140: WWI Aviators: From the Lafayette Escadrille to the Red Baron and More
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They're soon soaring over the fields of northern France toward the blood-soaked front lines of the Battle of Arras. Not because there's a pressing need. No, these German pilots are on the hunt. A hunt for British pilots. It's bold to describe one's foe as mere prey. True, but that's reality when one of these hunting pilots is Manfred von Richthofen. This decorated 24-year-old square-jawed squadron commander and flying ace counts his aerial victories by the dozens.

victories that he racks up by firing his machine gun from a blood red plane. After 20 minutes of scouring the skies, the German trio get their wish. They encounter three allied planes, specifically three SPADs. Excellent. These biplanes are state-of-the-art allied craft, and given their aggressive approach, it appears these Brits aren't shy. Manfred is delighted. Perhaps they'll actually put up a fight.

The British and German fighters quickly pair up, essentially making this dogfight three separate, overlapping duels. Immediately, the spads and albatrosses veer, circle and loop one another, each trying to gain the ideal position to fire. As this dance continues, the wind picks up, dragging the fight eastward, away from the front and deeper into German-held territory. It isn't long, though, before Manfred has the upper hand in his duel. The young German ace lets his machine gun rip, making a direct hit on the spad.

Knowing he's out of the fight, the Brit disengages and starts to descend, hoping to land before his plane fails altogether. But Manfred won't have it. He's heard rumors that the whole Royal Flying Corps is targeting Red Planes in hopes of killing him. In fact, every pilot in his squadron now flies a Red Plane, just so the British can't tell who he is. And so, he shows no mercy. According to the German ace, "I no longer give pardon to him,

Therefore, I attacked him a second time and the consequence was that his whole machine went to pieces. Wings, panels, propellers. The shot up biplane goes to pieces indeed as it falls like a rock from the sky until finally it crashes into the ground. From up above Manfred looks down noting that the only recognizable part of this former aircraft is the end of its tail.

He speculates that his foe's body is so deep in the earth that, quote, "he has dug his own grave." Meanwhile, the other two duels are likewise coming to a close. The machine guns sound off as German and British pilots veer, dive, and otherwise do everything in their power to get the enemy before the enemy gets them. As the fight continues, the young squadron leader's even younger protege, Kurt Wolf, strikes his foe's aircraft.

As for the final German pilot, Manfred's younger brother, Luther von Richthofen, he too finds victory, filling his opponent's plane with bullets. Whether they are more merciful or just lack the opportunity to finish off these two Brits, we'll never know. But either way, the heavily damaged spads manage to land. They do so beside the wreckage of their dead friend. Flying together once more, the three German pilots, these two brothers and their beloved friend, all look to one another.

They exchange knowing nods and wave, thoroughly satisfied with their complete victory. Or should I say, thoroughly satisfied with their successful hunt, because those poor British pilots likely never stood a chance. After all, Manfred von Richthofen is a hunter, a taker of life. One as deadly, it seems, as he is untouchable. And that is why he is the Great War's most famous, respected, and feared, if not loathed, pilot. That's right.

Manfred is the one and only Red Baron. Welcome to History That Doesn't Suck. I'm your professor, Greg Jackson, and I'd like to tell you a story. Perhaps no other Great War ace, as the most deadly of aviators are known, is more famous than Manfred von Richthofen, a.k.a. the Red Baron.

Flying high in red-painted planes, he will ultimately score 80 aerial victories, which is to say, forced down for capture or destroy 80 Allied planes. This specific dogfight I just recounted to you is but one of 21 victories he wins in April 1917 alone. This month costs the British so many aviator lives, they dub it Bloody April.

Two months after this, the Red Baron takes command of a 4 Squadron Force, a Jagdgeschwader, which the Allies nickname the Flying Circus. The Red Baron leads this group of gifted, deadly pilots until he gets shot down himself on April 21st, 1918. Perhaps you've already guessed, but today we come to a high-flying story. The story of aviation in the Great War.

While we've gotten a taste of aerial combat in a few episodes already, we've barely scratched the surface on these wartime celebrities romanticized as knights of the air, as they duel for control of the skies in ways unimaginable only a decade before. And of course, as U.S. History Podcast, we'll focus on the American experience.

We'll start by going back to 1903, the year the Wright brothers took their successful flight at Kitty Hawk, so we can trace the airplane's rapid transformation from barely being a possibility to soaring through the air with machine guns in little more than a decade.

From there, we'll meet some of the first American aviators of the war, specifically an all-American squadron flying under the French tricolor, Escadrille N-124, better known as l'Escadrille Américaine or the famed Lafayette Escadrille. Given their celebrity status the world over, eventual absorption into the U.S. Army, and influence, it would be a disservice not to get their story. Not that they need selling. They have quite the tale.

But they should never be confused with the broader term for all Americans flying in any French squadron, collectively known as the Lafayette Flying Corps. To make sure we track that difference, we'll meet one of these non-Lafayette Escadrille pilots, who's also the only black American pilot of the war, Eugene Bullard. And finally, as the U.S. enters the war, we'll hear of a harrowing death in the skies, mourned the world over, and take note of how the Great War overhauls America's barely-in-existence Air Force.

