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[Illustration: GEN. WILLIAM MITCHELL, COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE AMERICAN
AIR FORCES AT THE FRONT]
LUCK ON THE WING
_Thirteen Stories of a Sky Spy_
BY
ELMER HASLETT
Major, Air Service, U. S. Army. Distinguished Service Cross. Croix de
Guerre Française. Recipient of two special citations by General Pershing
for conspicuous bravery and exceptionally meritorious service.
Operations Officer U. S. Air Service, First Army Corps at
Château-Thierry and of First Army Observation Wing at St. Mihiel and the
Argonne.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
681 FIFTH AVENUE
COPYRIGHT, 1920.
BY E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
_All Rights Reserved_
Printed in the United States of America
TO MY MOTHER
SOME WORDS IN EXPLANATION
If any one should be interested enough to inquire as to the reason for
my becoming a sky spy, an aërial observer, a deuce, or whatever one
chooses to call it, I should certainly speak the truth and affirm that
it was not the result of calm, cool and deliberate thought. I have
always had a holy horror of airplanes and to this day I cannot say that
I exactly enjoy riding in them. My sole reason for flying now is that I
am still in the Air Service and there is not an excuse in the world for
a young man being an air officer if he does not spend a part of his time
in that element. Every boy in his own heart wants to be a soldier
whether his mother raises him that way or not: as a boy and as a man I
wanted to be an infantryman. Upon being commissioned in Infantry
following the First Officers’ Training Camp, I was about to have a
lifetime’s ambition gratified by being placed in charge of a company at
Camp Lewis, Washington, when along with two hundred other new officers I
was ordered to Fort Sill, Oklahoma, for assignment with the Missouri and
Kansas troops. I had been enthusiastic over the infantry, I liked it
fine, and most of all I wanted to train my company and lead them into
action. Arriving at Fort Sill, we found that the troops had not arrived
and would not come for at least a month. Meanwhile we stagnated and lost
our pep. The papers were full of the pressing need of help at the battle
front and still all around I could see nothing but destructive delay. It
was the old call of the individual—for though my heart was set upon the
ideal of training my own men for the supreme test yet I could not stand
the delay. I was determined to get to the Front and with that as my
paramount ideal, I would take the first opportunity that would lead to
its realization.
The chance came one morning early in September, 1917, when one of my
friends, Lieut. Armin Herold, caught me going out of the mess hall late
(as usual) for breakfast and excitedly told me that the Division
Adjutant had just tacked a little notice on the door at Headquarters, in
response to an urgent request from General Pershing, that ten officers
who ranked as First or Second Lieutenants would be detailed at once for
training as airplane observers, and would be sent to France immediately
upon completion of their training. Volunteers were requested. That part
about “training as airplane observers” was Greek to me—I did not know
that such things existed—but at the word “France” I pricked up my ears
like a fire horse at the sound of a bell. My decision was formed then
and there. I was going to be an aërial observer, whatever that was, and
nothing was going to keep me from taking that chance, my first
opportunity, to go to France.
I almost lost my breakfast at the thought of having to ride in an
airplane, but that promise to send me to France at once was an
anesthetic to my better judgment, and I right away made my first flight,
au pied, covering that ten acres of plowed ground over to the Division
Headquarters in ten flat. I rushed in and made application.
The Divisional Signal Officer was a Major who felt that aërial
observation was an extremely technical branch. He did not know a
terrible lot about it, and told me that he had placed the bulletin on
the board only a few minutes before and was surprised that I had
responded so quickly. He asked me a lot of trick questions as to my
technical training, and now, since I have made a fair record as an
aërial observer, I don’t mind making the confession that I, along with
other conspirators desiring early action, made several “for the period
of the emergency” statements. The Major wanted to know if I knew
anything about civil engineering. I told him I did, but, as a matter of
fact, I hardly knew the difference between a compass and a level. He
asked me if I got sick in an airplane. I flinched a little, but told him
“No,” the presumption of innocence being in my favor. He then asked me
if I had ever ridden in one. I laughed so heartily at this joke that he
was convinced that I had. The truth of the matter was that previous to
that time if anyone had ever got me in an airplane they would certainly
have had to hog-tie me and drag me to the ordeal. He then wanted to know
what experience I had with mechanical engines. I told him that my
experience was quite varied and that I considered myself an expert on
mechanical engines, having had a course in mechanical engineering. This
was all true, yet I do not, to this day, know the principles surrounding
the operations of an engine, and if anything ever should go wrong, the
motor would rust from age before I could fix it.
