University of Virginia Library

LXIII. The World War—James R. McConnell

The spirit which animates the participants in a war
cannot be adequately presented by simply offering a plain
statement of crosses won, or rank attained, or numbers
engaged. We must closely scrutinize the careers of individual
soldiers if we wish to get a correct impression of
the courage, the fortitude, the staunchness, the patriotism
of the mass.

Was the conflict on the European theatre, in which
the alumni of the University of Virginia took part, more
appealing to our sympathies, or more compelling in its
claims to spiritual consideration, than that earlier struggle
in which freedom, country, and hearthstone were the
sacred objects that all those youthful paladins and
martyrs described by us in a previous volume, sought
to protect and preserve? The World War,—in an indirect
sense at least,—was also a war of defense, although

on a far vaster scale; but it did not have for the
South the intimacy and poignancy of those four years in
which the attack was aimed against the very threshold,
the very roof-tree, of every Southern home, as well as
against the general principles upon which every Southern
community rested. In this contest, the retention of
everything economic or political, personal or civic, then
existing, was at stake. The fight was upon the native
soil, and often under the very eaves of the home.
The sound of the guns echoed through every forest,
across every harvest-field, over the roofs of every village.
It was everywhere; and it never ceased until the
South, having exhausted her last resource, lay completely
prostrate.

In reality, the resistance to the German onrush and
the resistance to the Federal invasion, by the young
alumni of the University of Virginia, in their respective
generations, had much in common; but much more yet
that was essentially different. The personal issue was
less piercing in the former case than in the latter; indeed,
the issue for the young soldiers in the World War was
an impersonal one; and, for this reason, their participation
in that conflict assumed an almost purely spiritual
aspect. It was not in defense of their own country so
much that they were fighting as for the salvation of mankind
as a whole. It was as if some great crusade had
drawn these young men to the other side of the world,—
just as the followers of Godfrey de Bouillon had been
drawn to Palestine,—in order to press forward a cause
which had lost entirely its limitation to one land and to
one people, and been merged in a cause that reached out
to all lands and to all peoples.

It was this spiritual point of view,—which was the
logical result of the character of the World War,—that

has given such a sublimated meaning to the deaths of the
young alumni of the University who perished in the
course of that conflict. It is only possible to describe
the careers of a few of these youthful heroes in the contracted
space at our disposal. We shall consider as our
first representative of them all, the youthful warrior who
was the earliest of the alumni to die, and who, in his unselfish
consecration, sunny temper, unfailing courage, and
love of daring adventure, may, like the others whom we
shall name in later chapters, be rightly regarded as the
epitome of all his glorious young comrades.

James R. McConnell, although of Carolinian blood,
was a native of Chicago. His home there was situated
within a few doors of the home of one of the earliest
pioneers in aviation, who was in the habit of studying
the wings and flight of birds, and testing the results of
his observations with primitive machines in a vacant lot
just under the boy's window. It was, perhaps, the recollection
of these spectacles which impelled McConnell to
become the founder of an aero club after his admission
to the University of Virginia, in 1907. While here, he
was the chief editor of Corks and Curls, and was also
crowned, amid florid ceremonies, the King of the Hot
Feet. It was the memory of this royal honor that led
him to paint a red foot on the side of his plane in France.
On one occasion, finding on the streets of Charlottesville
an Italian, who was accompanied by a performing bear,
he brought the two to the precincts, and endeavored to
arrange a wrestling match between bruin and a member
of his fraternity, who weighed two hundred pounds.
He purchased a pair of bagpipes, and employed a Scotchman
to teach him the art of playing on that instrument.
It happened that a soiree was held in Dawson's Row
after one of the examinations in law. McConnell, entering

the room at midnight, bagpipes in hand and dressed
in Highland kilts, began at once marching up and down,
blowing the droning pipes with all his vigor the while,
until, finally, like another Pied Piper, he drew the whole
crowd behind him out of doors; and they continued to
follow the buzzing strains until the grounds of the University
had been traversed, amid a mighty hullabaloo of
music, shrieks, catcalls, and yells. The house of his
fraternity was known as The Castle; and here he rarely
failed to give a tea to his friends in the afternoon.

