First Aero Squadron
In researching Boots and Saddles: A Call to Glory, my family gave me the chance to check one off my bucket list and go up in a biplane. Talk about awesome. That’s flying. You might ask what that has to do with a book about the last United States cavalry campaign. The Punitive Expedition pursued Pancho Villa into Mexico following his raid on Columbus New Mexico. It marked the passing of the storied American horse soldier into the pages of history on the eve of World War I. It also provided the first combat mission for a fledgling American air service. Let’s take a ride.
Columbus New Mexico
March 27th 1916
1500 Hours
Captain Benjamin Foulois tested the column tension on the Curtiss JN-3 controls. He nudged the wheel forward, watching the flaps come down. He eased the column back. The flaps returned to level and continued to lift. Left rudder, right rudder the wheel turned smoothly. He eased himself out of the front cockpit onto the fuselage frame.
“She’s ready, Ted.” He gave the mechanic a thumbs-up. He glanced at the barracks to his right. A man jogged his way holding a yellow sheet, unmistakable for a telegram.
“Telegram for Captain Foulois.”
Ted gestured to the cockpit.
Foulois swung his leg over the side, found the iron stirrup and stepped down. He took the telegram, tore it open and read. His chiseled rock jaw broke into a gleaming white smile.
“Thank you, Corporal. Ted, get these birds ready. We take off within the hour.” He hurried up the road to the barracks and dashed up the steps two at a time. “All right, fly boys, this is it. Roll your asses out of bed. We’re going to Mexico. We take off in an hour.”
“Where we headed, Captain?” Lieutenant Herbert Dargue led First Aero Flight Group Two. A darkly handsome New Yorker, he had a quick wit and a devil may care attitude that belied a thoughtful second nature.
“Colonia Dublán.”
Dargue looked at his watch, puzzled. “Don’t you think it’s a bit late, sir? We’ll never get that far before dark.”
“We might make it. Let’s show the General what the First can do.”
Dargue shook his head as the barracks exploded in frenzied activity. Pilots and co-pilots scrambled into their flight gear. Mechanics and ground crew hurried down the stairs and ran for the planes. Sixty-five minutes later seven of the eight Jennies idled smoothly in their blocks beside Deming Road.
Foulois sat in the forward cockpit of his Jennie buffeted by prop wash. He looked down the row of aero planes at the thick carpet of dust streaming behind them. He made goggled eye contact with each pilot. One by one they gave him a gauntleted thumbs-up signal. He turned to Ted and nodded. The mechanic pulled the chocks out from under the carriage wheels and ducked under the bottom wing.
The Jennie rolled onto the road. Foulois swung the tail around pointing the nose south. He jammed the throttle to the floor, beginning his takeoff roll. The second Jennie taxied into position behind him. JN Alpha rolled down the road, picking up speed. The tail lifted at takeoff speed. He eased the column back. The nose came up as she rotated airborne. The ground fell away. She climbed like a sleek grey goose set against soft white puff balls in the late afternoon sky. He banked a lazy wide circle over Columbus. The burnt shell of the Commercial Hotel reminded him of the reason the First Aero Squadron had this chance to prove itself.
Below workers busily disposing of debris or rebuilding the damage stopped what they were doing to look skyward. People came out of houses and stores drawn by the throaty rumble of powerful engines filling the sky. One by one the great grey birds lifted off Deming Road to circle the town. The display of U.S. military might was a breathtaking sight. The townsfolk looked on, satisfied Villa and his bandits had no idea what a hornet’s nest they’d stirred by their foolhardy attack on Columbus. Well, they’d know soon enough.
Foulois watched his birds fall into formation, two flights of four minus one. The mechanics would deal with the engine problem on Flight Group Two JN Delta. Mechanical failure was a fact of aviation life. Regrettable, but he couldn’t wait. He completed his circle. He pointed the nose of his ship at the southern horizon and crossed into Mexico.
The Jennies leveled off at four thousand feet and settled in at a comfortable cruising speed of sixty miles an hour. A mottled carpet of sand, sage and scrub passed below. Mountains smudged the horizons to the west and southeast. Little else disturbed the barren landscape. Foulois let his mind play ahead. Out here, a column of cavalry would stand out for miles from the air. The mountains might be a different matter. Mountains had air currents that would test an aviator’s skill. They didn’t have a training manual for that, just instinct, reaction and a bit of luck.