My application was hasty and unpremeditated and I did not actually
realize what I had done until I got outside—then, just as after the
unpremeditated murder, the murderer will turn from the body and cry,
“What have I done?”—so I turned from that house with exactly the same
thought, and as I walked back to my barracks I kept repeating to myself,
“What have I done!” “What have I done!” The big question then was to
find out the nature of the new job for which I had volunteered. The
first question I asked of the two hundred officers when I returned to
the barracks was: “What is an airplane observer?” No one present could
enlighten me.
I had volunteered for so many things in this man’s army which had never
panned out either for me or for any one else, that I was naturally
apprehensive as to the result. Having in mind such dire consequences
should the thing turn out, and yet hopeful of a more pleasant outcome, I
alternately anticipated and naturally brooded a great deal over the
thing.
The next morning I learned that the telegram had actually been sent to
the War Department at Washington and that my name had been first on the
list. The package of fate was not only sealed, but clearly addressed,
and I was the consignee.
In a remarkably short time the orders came from Washington and ten of us
were loaded in a Government truck and transported to Post Field. Of
those ten Lieutenants it is interesting to note that seven got to the
Front, and from those seven one can pick five of America’s greatest sky
spies. Every one of the seven was decorated or promoted in the field.
They were Captain Len Hammond, of San Francisco; Captain Phil Henderson,
of Chehallis, Oregon; Captain Steve Barrows, of Berkeley, California;
Captain How Douglas, of Covina, California; First Lieut. Armin Herold of
Redlands, California, and First Lieutenant “Red” Gunderson, of Spokane,
Washington. These were the first officers detailed in the United States
to “Aërial Observation.”
The Observation School at Fort Sill was just being started and was yet
unorganized, so after a very extensive course covering four weeks of
about one hour a day, in which we learned practically nothing of real
help, we were ordered to France for duty.
After an unusually short stay in the S.O.S., or Zone of the Rear, we get
to the Zone of Advance at a place named Amanty, where we were stationed
at an observer’s school, and, after a very incomplete course there, we
were distributed among French squadrons operating over the Front, in
order that we might get some actual experience, since the Americans had
no squadrons yet ready for the Front.
But a word as to the reason for this book. Here is how it happened. We
were at this school at Amanty, hoping each day for orders to move us on
up to the real front. It was in February, 1918, and one day, by a great
streak of good fortune, Major Schwab, the school adjutant, picked on me
as I was passing the headquarters. “Hey, what’s your name!” he said, to
which I replied, with a “wish-to-make-good” salute.
“Here!” he continued, in a most matter-of-fact way, “you are excused
from classes this morning. Take the commanding officer’s car, go down to
Gondrecourt, and pick up three Y.M.C.A. girls who are going to give an
entertainment out here this afternoon. Report them to me.”
This was an unexpected pleasure, so, with all pomp and dignity, I seated
myself in the rear of a huge Cadillac, with “Official” painted all over
the sides of it. It was my first ride in the select government
transportation—I had previously drawn trucks. Then we whisked along the
ten miles to Gondrecourt. The surprise was a happy one, because the
three girls were peaches, and, an aviator being a scarce article in
those days (and I wore my leather coat to let them know that I was one),
I was received most cordially.
We had just started back to the camp, and I was Hero Number One of
Heroes All, when they all harped as of one accord, demanding if I would
not take them up in an airplane. This is a feminine plea which never
seems to become old, because every girl you see nowadays still asks the
same question. But I maintained silence on the subject of taking them
up. So, they talked about aces, seemingly positive that I was one of
those things—what a wonderful flyer I must be—and a lot of other bunk,
until I began to feel exalted as if I were of the royalty, for it seemed
that I was being worshipped.
I interrupted their wild rambling to ask if they objected to my smoking.
Of course, being a hero aviator, there was no chance for objection. So,
as I unbuttoned my leather coat, threw back the left lapel, and pulled
out a stogie from my pocket, the eyes of one cute little frizzle-haired
girl fell upon my aviation insignia, which, of course, consisted of only
one wing. Wild eyed and with marked disdain, she exclaimed sneeringly to
the others, “Oh, he’s only an observer! A half aviator!”