From a small part of the Army Signal Corps, it's about to become an air service ready to fight in the 20th century. So, with our flight path set, let's nosedive back to 1903 and start figuring out how we went from little more than gliders to dogfights in little more than a decade. You know how we do that. Rewind. Fighting Aviators

What a crazy idea in 1903, as Orville Wright is becoming the man most recognized as the first person to achieve flight in a heavier-than-air, gas-powered, piloted flying machine. We witness this moment of glory amid the beach sand of Kitty Hawk in episode 123, and as you know, Orv is only in the air for less than a minute. Yet, barely more than a decade from now, nimble airplanes with mounted machine guns will carry out full-on battles in the sky.

Such as the mighty and rapid changes the industrialized Great War will bring. Let's follow that rapid decade-in-change evolution. It isn't long after Kitty Hawk that nations around the world begin seeing the potential military applications of these new flying machines. Indeed, Orville breaks his leg and a lieutenant dies when a flying demonstration for the U.S. military goes wrong in 1908. Three years after this accident, on November 1st, 1911, the world sees its first modern aerial attack.

During the Italian invasion of Ottoman-controlled Libya, Lieutenant Giulio Gavattie takes to the skies in his monoplane and lobs four grenades as he passes over the Turkish military camp at Ain Zahra. No one gets hurt, but still, it's a first. This wasn't the Italian pilot's mission though. His actual job was reconnaissance. That is, flying over the enemy to gather intelligence on their location, munitions, the size of their forces, and so on.

Reconnaissance remains the primary military purpose for aircraft as Europe's great powers go to war a few short years later. But at the same time, the idea of dropping bombs from the sky is now out there. The Germans become the first to do it early in World War I. They send one of their lighter-than-air hydrogen-filled airships, known as Zeppelins, to bomb the Belgian city of Liège on August 6th, 1914. Though artillery does some serious damage to the Zeppelin, nine civilians become the first to die from an aerial attack.

German aerial bombings on Paris soon follow, and when the Brits newly formed Royal Naval Air Service responds in kind, the Kaiser gives his blessing to bombs falling on London. The first such attack will hit the British capital in May, 1915. But let's not rush ahead. Bombs aren't the only weapons in the skies in 1914. Pilots are now taking pistols and carbines on their reconnaissance missions.

Things get even more interesting on October 5th, 1914 when one intrepid French observer in a two-seater plane takes a Hotchkiss machine gun with him. As the pilot flies, so do the observer's bullets. He downs a German aircraft and in doing so, Pandora's box is opened. Machine guns will soon become the weapon of choice in the sky. It's French pilot Roland Garros who really ups the ante here. He does so with an underappreciated pre-war idea.

See, between 1912 and 1913, German aviator August Eile and Swiss engineer Franz Schneider each respectively patented their own ideas for a gear system that would synchronize a machine gun's fire with a plane's propellers so that a pilot can both fly and shoot. The concept is known as "interrupter gear." The idea has remained untested, however, until now, in early 1915, as Roland decides to give it a go.

To his great disappointment, it isn't working perfectly, but that's okay. He has a different idea. Hollande attaches steel plates to the propellers of his aircraft, a "morand-solier aile," enabling them to deflect any bullets that fail to make their way through. Not ideal considering that those deadly projectiles just might come back and strike the plane if not the pilot, but the daring Frenchman didn't become the first person to fly across the Mediterranean by avoiding risks.

In April 1915, he puts his bullet-deflecting idea to use and downs as many as three to five German aircraft in a matter of weeks. At this point in the war, such a victory count makes Roland the god of the sky. He's basically Zeus. Yet, for all his daring, the dark-haired, mustachioed Frenchman will soon serve as Germany's inspiration as the second Reich escalates the battle for the skies to the next level. It's April 18th, 1915.

With steel-plated propellers carrying him into the clouds, the famed French pilot, Roland Garros, is soaring above the Western Front, just entering German-controlled skies. His machine gun is loaded, ready to take down German observation aircraft. But Roland isn't the only one armed. Down on the ground, a Bosch gunner has the Frenchman's monoplane in his sights. With incredible precision, the German strikes the engine of Roland's aircraft. He can't stay in the air, nor can he reach the safety of French territory.

The famed aviator has no choice but to land here, behind German lines. The Germans take Roland captive. Worse for the Allies, they take his plane captive so that the German military's best minds can reverse engineer his system. The Germans get better than that though, from young Anthony Fokker. After studying Roland's plane, the young Dutchman goes his own way and quickly perfects the idea of synchronizing spinning propellers and machine guns.

That's right, he's made what we call Interrupter Gear a reality. The German military wastes no time refitting the innovative Dutchman's Eindecker monoplanes with his new Interrupter Gear that same summer. And just like that, the Germans are the new gods of the sky. German pilot Oswald Boelcke replaces Roland Garros as the reigning god, developing tactics that will long outlive him after he meets his end next year.