The Book is called Boots and Saddles: A Call to Glory
https://www.amazon.com/author/paulcolt
Ride easy,
Paul
Columbus New Mexico
March 27th 1916
1500 Hours
Captain Benjamin Foulois tested the column tension on the Curtiss JN-3 controls. He nudged the wheel forward, watching the flaps come down. He eased the column back. The flaps returned to level and continued to lift. Left rudder, right rudder the wheel turned smoothly. He eased himself out of the front cockpit onto the fuselage frame.
“She’s ready, Ted.” He gave the mechanic a thumbs-up. He glanced at the barracks to his right. A man jogged his way holding a yellow sheet, unmistakable for a telegram.
“Telegram for Captain Foulois.”
Ted gestured to the cockpit.
Foulois swung his leg over the side, found the iron stirrup and stepped down. He took the telegram, tore it open and read. His chiseled rock jaw broke into a gleaming white smile.
“Thank you, Corporal. Ted, get these birds ready. We take off within the hour.” He hurried up the road to the barracks and dashed up the steps two at a time. “All right, fly boys, this is it. Roll your asses out of bed. We’re going to Mexico. We take off in an hour.”
“Where we headed, Captain?” Lieutenant Herbert Dargue led First Aero Flight Group Two. A darkly handsome New Yorker, he had a quick wit and a devil may care attitude that belied a thoughtful second nature.
“Colonia Dublán.”
Dargue looked at his watch, puzzled. “Don’t you think it’s a bit late, sir? We’ll never get that far before dark.”
“We might make it. Let’s show the General what the First can do.”
Dargue shook his head as the barracks exploded in frenzied activity. Pilots and co-pilots scrambled into their flight gear. Mechanics and ground crew hurried down the stairs and ran for the planes. Sixty-five minutes later seven of the eight Jennies idled smoothly in their blocks beside Deming Road.
Foulois sat in the forward cockpit of his Jennie buffeted by prop wash. He looked down the row of aero planes at the thick carpet of dust streaming behind them. He made goggled eye contact with each pilot. One by one they gave him a gauntleted thumbs-up signal. He turned to Ted and nodded. The mechanic pulled the chocks out from under the carriage wheels and ducked under the bottom wing.
The Jennie rolled onto the road. Foulois swung the tail around pointing the nose south. He jammed the throttle to the floor, beginning his takeoff roll. The second Jennie taxied into position behind him. JN Alpha rolled down the road, picking up speed. The tail lifted at takeoff speed. He eased the column back. The nose came up as she rotated airborne. The ground fell away. She climbed like a sleek grey goose set against soft white puff balls in the late afternoon sky. He banked a lazy wide circle over Columbus. The burnt shell of the Commercial Hotel reminded him of the reason the First Aero Squadron had this chance to prove itself.
Below workers busily disposing of debris or rebuilding the damage stopped what they were doing to look skyward. People came out of houses and stores drawn by the throaty rumble of powerful engines filling the sky. One by one the great grey birds lifted off Deming Road to circle the town. The display of U.S. military might was a breathtaking sight. The townsfolk looked on, satisfied Villa and his bandits had no idea what a hornet’s nest they’d stirred by their foolhardy attack on Columbus. Well, they’d know soon enough.
Foulois watched his birds fall into formation, two flights of four minus one. The mechanics would deal with the engine problem on Flight Group Two JN Delta. Mechanical failure was a fact of aviation life. Regrettable, but he couldn’t wait. He completed his circle. He pointed the nose of his ship at the southern horizon and crossed into Mexico.
The Jennies leveled off at four thousand feet and settled in at a comfortable cruising speed of sixty miles an hour. A mottled carpet of sand, sage and scrub passed below. Mountains smudged the horizons to the west and southeast. Little else disturbed the barren landscape. Foulois let his mind play ahead. Out here, a column of cavalry would stand out for miles from the air. The mountains might be a different matter. Mountains had air currents that would test an aviator’s skill. They didn’t have a training manual for that, just instinct, reaction and a bit of luck.
The Book is called Boots and Saddles: A Call to Glory
https://www.amazon.com/author/paulcolt
Ride easy,
Paul
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