Actually I had not claimed otherwise, but, as long as I live, I shall
never forget the sting of those words, and especially the biting
insinuation on the word “only.” To their minds I was a branded
hypocrite. Talk about the poor man standing before the criminal judge
and being sentenced to the impossible “99 years” in the penitentiary;
well, take it from me, this was worse, for my foolish pride had been
embellished to an acute cockishness by this preliminary adoration, but
my soaring little airplane of selfish egoism took a decided nose-dive—it
smashed my whole day’s happiness.
The other girls, and in fact this little frizzle-topped girl, too,
realized immediately the impropriety of the remark, and tried in the
most sincere way to temper the sting and alleviate my apparent
embarrassment. The only hollow remark I could offer, in my futile
attempt at indifferent repartee, was to the effect that pilots would be
aces always, and observers, being the lowest card of the deck, must be
deuces. They laughed—I don’t know why—perhaps to jolly me along. I
intended to say something else, but they took advantage of the necessity
of my taking a breath—by laughing—so I dropped the “deuce” gag, but, as
the conversation went on, the more chagrined I became.
When we finally got to camp, I turned over the precious cargo to the
camp adjutant, and then struck out for a long hike by my lonesome to
walk it off.
But, like an “ignorant idealist,” heeding the call of the fair sex, I
went to the entertainment that afternoon, and, as I left the hut with
several other observers, we met the entertainers who were now walking
along in company with the commanding officer. Of course, we all saluted,
the commanding officer sloppily returned it, and the party passed on.
Then this same little frizzle-top, red-headed girl, as if by
afterthought, recognized me, turned around, and begrudgingly nodded as
if meeting a disgraced member of the family. She disdainfully called the
attention of the commanding officer and the other girls to my humble
presence by saying, “He is the observer that came out with us in the
car—you know the ‘deuce,’” and, I might add, she laughed lightly and
shrugged her shoulders. I’ll tell the world it hurt my pride, and I was
off with all of womankind for the time being. I had labored under the
impression that an observer was some big gun in aviation. Believe me,
she took it out of me.
In fact, these two incidents with this young lady revealed to me for the
first time the real insignificance of my position as an aërial observer.
A thousand times afterwards, when I still wore an observer’s insignia,
people would look at it and, for some psychological reason or other,
they always seemed to say either by sound or facial expression, “only an
observer.” Even to-day, as throughout the war, the same haunting epithet
follows the observer. In fact, in the American Expeditionary Force, we
had an unofficial rating of military personnel which classified the
various grades as follows: general officers, field officers, captains,
lieutenants, pilots, sergeants, corporals, privates, cadets, German
prisoners and last aërial observers. And no matter which way one
considered it, the aërial observer was the lowest form of human
existence. For a long time he was not even eligible for promotion or
command. Indeed, in the game of war, he was the deuce—the lowest card of
the deck—and the first to be discarded.
So far as official recognition is concerned the observer is gradually
coming into his own. After comparing the fatalities in the various
branches of aviation, it is agreed as one of the lessons of the war that
the observer has had a hard deal as have also observation pilots and
bombardment pilots. In recognition of this principle, the Director of
Air Service in a letter of January 5th, 1920, in declining to sanction
the word “ace,” wrote as follows: “The United States Air Service does
not use the title ‘Ace’ in referring to those who are credited
officially with five or more victories over enemy aircraft. It is not
the policy of the Air Service to glorify one particular branch of
aeronautics, aviation or aero-station at the expense of another.... The
work of observation and bombardment is considered equally as hazardous
as that of pursuit, but due to the fact that the observation and
bombardment pilots are not called upon merely to destroy enemy aircraft,
it should not be allowed to aid in establishing a popular comparison of
results merely by relatives victories.” I notice that the Director, in
spite of the nice things he said about the observation and bombardment
branches of the service, has expressly referred to “pilots,” which of
course makes me peevish. But so it is. The Director undoubtedly intended
to include observers; indeed, the observer is the man who does the
shooting from observation and bombardment planes—but it is the same old
story—the observer is so insignificant that he was just naturally
overlooked. Indeed, an observer is only a quasi-aviator, as a friend
with a legal mind once said—and after he used that word “only,” I hated
him.