These ideas include firing only at close range and using the glare of the sun to your advantage. He'll pass this wisdom along to one of his soon-to-be young recruits, Manfred von Richthofen. Yes, again, the Red Baron. Meanwhile, the Allies lament their loss of air superiority with a nod to the inventor of functional interrupter gear by dubbing the back half of 1915, the Fokker Scourge.

Quite despondent, British pilots meeting these well-armed German planes flying in flocks like death bringing birds go even further. They begin referring to themselves as Fokkerfotter. The Allies won't let this scourge keep them down though. They can't.

In early 1916, they take one of the newest models of French biplanes, the French Neoport 11, or "Le Bebe" as it's known, in a nod to its diminutive size, and mount a Lewis machine gun on its upper set of wings, placing its line of fire above the propeller. Pilots will pull a string to fire. It isn't proper interrupter gear, but this novel workaround levels the playing field for Allied aviators. Finally, they'll no longer be Fokker fodder.

And so, as the Battle of Valdon begins in early 1916, the war's aviators have entered a new phase. One in which machine gun wielding pilots zipping about in mono or biplanes are now engaging in the sort of aviator duels and full-on dogfights that we witnessed at the start of this episode. But not all of these aviators are citizens of the nations for which they fly. In fact, the French have a few Americans among their pilots, and two of them have a bold idea.

They want France to create an entire escadrille, that is, an entire squadron composed entirely of American flyboys. Ah yes, this is the start of the famous Lafayette Escadrille. Not that this name is in use yet, nor is its formation a slam dunk. There are concerns. First, the French government has to question if this is permissible under international law. The 1907 Hague Convention does not allow warring nations to recruit from neutral countries.

It's one thing to have American volunteers in their ranks, but are they crossing the recruiting line if they form a squadron consisting solely of citizens from a specific neutral nation? Another concern is the United States government. President Woodrow Wilson has been loud and clear about neutrality and is not a fan of U.S. citizens fighting under foreign flags. So even if it is legal to make such a squadron, does France really want to piss off this potential future ally?

Yet, these concerns began resolving themselves last year, in 1915. For one thing, France was bleeding men and not in a position to turn away willing help. For another, French leaders wouldn't be recruiting Americans. So many Yanks have joined la Légion étrangère, that is, the French Foreign Legion, or become ambulance drivers, that the French government could easily form an American squadron solely with those already volunteering under the French tricolor. And of course, let's not forget the politics.

The two American pilots already flying for France and pushing this idea, two well-to-do Ivy League-educated East Coasters, William Bill Thaw and Norman Prince, have the right political connections. Thanks to some old Vanderbilt money and a friend who can curry favor with the chief of French military aeronautics, Bill and Norman's dream of an American squadron fighting for the French Republic gets the green light.

It begins just as this new phase of machine gun versus machine gun dogfighting hits its stride, coming into existence on April 20th, 1916. Officially, Escadrille N-124, or Squadron N-124, the N standing for their model of aircraft, which is the Neopore. This American group of flyboys, quickly dubbed Escadrille Americaine, starts with seven of Uncle Sam's nephews.

They include Norman Prince and Bill Thaw, of course, another Ivy Leaguer, Elliot Cowden, a Southerner-turned-Legionnaire, Bert Hall, a fourth Ivy Leaguer and third Harvard man, one who descends from founding father John Jay and is a towering giant for an airman, Victor Chapman, a railway man-turned-ambulance driver, James Roger McConnell, and last but certainly not least, a second Southerner-turned-Legionnaire, Kith and Yates Rockwell.

hailing from various states, some coming from elite backgrounds, others anything but. They are our founding flyers, if you will. All have completed pilot training with the French military. They answer to French Captain Georges Tenot and his salt-of-the-earth lieutenant, Alphadelage de Meaux. Counting them, the squadron's numbers come up to nine for the time being. More will follow.

Stationed at Luxeuil-les-Bains, the seven Americans and their two faithful French officers are soon at work preparing to make this squadron fully functional. This includes painting personal insignias on each plane. Yes, this adds a bit of flair, but more than that, it will help each pilot better identify his brother in arms while in the sky. Within a matter of weeks, the squadron is set. On May 13th, five pilots carry out Escadrille N-124's first patrol.

It's a calm day that concludes with "Rien à signaler" - nothing to report. That won't be the case for long. It's the morning of May 18th, 1916. Carolinian Kefan Rockwell is flying his Neopore at an altitude of about 10,000 feet in the vicinity of Alsace, France, when suddenly he spots a two-seater plane emblazoned with the Iron Cross.

It's clearly on a reconnaissance mission, but Kiffin can't very well let these Bosch make it back with whatever intel they've gathered. It's time to take action. The North Carolinian dives down at the German aircraft. Seeing him, the Bosch observer swings his machine gun around. Bullets hit the American's plane. His cheaps and clothes flap in the ice-cold air. But still, Kiffin holds steady as he closes in. Finally, at a distance of a mere 30 feet, the American engages his Lewis gun and returns fire.