In the autumn of 1914, he offered his services to
the Allies,—one of the very first Americans to volunteer.
At this time, he was engaged in business in North Carolina.
"One day in January, 1915," says a friend, "I
saw Jim McConnell in front of the court-house at Carthage
(N. C.). 'Well,' said he, 'I am all fixed up, and
am leaving on Wednesday.' 'Where for?' I asked.
'I've got a job to drive an ambulance in France,' was
his quiet reply." In a letter to another friend, written
in the following April, he remarked, "I am sitting in a
little cafe in Nancy, sipping a glass of beer. Tomorrow,
I am going to the front with our squad and twelve ambulances.
After working in Paris for two very interesting
and instructive months, I got out in an old and
picked squad,—the first really to go to the front. We
are now a part of the army to all intents, and a French
sergeant is attached to us. I am having a glorious experience."
Not long before leaving the capital on this
occasion, he had seen the first Zeppelin pass high above
the roofs. "It glowed," he said, "like a silver whale
against the night sky. A searchlight caught it. Suddenly,
great balls of fire began to hurtle up towards her,
the fusee shells rising from the Trocadero like great
Roman candles touched off."

While McConnell was stationed at the front with the
ambulance squad, the Germans began bombarding a railway
not far from his position. "There was a sickening
whistle," he wrote in description of the scene, "as the
shell hurtled toward us, and then the detonation! After
only two shells had come in, there was a call for ambulances.
The French drivers would not go out. Two
of us volunteered. The crowd watched us from the
tower of an old castle as we descended the hill. I got
my car across the sidings, but could not reach the main
line of the railway. A shell whizzed through the air
and planked down back of me. I went into the house
for the wounded. Another shell came, and the men surrounding
the poor fellow, who was lying in blood on a
mattress, huddled against the wall. Another shell landed
in front of my car, but did not go off. We ran down
between the tracks, turned, and followed back on the
other side of the house, where I got my man. It was
quite exciting."

After this episode, McConnell was constantly under
fire, and at Pont-a-Mousson was awarded the croix de
guerre for conspicuous bravery.

But the life of the ambulance driver did not satisfy
the cravings of those characteristics which he is said
to have possessed even as a student; namely, "hatred of
the humdrum, an abhorrence of the commonplace, and a
passion for the picturesque." It was to the newest
method of fighting that his aspiring, dare-devil spirit involuntarily
turned,—he determined, without hesitation,
to train for the aviation corps. It was in this branch
of service that he could most certainly anticipate hand-to-hand
combat, which he longed for as the quickest means
of winning personal distinction for himself. But below
this thirst for adventure there lay a profound sympathy

for France, and a burning desire to advance her cause.
"I was convinced," he said, "that the United States
ought to aid in the struggle against Germany. It was,
therefore, plainly up to me to do more than drive an ambulance.
The more I saw of the splendor of the fight
which the French were making, the more I began to feel
like an embusque, or what the British call a slacker; so
I made up my mind to go into aviation."

After the required course of training, he entered the
American Escadrille, which ultimately assumed the name
of the Lafayette, as the Administration at Washington
protested against the use of the word "American."
Its insignia was the head of a Sioux Indian in full war
paint, whilst its uniform was cut and colored like a diver's
suit. Some of the members of the Escadrille,—for instance,
Chouteau Johnson, of New York, Laurence Rumsey,
of Buffalo, Clyde Balsley, of El Paso,—substituted
for khaki the horizon blue uniform of the French flying
corps. The biplane in use was the Nieuport, which was
the smallest, the trimmest, the fastest rising, the fastest
moving machine in the French service. It could fly at
the rate of one hundred and ten miles an hour. The
occupant could fire his machine gun with one hand, while,
with the other hand and his feet, he could operate the
plane. The Nieuport pilots were always spoken of by
the French as the "aces of the air." They were not
required to answer roll-calls; and each had, at his command, two mechanics and one orderly.

