air, ten, 100, 500, 1000
metres; five minutes, 15 minutes, half an hour. Ten kilometres, 25, 50. Then
the cross-country flight—Avord to Chateauroux to Romorantin—225 kilometres
per leg with a stop at each aerodrome for gasoline and oil and a signature on the
dotted line just to show that you have really been there, mes enfants, n'est-ce pas
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