And in public appreciation, they consider the observer as the deuce—the
card without value—with no definite status, just an inexplicable freak
habitating around aviation. The common acceptation of an aërial observer
is a mild, passive, sort of a guy, who wears nose glasses, is
mathematically inclined, and who, in battle, is privileged to run from
the enemy, being, as it were, tamed and “too proud to fight.”
Thus, to present to the public a more consistent version of the real
life of the observer at the Front in his various rôles, and hoping in a
way to dispel this very unfortunate public misunderstanding, this book
of my own modest experiences as an observer is presented for
consideration under the title “LUCK ON THE WING.”
ELMER HASLETT,
Major, Air Service
United States Army
Washington, February, 1920.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION BY GEN. WILLIAM MITCHELL xxiii
CHAPTER PAGE
I. BEGINNER’S LUCK 1
II. HARDBOILED 22
III. MY FIRST SCRAP 50
IV. BRERETON’S FAMOUS FLIGHT 73
V. TROUBLES ON THE GROUND 99
VI. THE WILD RIDE OF A GREENHORN 121
VII. EILEEN’S INSPIRATION 139
VIII. DOWN AND OUT AND IN 163
IX. THE COURT OF INQUIRY 192
X. BECOMING KULTURED 219
XI. ESCAPED ALMOST 238
XII. THE PRIVILEGES OF PRISONERS 253
XIII. “COMING OUT” 276
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
GEN. WILLIAM MITCHELL, COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE
AMERICAN AIR FORCES, AT THE FRONT _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
AN OPERATION ROOM OF AN AMERICAN SQUADRON AT THE FRONT,
SHOWING BATTLE MAPS, WAR PLANS AND PHOTOGRAPHS 34
THE VILLAGE OF VAUX ON THE DAY PRECEDING THE BATTLE OF
VAUX 74
THE VILLAGE OF VAUX DURING THE BATTLE OF VAUX, JULY 1,
1918 78
TANKS GOING INTO ACTION, AND TRACKS LEFT BY THEM 128
PAGNY-SUR-MEUSE, SHOWING PRISONERS CAPTURED BY THE
AMERICANS AT ST. MIHIEL 154
A CAPTURED GERMAN PHOTOGRAPH SHOWING AMERICAN PRISONERS 200
COLONEL BRERETON, MAJOR HASLETT AND OTHERS BEING
DECORATED AT COBLENZ 296
INTRODUCTION
Major Elmer Haslett has made a valuable addition to the literature of
the World’s War in writing the volume to which these lines must serve as
introduction.
“Luck on the Wing” has two distinct sources of value: first it presents
a clear, graphic picture of the life led by our fighting airmen during
the three great actions in which American soldiers played so important a
part—Château-Thierry, St. Mihiel, and the Argonne—and best of all the
picture is a truthful one: and, second, it, all the more forcibly
because often quite unconsciously, brings out clearly the lack of
understanding of the functions of Air Service, a lack which in the final
analysis was responsible for the greater part of whatever of
dissatisfaction and disappointment with this branch of the Military
Service there existed in the American Expeditionary Forces in France.
Since the Armistice there have been published a great number of books on
the War, the majority of which have been the work of actual
participants—of officers and enlisted men. But so far as the Air Service
of the United States is concerned Major Haslett has, in my opinion, in
the relation in simple narrative form of some of the adventures he
himself met with Overseas provided not only the most interesting story
but one of the very few which the future historian will find of
considerable value when he sets himself to the task of compiling Air
Service History.
“Luck on the Wing” is the story of an American observer. The claims to
fame of the fighting pilot were early recognized in the World War. The
Ace soon became a public favorite. The War Correspondents were quick
indeed to realize the news potentialities inherent to the “Knight of the
Air” and their dispatches made the world familiar with his extraordinary
and ordinary adventures. The peoples of the World followed with the zest
that the American baseball fanatic follows the baseball victories, the
scores of the World’s great Aces. But to the observer fame came in
rather homeopathic doses, if it came at all. And most observers are
willing to take oath it came not at all.