Firing one short burst, Kiffin swerves hard to avoid colliding with his foe. He then looks down to find his handful of bullets killed both the machine gun wielding observer and the pilot. With a small column of smoke coming from its engine, the German aircraft is falling from the sky, taking its two dead occupants with it. Once back on the ground, Kiffin's fellow pilots greet him with a hero's welcome. He's not only made his first kill, but the first of the squadron. This calls for something special.

Hiffin pulls out a gift from his legionnaire brother, a fine bottle of bourbon, and takes a swig. He passes it to Victor Chapman, but the gargantuan Harvard man declines, suggesting rather that a pilot only gets a swig after an aerial victory. The squadron loves the idea, and soon this bottle of bourbon is known as the Bottle of Death. It's a night of great celebration and camaraderie, one of many yet to come that will soon leave the Bottle of Death empty. But not all nights will be celebrations.

To quote aviator and author Stephen Ruffin, some of those who had the honor of drinking from the bottle would soon join their victims in death. This message is sponsored by Greenlight.

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way to run your household, customized to your family's needs, and the easy way to raise financially smart kids. Get started with Greenlight today and get your first month free at greenlight.com slash Spotify. The all-American minus commanding officers Escadrille in 124 or Escadrille American appears to be off to a strong start.

First stationed at the resort town of Luxeuil-les-Bains, our American aviators are living in a posh villa with quality beds, good food, plenty of alcohol, and are well entertained. To be frank, the ladies are throwing themselves at them. Now they only get a few weeks of this degree of luxury before moving to less impressive digs closer to Verdun, but they will return to Luxeuil. And besides, they'll still have a better living situation than the troops wherever they go.

As for the attention from the opposite sex, that holds up too. Pilots are celebrities during the Great War, so when these Yankee aviators get leave and head to Paris, well, let's just say they don't have to make an effort to find a good time. And not to overstate, but these perks and hero worship for pilots can engender less than kind feelings from the average soldier.

Here they are in a road infested, sometimes waterlogged trenches, going hungry, risking their lives for less pay and not getting celebrated for their every kill. Yeah, it's not hard to see how men on the ground could become a little jealous of their airborne brothers in arms. That's how artillery captain Harry S. Truman will feel after the United States enters the war and he finds himself on French battlefields.

To quote the future US president, "The easiest and safest place for a man to get is in the air service. They fly around a couple hours a day, sleep in a feather bed every night, eat hotcakes and maple syrup for breakfast, pie and roast beef for supper every day, spend their vacations in Paris or wherever else suits their fancy, and draw 20% extra pay for doing it."

Their death rate is about like the quartermaster and ordnance departments. And on top of it all, they are dubbed the heroes of the war. Hmm. Okay, not quite right on the death rate, but I take your point, Harry. That said, let's fly a mile in a Neopoic cockpit before passing judgment, because even with the opportunity to train as a pilot, few would have the physical abilities and nerves of steel needed for the job.

Consider what these pilots go through. Darting through the sky at over 100 miles per hour in an open cockpit, they're fully exposed to the elements. The air feels ice cold as it rips across their bodies. No wonder these aviators wear goggles, gloves, and thick jackets. And without the luxury of a pressurized cabin, they're blasted by the propeller's deafening noise and feel every inch of elevation as they climb or descend thousands of feet within minutes.

As if that's not enough, let's not forget that they're operating a machine gun at the same time and that isn't just a point and shoot situation. They've got to reload and deal with jams. Oh, and if things get dire, there's no parachute. Though they exist, Great War aviators won't start using them until the very end of the war. This is very much a captain goes down with the ship situation. Now let's put all of that together.

Imagine you're freezing, need your blown out ears to pop, and feel lightheaded from sudden altitude changes all at the same time while you're trying to clear a jammed gun, keep your over 100 miles per hour plane up in the air, and dodge incoming enemy fire. Considering how dangerous some 21st century drivers can be, handling the comparatively simple task of driving an air-conditioned car on a flat paved road, I think it's safe to say most of us don't have the chops to be a great war pilot.

Further, even those with the dexterity, reflexes, and skill needed to perform this demanding job may or may not have the nerves to do it, particularly in the long run. Psychologically, Great War pilots are put through the grinder. Far from having the light casualty rate that young Harry S. Truman mistakenly believes they enjoy, pilots actually see more death than the infantry.

Fellow pilots, friends to whom they've formed strong attachments who appear to be a god in the sky one day are all too often dead the next. Even in their comfortable beds, pilots struggle to sleep at night, sometimes waking in a cold sweat from horrific nightmares as their brains process the death of a friend or their own close call. Not even the war's sex symbol pilots are immune to PTSD, or as this era calls it, shell shock.