The Lafayette Escadrille was sent first to Luxeuil,
where a large British contingent was stationed. In the
beginning, they were received with coldness; but this very
soon thawed into a whole-hearted comradeship. "We
didn't know what you Yanks would be like," said one of
the Englishmen afterwards. "We thought you might

be snubbing us on account of your being volunteers, but
I'll swear you are a bloody human lot." The Alsace
sector, where the Escadrille were now patrolling, was
infested with German planes engaged in reconnaissances,
which very often brought them above the Allied lines.
It was the duty of the Escadrille to shoot down these observers
if possible, or at least, to prevent their passing
over the heads of the Allied troops. "Having obtained
the proper position," said McConnell, in describing his
own experience, "one turns down or up, whichever the
case may be, and when within fifty yards, opens up with
a machine-gun. As one is passing at a terrific rate, there
is no time for many shots, so, unless wounded, or one's
machine is injured, one tries it again and again, until
there is nothing doing, or the other fellow drops. The
planes also acted as torpedo boats in convoying bombardment
machinery."

In his first excursion, McConnell seated himself in his
plane at six o'clock in the morning. As it floated upward
and away between the boundless heavens above and the
vast plain below, the diminutive Nieuport gradually
dwindled to the size of a gadfly. The air soon became
murky, and the clouds began rolling up, and in a short
time, his companions' machines were hidden from his
view. Rising to a height of seven thousand feet,—a
position far above the sea of vapor,—he discovered the
peaks of the Alps glittering in the distance beneath the
rays of the sun, like a row of gigantic icebergs adrift.
Gradually, the masses of mist below broke up into great
wreaths, leaving crevasses, through which could be descried
the chequered lowlands spreading eastward to the
banks of the ribbon-like Rhine. And then one by one,—
first as mere specks against the sky,—the machines of
his comrades came in sight. "Suddenly," said he, "two

balls of black smoke appeared close to one of them, and
with the same disconcerting abruptness, similar balls began
to dot the sky above, below, and on all sides of us.
We were being shot at with shrapnel. The roar of my
engine drowned the noise of the explosions. Strangely
enough, my feelings were wholly impersonal. It was bitterly
cold, and even in my fur-lined combination, I was
shivering. Looking downward, I saw what I, at first,
took for a round shimmering sheet of water. It was
simply the effect of the sunlight on the congealing fog."

From Luxeuil, the Escadrille was ordered to Verdun.
There, every sign pointed to their nearness to a mighty
battle, for now plainly visible were unending convoys of
motor-trucks, great streams of troops, and fleets of ambulances.
It was the duty of the pilots of the Nieuports
to guard the observation and range-finding machines,
which were always hovering above the line of trenches,
like flocks of white gulls. "Sailing high above these
machines," said McConnell, "we felt like an old hen
protecting her chickens." As the enemy's bombardment
of the forts went on, shells appeared fairly to rain upon
the plain; a smoky pall soon settled over that part where
the firing was hottest; and from its folds enormous projectiles
would burst out, and as they flew by the planes,
the air would seem to rock like the waters of a tumultuous
sea. Again and again, the Nieuports would dart upon
their aerial opponents far behind the hostile lines. In
one of these impulsive raids, McConnell drove at four
machines in succession, and his own Nieuport, after the
last combat was ended, was perforated like a sieve. It
had been shot through and through with machine-gun
bullets. He himself had been severely hit in the head;
but so soon as his wound had been bandaged, he mounted
into the air again and continued to fly and to fight.

From these devastated scenes in Eastern France, the
Escadrille was withdrawn to the banks of the Somme.
At Verdun, the explosions of the guns far below had been
drowned by the noise of the engines, but the peals of the
artillery in the new position reached the ears of the pilots
in a heavy volume. "From the field," said McConnell,
afterwards, "we could see the line of sausage-shaped
observation balloons, which delineated the front, and beyond
them, the high flying airplanes, darting like swallows
in the shrapnel puffs of anti-aircraft fire. The
roar of motors that were being tested was punctuated by
the staccato barking of machine-guns; and at intervals,
the hollow whistling sound of a fast plane diving to
earth was added to the symphony of war notes."

