They later assumed a variety of administrative and staff positions. A few other aviators arrived during the summer, either to investigate conditions in Europe, to gather technical information, or to fill out expanding staffs in Paris and elsewhere. Until the navy’s new ground and flight schools in the United States functioned smoothly, however, pilots to conduct antisubmarine missions necessarily came from the first college groups hastily trained in the spring and summer of 1917.46
Bob Lovett and Di Gates of the Yale Unit departed first for the war zone, sailing to England in mid-August.47 Fellow unit members John Vorys and Al Sturtevant soon followed.48 A larger contingent, consisting of David Ingalls, Freddy Beach, Sam Walker, Ken Smith, Reginald Coombe, Chip McIlwaine, Henry Landon, and Ken MacLeish, received orders to travel in late September aboard the old liner Philadelphia, now pressed into service as a transport.49 They all looked forward to their new duties with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. David Ingalls began keeping a diary, what he called “this simple book,” while aboard Philadelphia, and with only a few interruptions, he continued to do so until the war ended fifteen months later.
Like so many Americans crossing the submarine-infested Atlantic in the fall of 1917, Ingalls experienced the exhilaration and occasional panic of traversing the war zone. According to cabinmate Henry “Hen” Landon, they heard many wild rumors and thrilling stories while aboard, so many that they slept in their clothes, with their .45 service Colts close by. When fellow aviator Ken Smith spotted a porpoise knifing through the waves, Landon “nearly died in [his] tracks,” expecting an explosion to send their ship to the bottom.50
Despite such fears, the crossing proved relatively peaceful. Ingalls and the others landed safely in Liverpool, the great entrepôt on the Irish Sea, and had their first real contact with a nation at war. One enlisted sailor on his way to NAS Dunkirk called Liverpool “a quaint looking old city,” nothing like those at home, lacking skyscrapers and featuring crooked streets “that could break a snake’s back.”51 Newly arrived Americans spotted women working everywhere, out in the streets and in all the stores. Then it was on to London, where Ingalls and his companions toured the metropolis and began their naval duties, sometimes with comical results. They found the wartime scene eye opening—railroad stations crowded with troops and ambulances full of casualties just back from the front. Ubiquitous wounded soldiers sported blue stripes on their sleeves that indicated they could not purchase alcohol; authorities claimed abstinence promoted convalescence. Only a few months removed from happier college days, the Americans sensed despair in the populace.52
Ingalls and the others quickly checked in at the Savoy Hotel and readied themselves to report to navy headquarters at 30 Grosvenor Gardens. This formal duty required being properly turned out, a task somewhat beyond the ken of recently minted ensigns. Ingalls and two friends appeared in the service’s new forest green aviators’ uniforms, with Sam Browne belts and swagger sticks. The others donned dress blues, yellow gloves, and swords, but they could not quite figure out how to wear the ceremonial weapons. A few sarcastic remarks from headquarters staff sent the youngsters packing with, according to Ken Smith, “our tails between our legs.”53
Embarrassed but unbowed, they visited British military facilities before continuing on to Paris. On October 9, Ingalls departed London, headed for the Continent via a Channel steamer out of Southampton. The crowded vessel carried hordes of soldiers returning to the front, nurses, and civilian officials, and accommodations could not be found. Instead, the Americans made the best of it, eventually landed at Le Havre, and attempted to negotiate customs and baggage handlers with a working vocabulary of only three or four French words. After an interminable railroad journey, they reached Paris at three o’clock in the morning, piled into a small fleet of decrepit taxicabs, and eventually washed ashore at the Grand-Hôtel.
War-torn France presented an arresting and varied tableau. George Moseley, a football star at Yale and friend of many in Ingalls’s unit, noted that “women customs officials and examiners were the first sign we had of the lack of men.” Continental timekeeping also intrigued him, with its “22 hours 40 minutes instead of 10:40,” and a visit to the barbershop proved dispiriting, “full of common French soldiers, the poilus in their blue uniforms. . . . They seemed very sad, never smiling, and lonely talking now and then.” Moseley could not escape wartime realities: “I noticed a number of women who were standing back of me (they were all in mourning, nearly all the women in France are in mourning).” Bob Lovett echoed these maudlin observations. Writing home to the convalescing Trubee Davison, he reported, “The condition of France you would be heartbroken. She is staggering with the weight of the war’s toll, but even more to my mind under graft, honest to goodness rotten politics, and self-interests. . . . We have heard stories about men shooting their officers from sheer desperation rather than spend another winter in the hell of the front.”54
After reporting to aviation headquarters at 23 Rue de la Paix,55 Ingalls and the recent arrivals received orders, somewhat to their surprise, to head down to the infant navy school at Moutchic, about thirty miles from Bordeaux near the Bay of Biscay, rather than the French school at Tours where earlier aviation candidates had trained. There, they would learn to pilot larger aircraft such as the Franco-British Aviation (FBA) and Donnet-Denhaut flying boats,56 similar to the types purchased for use at American patrol stations then under construction along the coast.
Sunday, September 23, 1917. This was a bit of a gloomy day, saying goodbye to Mother and Dad at the dock.57 Unlike the good Lord we seemed to have picked on the seventh day to start our work. But then we had no personal choice, nor did we know ahead of time, for the powers that be figured out the only way to keep the Huns from knowing when a boat was to sail was not to know themselves. But here were most of the other seven who were to go to France on the Philadelphia of the American Line. [Freddy] Beach, [Sam] Walker, [Reg] Coombe, [Hen] Landon, [Chip] McIlwaine, [Scab] Smith. [Ken] MacLeish was not there, nor did he come later, but missed the boat and probably took the next ship.58 When I arrived at the dock with my mother and father and saw a boat tied up there I thought it was a tender to take us out to our own ship. And then the little thing turned out to be the good ship Philadelphia and it was actually our liner. All I’d read about the luxurious liners had given me great ideas. All that kept me going was that I’d also read about Columbus and his skiff.
We all got on board with our luggage at about 10:00 and then had to hang around till finally at about 12:30 we pulled out. There were quite a few people, all feeling perhaps a bit low, standing on the wharf as we left. Our ship was painted camouflage—a most awful looking variety of colors probably as much to frighten the Germans as to make the ship offer no definite object to a man training a gun upon it. Our ship also possessed four 4.7 guns, two aft and two forward. To care for these four crews of five sailors and one lieutenant, were stationed on board.59 They were fine men, especially the Lieut. Reef-Kahl, who offered a bit of advice at odd moments during the trip. We got out of sight of land rapidly, passing numerous transports filled with soldiers destined for fame in France. On board there were 34 army men, medical, ordnance, and quartermaster department, four or five women, a few English returning diplomats and ourselves and the crew. Also a few second class. I thought they had the boat going the wrong way. If I’d been in charge I’d have been shipping this crowd to America to get them out of the way.
The next few days were most monotonous—rough, cloudy and a lot of rain, we never saw the sun. We got ourselves settled as we sailed. Hen Landon and I roomed together as far away as we could get from fresh air. There was nothing to do but read the Count of Monte Cristo and play bridge. However, we seven and two diplomats on their way to The Hague, Charles Russell and Lieut. Downs, and Lieut. Munn for Paris service, procured a table to ourselves and had as good a time as one could expect.60 Except for Freddy Beach, everyone was always on deck. Downs afforded more amusement than any clown—for he was always giving advice, could answer any question, and was an authority on all matters. Found immediately that he was slated for the diplomatic service and decided that he was practicing his profession on us. He was also a bad bridge player and a rotten loser—the latter fact was proved every time we played till finally he concealed himself in the engine room or coal bin. Three days out, we entered