That there were exceptions to this rule, that the very important work of
the observer was not entirely lacking of official and public
recognition, is a source of personal gratification to me because as
Commander of the American Air Forces at the Front I personally knew and
fully appreciated the great value of the work done by this class of Air
Service officers. Major Haslett is deservedly one of the exceptions. The
variety of his war service qualifies him better perhaps than any other
American Air Service Observer to write of Air Observation: the
efficiency of his work is attested sufficiently by the fact that he was
rapidly promoted from Lieutenant to Captain and from Captain to Major.
His personal daring and courage, and the extent of both, need no
testimony and indeed could have none more eloquent than the citations he
received and the decorations awarded him.
To say that this officer or that officer was the “greatest” fighting
pilot or the “greatest” observer in the American Air Service overseas
would, assuming that it were possible, and many hold that it is
impossible, assuredly be improper; but of Major Haslett it may be said
with entire propriety that the value of his services was certainly not
exceeded by the services rendered by any other observation officer in
the American Air Service. And it must always in after life be a source
of great pride and satisfaction to this officer to know that he
successfully executed every mission upon which he was sent up to the day
that he was shot down far behind the enemy lines in the Argonne after an
unequal but protracted combat with superior enemy forces.
Few men even in the Air Service had so many and so astounding adventures
as befell the author of “Luck on the Wing,” and of these, fewer still
lived to tell the story. In simple but vivid language Major Haslett
tells in this book of many of his astonishing experiences. Life at the
Front with him was just one adventure after another—from his first trip
over the lines when he sat in the observer’s seat in a French plane
perfectly at ease and in blissful ignorance of a French battery’s
desperate efforts to signal him that there was a squadron of seven
German Fokkers over him. Through this first adventure his amazing luck
carried him safe (or was it a Divine Providence moving as ever
inscrutably?). And this same amazing luck carried him safely through an
even more remarkable adventure. While under heavy ground fire on an
artillery mission he was thrown out of his “ship” but caught the muzzle
of his machine gun as he went over, and in some way managed to pull
himself back into the airplane—and then completed his mission. But on
September 30, 1918, even Major Haslett’s luck deserted him and he was
shot down and captured. The rest of the war he spent mainly in
unsuccessful efforts to escape from German prisons.
“Luck on the Wing” tells of these adventures—and others.
It is appropriate in concluding this brief introduction to tell of some
of the work of Major Haslett overseas which he himself cannot well
mention. Much of this officer’s service at the Front was spent as
Operations Officer. As such his duties did not require him to execute
missions over the lines himself. Major Haslett insisted always on doing
not only the full share of such perilous work as would fall to an
officer not in an executive position, but more. His argument to his
commanding officer was that only by experience over the lines could an
operations officer thoroughly master his work—a theory that he went far
toward proving.
Whenever ultra-dangerous work presented itself this officer was quick to
volunteer. Major Haslett was more than an observer, he was a student of
air operations. He was among the first of the American officers to prove
that low flying over German trenches was not only possible but was a
method of effective attack for airplanes. At the time that he was shot
down he was engaged in working out the problems of adjustment of
artillery fire on moving targets by airplanes—a question of prime
importance in warfare of movement.
This officer during the course of his service at the Front not only
contributed exceptionally distinguished personal services over the lines
and as an operations officer but he also contributed ideas and
suggestions of considerable value in the development of Air tactics and
Air strategy, and as I have mentioned before he had the proud record of
successfully executing every mission which he undertook during his
entire service at the Front with the single exception of the mission he
was on when he was shot down by superior enemy forces.
With entire frankness Major Haslett has told the story of how he
succeeded in getting an assignment as an observer and in later getting
duty with Colonel Brereton’s squadron at the Front. And by his own
account he has shown with equal frankness that he had no hesitation in
overcoming obstacles to this accomplishment by any means that came to
hand. Perhaps some of the fastidious may find something to criticize in
this. But Major Haslett’s all-impelling motive was to serve his country
by meeting his country’s enemies on the battlefield. And it was this
same all-impelling motive which gave inspiration to the personnel of the
American Air Service, which brought to the Air Service proud achievement
and dauntless courage in action. Service against the enemy is a good
soldier’s ambition. This motive carried Major Haslett to the very front
rank of all American observers, and gave him the adventure of which he
tells in “Luck on the Wing.”
WILLIAM MITCHELL,
Brigadier-General United States Army.