And as the summer months give way to the fall, the Escadrille Américaine is certainly seeing its fair share of deaths and nerve-wracking close calls. It's October 12th, 1916. Some 60-plus French and British bombers are flying east to Obendorf, Germany, with the intention of bombing the city's Mauser armworks out of existence. But that, of course, will require them to survive this 100-mile flight.

German guns on the ground are spitting shells while German pilots are firing machine guns as they all hope to take down these slow, heavy-laden Allied aircraft. The bombers only hope against these combined German forces are their own machine gun-wielding escorts, which include four pilots from the Escadrille Americaine, one of whom is a newer addition named Didier Masson. An experienced pre-war aviator, Didier fires away as he gives chase to a German aircraft, until his engine begins to sputter, that is.

Looking at his instrument panel, the French-born American citizen's heart skips a beat. He's out of gas! Looks like a German bullet must have punched through his fuel tank. Didier does the only thing he can do. He turns his Neopo west and glides, praying he can reach French territory and set his plane down without dying. But as Didier glides, a German fighter and a Fokker-built plane closes in behind him.

The Bosch fires, hitting the French-American's upper wing, instrument panel, fuselage, just about everything apart from Didier's own body. The German is undeterred. Putting his functioning engine to use, the unnamed pilot flies ahead, preparing to circle around and put an end to his gliding, helpless foe. But the German's forgotten one thing. Unlike his Interrupter gear-equipped Fokker aircraft, Neopo pilots don't fire through their propellers.

They fire over, meaning their guns can still shoot without an operable engine. Keeping a cool head, Didier makes the most of this as the German flies below and in front of him, sending the undoubtedly surprised would-be killer into his own death spiral. No time to celebrate though. Didier keeps his plane gliding west. The ground and French territory are both rapidly drawing near. Barely clearing barbed wire in no man's land, he comes to a hard, jerking halt amid the French trenches.

Against all odds, Didier walks away from his crash landing. It's no small thing to turn your own all but certain death into your first kill. It's actually Didier Masson's only victory for the whole war, but given the circumstances, it makes him a living legend. During this same mission, two other American pilots score victories as well.

Norman Prince gets his fourth, while the squadron's French born and raised pilot with an American father, Raoul Loughberry, or just Lough as his fellow pilots call him, achieved the French standard for an ace by downing his fifth. But as these pilots victoriously throw back the Bottle of Death, they also mourn lost friends. Ironically enough, these include the creator of the Bottle of Death ritual, Victor Chapman, who was killed in action this past summer. Same goes for the bottle's original owner, Keithon Rockwell.

He was killed in action in September. Meanwhile, the strike on Oberndorf, Germany brings the squadron yet another death. Norman Prince may have scored his fourth victory, but he crash-landed at the aerodrome after the raid. He succumbs to his injuries and passes away three days later on October 15th, 1916. New pilots continue to pump up the squadron's ranks, but these losses are hard to take.

It's only been six months since the birth of the Esquiderie Americaine, and already three of the seven founding Flyers are dead. Yet, amid these losses, the squadron's sense of identity is growing. These American Flyboys can partly thank the Germans and even some German-Americans for that. With the United States and Germany's relationship increasingly on the rocks, American newspapers are more inclined to provide coverage of the now world-renowned squadron. This upsets Germany.

The last thing the Kaiser's government wants is for the United States to see these American pilots as heroes. Too late, but the French government decides that perhaps highlighting Escadrille in 124's American-ness by calling it Escadrille Américaine is perhaps not a great play. They shift to emphasizing its volunteer nature by calling it Escadrille des Volontaires instead, but meh, so uninspiring.

But on December 6th, 1916, they nail it. From here on out, the squadron's favorite moniker will be L'Escadrille Lafayette, or in English, the Lafayette Escadrille. Everybody loves this name. It accomplishes the political needs by getting the word American out of the way, and yet it simultaneously speaks to the squadron's American nature with beautiful symbolism.

Consider this: In early 1777, 19-year-old Marquis de Lafayette sailed for America to join the Patriot cause in the Revolutionary War. His nation, France, was still neutral. Yet, the ambitious and idealistic Marquis nonetheless crossed the Atlantic, prepared to die for the revolutionary ideals driving the Americans to fight. And now, nearly a century and a half later, these young Americans are doing the same.

Despite their nation's neutrality, they've crossed the Atlantic to risk and in some cases lose their lives for the liberty of the French Republic. Sure, there's some personal ambition and a sense of adventure in the mix, but many of these American aviators genuinely see this as a debt long owed to the Marquis and the thousands of other Frenchmen who played an indispensable role in the fight for American independence. So yes, the Lafayette Escadrille is a great name.

Nothing could speak better to that liberty-based circle of friendship between the two nations. Squadron also picks a new icon. The image is a Native American wearing a headdress. They feel that, with the stars and stripes out of the question, a Native American warrior best conveys the identity of American warriors in the sky. The image soon adorns their planes. And as we enter early 1917, the squadron also gets a second pet lion cub.