The day before McConnell was killed, he had a narrow
escape from death. A band of American aviators, who
were members of the Lafayette Escadrille, flew, on that
occasion, to a distance of twenty-six miles behind the
hostile lines. The enemy were now in slow retreat.
The Nieuports were moving on a low altitude, and the
German machine-guns took advantage of this fact to
open fire on the fleet. "I could see the luminous bullets,"
said McConnell, on his return to headquarters, "passing
me like a jet of water sparkling in the sunlight." Two
German planes, which had approached him, had been
able to signal to their aircraft batteries below, the exact
range of his machine, and then had darted away out of
danger; but by skilful manoeuvring, he succeeded in escaping
from the outburst of the shrapnel. This fighting
occurred in the vicinity of Ham.

On the fatal day in March (1917), having received
orders to protect the observation-machines flying over the
Allies' advancing troops, McConnell, with two comrades,
each in a separate Nieuport, mounted up into the air; but

one of the planes, having become disabled, soon dropped
behind. McConnell and Genet flew on, and up to ten
o'clock, continued their reconnoissance by circling above
the region of Ham. At that hour, McConnell suddenly
drove his machine straight for St. Quentin. Genet followed,
but at a greater height. While they were moving
backwards and forwards, behind the hostile lines in that
vicinity, two German aeroplanes, one ahead of the other,
and both high above the two Americans, flew slowly forward,
like two great condors, with the apparent intention
of diving abruptly upon their opponents. Genet ascended
in order to secure a position of advantage over
the nearest of these machines, and as he did so, the clouds
shut out the now distant plane of McConnell. In the
meanwhile, his own immediate foe had rushed at Genet,
and fired a rapid succession of shots, one of which struck
him in the cheek, and the other broke his stanchion. But
in spite of this crippled condition, he was able to glide
down safely to the ground.

McConnell was not again seen alive; but the duel in
which he was killed had been witnessed by a group of
French cavalry patrolling far below. The enemy having
successfully manoeuvred to get on either side of him,
finally riddled his body and machine with bullets. A
Nieuport stamped with his number was afterwards found
in the environs of a little village from which the Germans
had just retired. The mangled body was hardly
recognizable, and the plane itself had been completely
smashed. McConnell was buried on the spot where
his remains were discovered. One who visited that spot
a few months later, wrote, "We stopped at a little
mound beside the way. At the foot was his battered
machine-gun, while, on either side, were pieces of his
aeroplane, including a blade from the propeller. Forget-me-nots

and other fresh flowers were blooming, and
American and French flags were waving, on the wooden
cross that marks the grave. There is no fear that the
site will be disturbed. The place is sacred, for that
is a hero's grave."

There was found among McConnell's effects a letter
which had been written by him in anticipation of just
such a fate as overtook him. "Good luck to the rest
of you," was its concluding message to his comrades,
"Vive la France." "My death," he added, "is of no
importance. Make it as easy as possible for yourselves."
In a graphic little volume which recorded his
recollections of "flying for France," he made but one
reference to this sombre subject. "At the close of a
day," the sentences ran, "when the aviators began to go
to bed, a few would be inclined to stay behind. Then
the talk became more personal and more sincere. Only
on such intimate occasions, I think, have I ever heard
death discussed. Certainly we were not indifferent to
it." When his mother, broken in health, urged him to
obtain his release from the French army, he replied,
"If I knew I was to be killed within a minute, and I
was absolutely free to leave untouched, I would not do
so." Such was the dauntless spirit which animated the
soul of this youthful hero! What was death to such a
man as this but another stirring adventure to be faced
with perfect serenity, and, perhaps, even with an emotion
of positive joy? Of not one enrolled in that gallant
company could it be more truly said than of him, that

In September, 1917, the National Government appropriated
two cannon, with carriages and balls, as an

addition to the monument to McConnell which had been
erected in Carthage, N. C., where he had lived before
departing for France. But a far more original and
imposing memorial was the statue by Gutzon Borglum,
which, in 1919, was raised on the grounds of the University
of Virginia. This is said to have been the first
endeavor of a sculptor to poise the flying warrior at the
aerial height at which all his victories were won, and
where, only too often, like this intrepid young soldier,
he perished.[13]