Washington,
Feb. 24, 1920.
LUCK ON THE WING
I
BEGINNER’S LUCK
We had been up with the French Squadron for about three weeks and it had
rained every day or something else had happened to prevent flying. We
had a wonderful social time, but our flying had been so postponed that I
actually began to think that the French did not want us to fly, probably
lacking confidence in our ability, so, one day I walked up to the
Captain and by means of his imperfect English and my perfectly inelegant
French we managed to perfect some close, cordial and personal liaison. I
told him that we appreciated the long, drawn-out dinners and the very
excellent quality and quantity of the red wine and the white wine, but
that actually we came up to take our first trips over the line and learn
a little about observation. He shrugged his shoulders and said that he
felt quite sure that we would be there for three or four months and that
there was absolutely no hurry. I told him he did not know the American
Army, for while I would admit that we had not shown much speed up to the
present time in getting squadrons on the Front, or in the manufacture of
our ten thousand airplanes a month, or our five thousand Liberty Motors,
at the same time, somewhere, someplace, somehow, someday, we were going
to make a start and that I was quite positive that we were not going to
have any observers unless the French got busy and trained some for us,
and that in my mind we would be leaving mighty soon and it might look
sort of suspicious on paper if we had been with the squadron a month and
had never taken a trip over the lines.
This sort of impressed the Captain and dear, old fellow that he was, he
immediately ordered “Mon Lieutenant Dillard,” who was his Operations
Officer, to arrange for me to accompany the next mission over the lines,
as a protection. This was scheduled for the next day. A French
Lieutenant by the name of Jones was to do an adjustment of a battery of
155’s, and I was to accompany him in another plane to protect him from
any attack by German airplanes.
That night we played Bridge until midnight, whereupon we all shook
hands, as is the French custom, and departed for our various billets. My
Bridge had been rotten—my mind was on a different kind of bridge: How
was I to bridge that next day—What did it hold? The night was chilly as
the devil and as I picked my way in the darkness I could hear very
plainly the rumble of guns and could see the artillery flashes very
clearly, although the front was twenty kilometers away. I began to think
about my first trip over the lines that was soon to come. I was mentally
lower than a snake. I hadn’t prayed for some time and I was just
wondering whether or not I would pray that night. My solemn idea of
prayer was that it was an emergency measure. I was always reverently
thankful to the Maker for His blessings, but He knew that for He must
have known my mind. I believed that God helped him who helped himself,
but when the question was too big for man to control, then it was the
time to invoke the help of the Supreme Being. I was inclined to think
this case was only a duty of war in which man should help himself. So, I
had decided that I would go ahead and handle it as a man to man
proposition, reserving invocation for a more serious situation, but as I
was getting pretty close to my billet I heard a sudden noise that gave
me a real thrill—a big cat jumped out of a box and ran directly in front
of me. It was too dark, of course, to tell the color of that cat, but
the condition of my mind convinced me that it could be no other color
than black and that it was an omen that bad luck was sure to come my
way. When that cat ran in front of me my Man theory was gone,
absolutely; I knew quite well that I was going to pray.
I lay abed for fully three hours, going over in detail every piece of
the machine gun, what I was to do in case of a jam of the machine gun,
and what I was to do in case of stoppage of the gun. I was trying to
picture in my mind silhouettes of the different German airplanes that
had been on the wall at school, and which I, to my regret, had not
studied. Then I remembered reading stories of how poor boys were shot
down, and most of them on their first flight, and I thought of airplane
accidents and I thought of my girl. In fact, I had such a variety of
thoughts that when I finally dozed off, that quasi sleep was a
nightmare, and when from nervous and physical exhaustion about
three-thirty o’clock in the morning I reached the point where I was
really sleeping, I was suddenly shaken, and, of course, I jumped as if
branded by a hot poker. It was my French orderly telling me it was time
to get up to make my flight. I first realized the truth of that little
saying, “There is always somebody taking the joy out of life.” He was
crying, “Mon lieutenant! Mon lieutenant! Il est temps de se lever,”
which is French for “It is time to get up.” I had a notion to direct him
to present my compliments to the Captain and to tell him that I was
indisposed that morning but I couldn’t speak French well enough to
express myself, so, there was only one thing to do and that was to make
a stab at it. I dressed and took my nice, new flying clothes which I
received at Paris, and hobbled the kilometre and a half out to the
field. The crews were already there and also the other flying personnel.