Okay, so long story short, the American Flyboys bought their first lion cub while on leave in Paris a few months back. And true to their all-American rock star form, they named their new pet-slash-mascot, Whiskey. Now they feel that Whiskey needs a friend. You can guess the name, right? Knowing that nothing goes better with whiskey than soda, the American pilots named the second accordingly.

Whiskey and soda are the beloved companions of the squadron. It will be until the day that half-grown whiskey playfully pins a high-ranking French officer to the ground. The commander wants the pair of lions shot, but the American aviator's pleas gets that death sentence commuted to life in a Paris zoo. Squadron ace Raoul Loughberry is heartbroken. Other changes come as well.

Of particular note, the Lafayette Escadrille is phasing out their beloved NioPo machines for a new biplane built and named after "La Société pour l'Aviation et ses Derivés." That's a mouthful though, so most prefer to use its acronym: SPAD. If that sounds familiar, it's because these are the planes the Red Baron and his crew took out during the opening of this episode. Don't let that give you the wrong idea though. They're an upgrade.

The SPAD 7 is fast, sturdy, and equipped with the Vickers machine gun, which is mounted in front of the pilot. That's right, the Allies are finally making some headway with their own interrupter gear. This change of plane model will also change the squadron's official designation from Escadrille N-124 to SPA-124. With deaths, injuries, and departures, 1917 also means new faces.

Of the seven founding Flyers, four are now dead, with only two still in the squadron. It's worth noting that the first new pilot of the year is New Yorker Edmond Genet, who descends from a Frenchman we met all the way back in Episode 17, Edmond Charles Genet, or as we knew him when President George Washington granted him asylum, Citizen Genet. Sadly, Edmond will make the ultimate sacrifice while fighting for his great-great-grandfather's native country.

He's killed in action a little more than a week after the United States declares war on Germany that April. Ah, and with the United States entering the war, this creates something of a conflict for the Lafayette Escadrille. Should they continue to fly under the French tricolor? Or should they join and help grow their own nation's comparatively minuscule military and air service?

But let's hold off on addressing that question to point out that this quandary applies to more than the Lafayette Escadrille. There are 269 Americans flying for France, or will be by the war's end. Only 38 of them are attached to the Lafayette Escadrille though. Most are in other squadrons, and collectively, all American pilots flying for France are called the Lafayette Flying Corps. This larger group includes one of America's most famous pilots of the entire Great War, Eugene Bullard.

It's a crisp, clear dawn, November 17th, 1917, and Eugene Bollard, or just Gene as his friends call him, is preparing to take off near Metz, France. Gene is unique as France's American pilots go. He's the only one who's black. Growing up in the Jim Crow South, Gene made his home in France before the war and fell in love with this nation that doesn't have a color line. When the Great War broke out, he hung up his boxing gloves and joined the Foreign Legion and has since become a pilot.

As an American, he's counted in the broader Lafayette Flying Corps, but as he and his fellow pilots prepare to take off, make no mistake, this is not the Lafayette Escadrille. Jean flies with Escadrille SPA-85. Flying in formation with his squadron, Jean cuts through the cold air in his SPAD-7. It's possible that he has his own insignia painted on the fuselage.

It will later be said that this is a heart with a dagger in it and an accompanying inscription that reads, "All blood runs red." Ah, a testament to his life's experience and belief in the equality of humanity. But we have no more time to admire the possible artwork on Gene's handsome aircraft. The squadron just spotted some German planes in the distance. Time to close in. 14 Allied planes and 10 German Fokkers of various makes circle, dive, and climb in a massive dogfight.

Jean feels his plane shudder. His aircraft has been hit just behind the cockpit. Knowing he's got to shake his pursuing Bosch, the American barrel rolls left and then climbs fast. A bit removed from the dogfight, Jean nonetheless sees a black triplane within his grasp. He closes in and lets his Vickers machine gun rip into the massive Fokker aircraft. A column of smoke emerges from his foe's engine, and yet the gifted German aviator manages to disappear.

but not for long. Suddenly, he is on Gene's tail. The German fires on Gene, forcing him to make an evasive dive. The Bosch stays with him, firing as they both plunge toward the earth. Then, just in the nick of time, whatever damage Gene did earlier catches up with his pursuer. The German's engine sputters, forcing him to break off the attack. Gene pulls up as best as he can, leveling off only a few hundred feet from the ground and right by a hill with a German machine gun nest.

The Bosch gunners nail his engine. Smoke billows and oil sputters as the propellers cease to spin. Gene has no choice. He'll have to crash land. He aims for a flat, muddy bog and braces for impact. The German machine gun nest has Gene pinned, but at least he's in one piece. And as night falls, he hears voices. He hears French. Turns out he landed just within French lines, and these mechanics have come to rescue him and his plane.

As they prepared to tow the spad, the mechanics count up its bullet holes. Ninety-six. Gene knows he's lucky, but he doesn't appreciate this in full until getting back to the aerodrome and heading to the bar to drink with the squadron. That's when Major Minard informs him their foe today wasn't any old German squadron. It was the best of the best, the deadly Red Baron-led Flying Circus. Eugene Bollard was indeed lucky. Few tangle with the Red Baron's Flying Circus and live to tell the tale.

Yet, let's also give credit where credit's due. Though no ace, Gene is an excellent pilot. He never has an aerial victory that meets the sometimes difficult standards required to be deemed "confirmed" and many great war pilots don't. But unofficially, the Southerner likely downs one if not two German aircraft by the conflict's end. Not that this will be enough for the American to join the US Army's aviators.

With his home nation now in the war, Gene applies to join the U.S. Air Service in 1917, but is rejected. Officially, Gene is told that he doesn't qualify because he's an enlisted man and all U.S. Army pilots must be officers. The truth, however, is that the U.S. Army is not welcoming black pilots, a practice that will become policy next year, in July 1918. Thus, his entire Great War aviation career will happen within France's Aéronautique Militaire.

Jean is the only American flying for France that the color line prevents from flying for his own country. But he isn't the only member of the 100 strong Lafayette Flying Corps to wonder how the United States shift from neutral nation to allied power will impact him. Many of these pilots aren't sure they want to fly under the stars and stripes at this point. The French have been good to these American flyboys, trained them, treated them as one of their own. The idea of repaying that kindness by leaving feels wrong for some American pilots.

There's also a question of competence. In 1917, the U.S. Army's whopping 26 qualified pilots are tucked within the aviation section of the Signal Corps. While some of them flew in Mexico during 1916's punitive expedition, the seasoned American pilots flying for France can't help but ask themselves, do they really want to serve under the command of relatively inexperienced U.S. officers who are still getting up to speed on how aircraft has altered modern warfare?

Most U.S. Army leaders, including the commander of the American Expeditionary Force, General Black Jack Pershing, still fail to grasp in full the strategic value of airplanes. While there are noted exceptions to this, most U.S. leaders in 1917 think that aviation's value begins with observation and ends with providing support to ground troops. In other words, many have no real concept of pursuits that lead to dogfights and duels.

Worse still, the US Army isn't currently offering to grandfather in these French-trained American aviators. Instead, the men of the Lafayette Flying Corps are simultaneously being pressured to apply while receiving no promises of acceptance or transference of rank. Sounds like US aviation is off to a rough start in this war.

But that's the case across the board for the United States, as General Black Jack Pershing tackles the next to impossible task of building the American Expeditionary Force, or the AEF, into a world-class fighting force. Thankfully, the American commander has some competent leaders who understand aviation far better than most of America's top brass. Among them is the stubborn, opinionated, but visionary temporary rank Brigadier General, William Billy Mitchell.

Billy may not always play nice in the sandbox, but he gets the idea of pursuit and is instrumental in building up the AEF's air service. Another crucial leader, and one with whom Billy clashes, is the likewise temporary rank Brigadier General Benjamin Fuloy. Ben has serious aviation cred. The man flew with Orville Wright. He flew in Mexico, and in November 1917, he arrives in France to take command of the AEF's air service. It's in a terrible state.

He solves organization issues, sees to the building of aerodromes, and ups the number of planes, both through repairs and by procuring new aircraft. Frankly, many of these planes will be French. The United States is manufacturing American planes for its American aviators, but this isn't going well. Exactly one American-built model of aircraft will see action in this war, a biplane bomber called the DH-4 Liberty. Thousands will be built, hundreds will make it to the front,

But you likely don't want to fly it since it has a propensity to go up in flames. Pilots dub it the "flying coffin." And so, like the AEF on the ground, the U.S. Air Service will lean heavily on its allies for equipment. Exploding planes aside, the efforts of General Benjamin Folloy, Billy Mitchell, and others are building some real American air power in France as we enter 1918.

For one thing, the organization itself is growing up. Having been housed within the Signal Corps since 1907, Army aviators gained significantly greater status and independence in May 1918 as President Woodrow Wilson issues an executive order reorganizing them as the Air Service of the U.S. Army. Meanwhile, new pilots are training back in the States and England and of course, getting the real experience in France.

Among these soon-to-come pilots will be some of the war's most famous aces, like Frank Luke Jr. and a pilot we met back in episode 137, Eddie Rickenbacker. And to bring ourselves full circle, another big shot in the arm for the US Air Service is the transfer of the Lafayette Escadrille into the US Army. As stated previously, these pilots have mixed feelings.

But the United States couldn't very well have the Great War's most famous American squadron serving in a foreign military. The Lafayette Escadrille officially becomes the US 103rd Aero Squadron on February 18th, 1918. They won't fly together long though. US leadership knows that between these seasoned aviators, thousands of completed missions, and 33 confirmed aerial victories, they have a lot to teach incoming rookies.

So although the squadron now passes into history, their ripple effect will long be felt in the ranks of what will one day become the United States Air Force. But that's even further ahead. For now, we've established the U.S. Air Service. It will grow exponentially over 1918, truly maturing by the end of the Great War. This growth and its further ramifications certainly deserve further comment. But we aren't quite ready to go there. Not just yet.

Among the many aviators to die this same year, there's one whom we can't ignore. No, not the Red Baron, though he is shot down in April 1918. This is an aviator the whole United States, if not the world, mourns. It's a clear Sunday morning, July 14th, 1918. France's Bastille Day. Former President Theodore Roosevelt's youngest son, Quentin Roosevelt, or Kinnikins, to use his presidential parents' pet name for him,

is flying in Nioport, somewhere near Chateau-Thierry, France. He's flying in a patrol of a dozen planes, protecting a section of observers, photographing the German's position. That's good news for the observers. Wet behind the ears as the US Air Service is, Quentin nonetheless has already proven his chops, downing his first German only three days ago. Looks like the 20-year-old Roosevelt-turned-flyboy is living up to the family name. Suddenly, seven German aircraft come into view.

Quinton and his squadron pursue, chasing the Bosch deeper into German territory. Easy enough. The Americans have the numbers, and soon, all seems well. Mission completed, the Yankee aviators fly back to the aerodrome. But as one aircraft after another lands, it's soon clear that someone is missing. Where's Quinton Roosevelt? It's now two days later, July 16th.

We're at the Roosevelt family's Sagamore Hill home on the northern shore of New York's Long Island, where the bespectacled and mustachioed former president, Theodore Roosevelt, is staying as busy as ever. Right now, he's dictating as his personal secretary, Josephine Stricker, jots down his every word. And that's when news reporter Philip Thompson interrupts them to show TR a cable from the Associated Press. Teddy looks at the single sentence.

It reads, Watch Sagamore Hill in event of... But stops there. The cable's cut off. A military sensor's blocked the last of it. It isn't hard, though, for the old Rough Rider to guess at what's been redacted. All four of his sons are serving in the military. Teddy's heart drops out of his chest as he mutters, Something has happened to one of the boys. Later that same day, another cable comes in.

This one's addressed to TR, and it's from the AEF commander himself, Black Jack Pershing. The general recounts Quentin's mission, his going missing, and that the French report seeing an American plane descending. Well acquainted with the pain of losing children and a wife, the widower commander closes. I hope he may have landed safely. We'll advise you immediately on receipt of further information. But the old rough-riding colonel knows better. And soon enough, confirmation comes.

It turns out that the young Roosevelt got isolated from the rest of his squadron, giving two German pilots the opportunity to gang up on him. Quinton, TR and Edith's baby boy, their little kinnikins, went down behind German lines. The Germans find his body with two bullets in his head. The whole United States mourns Quinton, not just because he hailed from the famous Roosevelt family, but because of who he was despite his elite status. Quinton was known to be generous,

kind, to put others first, to do his duty, and be brave. Ace pilot Eddie Rickenbacker describes him as, quote, Close quote.

Those are the qualities that move a nation. Even the Germans mourn. It's true that the German military and press try to make propaganda out of Quinton, highlighting the death of a son from such an elite family as a show of German strength. But this backfires. Instead of seeing American weakness, German soldiers conclude that America's leading families are more courageous and have more honor than their own.

Indeed, the Kaiser's sons might be in the military, but they would never risk their lives on the front like Quentin did, or like his three brothers, two of whom suffer injuries. With admiration, the Boche soldiers respectfully lay the youngest Roosevelt boy to rest, leading Quentin to his eternal slumber. Let's reflect on just how drastically we've seen aviation change today.

In a matter of a few short years, the Great War's escalating aviation arms race took planes from a mostly observational role to one of looping, darting, machine gun dueling dogfights. It pushed aviation technology. It created celebrity pilots. And of course, it made the sky yet another place of death in this total war. But to keep our U.S. focus, the impact of the Great War's American aviators on France and their own nation can hardly be overstated.

France will not soon forget the valor and bravery of the 269 Americans of the Lafayette Flying Corps, especially the 68 of them who made the ultimate sacrifice. Their names will be etched in an impressive monument just outside Paris, in Manes-la-Coquette. As for the Lafayette Escadrilles specifically, their reputation and prestige are such that an estimated 4,000 men falsely claim to number among the 38 who flew in the squadron.

Meanwhile, the war itself accelerates the United States military capacities in the air in a manner that anticipates or perhaps precipitates the century to come. By the end of World War I, the Army's previously barely existing air service will grow into a force of 6,861 officers and 51,229 men. The American Expeditionary Force will have 45 squadrons and 767 pilots.

And not only do the planes keep getting faster, stronger, and more deadly, but the tactics are advancing fast. Just before the armistice, General Billy Mitchell will start pitching to AEF Commander Black Jack Pershing that they should fly soldiers into enemy territory and have them parachute down. Too late to do it in this war, but that's definitely some 20th century thinking. But even with this episode's closer look at aviation in the Great War, we aren't quite done with these flyboys.

We'll still need them as we hear the tale of the Allies mounting their final attack against Imperial Germany. But that story, the story of the Meuse-Argonne Offensive, is for another day.