Of course, I put on a sickly smile as if to help things along, but
honestly there wasn’t much warmth in my hand-shake. The Frenchmen were
all excited, standing around a telephone in the hangar and I found out
from one of them who spoke English, that they were trying to get the
balloon to find out about the visibility. This pleased me for my feet
were already chilling and I was as strong as horseradish for each
moment’s delay. In a few moments the Lieutenant put the receiver on the
telephone and with some sort of an ejaculation I saw the face of
Lieutenant Jones, who was to do the adjustment, assume a very dejected
attitude, for while these Frenchmen are the strongest people in the
world for lying abed in the morning, yet they certainly hate to have
their trouble in rising come to naught by reason of impossibility to
perform the mission assigned and in this case I found that the
visibility was “mauvais,” or “no good.” So, we just hung around.
In a few moments one of the enlisted men came up to me and saluted me
smartly, and mumbled a lot of stuff about “voulez vous” something,
“voulez vous” being all I could understand, so I beckoned one of the
Lieutenants who spoke a little English and he asked me if I wanted a
“Raelt Saeul” or “ordinary open sight.” I had never had a course in
aerial gunnery and I did not know the difference; in fact, my experience
in machine guns consisted of two lectures by a guy who didn’t know much
about it, at Fort Sill, the dismantling of one gun and about an hour and
six minutes in an open firing butt at Amanty, France. I was afraid
“Raelt Saeul” would be something technical, in which case I would
certainly demonstrate my ignorance, and to my dazed mind “open sight”
certainly sounded frank and on-the-square, so, of course, I just
shrugged my shoulders and pointed as if I were perfectly familiar with
both but under the circumstances I would take the “open sight.” They
were both quite surprised and tried to open the discussion upon the
relative merits of each, but I passed this up and made it emphatic that
“open sight” it would be. I found afterwards that the “Raelt Saeul” was
a great deal more accurate. So, they put the machine guns on the plane
with “open sight.” I wanted in the worst way to get around and monkey
with those machine guns, but I knew if I did I would certainly shoot
some one up or kill myself, so I laid off. It was a terrible
predicament; I knew I had no business going up and my conscience began
to hurt me for the sake of the Frenchmen I was supposed to be
protecting. Incidentally I must admit, in capital letters, that I had my
own personal safety somewhat in mind. But it was too late—I had to go
through with it. It was the proposition now of luck, and lots of it. We
kept on with preparations; it was still foggy.
At nine o’clock we went in an automobile and got our breakfast, which
for the Frenchmen always consisted of hot chocolate and a piece of
bread, but for me it usually consisted of ham and eggs, and potatoes,
and jelly, and bread, and butter and coffee, and as it usually consisted
of that—as this was probably my last breakfast it certainly would not
consist of less this time. So, I hied me forth after having my
“chocolate” with the Frenchmen, and gave my landlady her usual two
francs, in return for which I had the repast above accurately described.
We went back to the flying field and waited until about eleven o’clock.
I had made up my mind that I was going through with it and the
nervousness was beginning to wear off. About noon it got real cloudy and
at twelve twenty-six and a half the first drop of rain fell. Believe me,
the exhaust action of my sigh of relief was not unlike one of these
carnival, rubber balloons when it is dropped in hot water. They, of
course, called it a day, came in and had “déjeuner” and gathered around
the Bridge tables, while Dillard played some very classical airs upon
the automatic piano which this squadron carried with it.
In the middle of the afternoon the shower completely ceased, while Sol
came out in all his magnificent glory; magnificent I say, to the farmer
who wants to till the soil, to the sweethearts who want to go on a
picnic, and to the washerwoman who wants to dry her clothes, but for me,
it was just like an April shower on a new silk hat—I lost all my
gloss—for in a few moments “mon capitaine” came in and announced that he
felt we could get the planes off the ground. We called up the battery
and they were ready so we climbed into the automobile and went out to
the field again. The mechanics rolled those two dilapidated Sopwith
planes out of the hangars and gave those rotary engines a turn and they
began to burr. That whirr and burr felt to me just like the whirr and
burr of the dentist’s burr that gets in the middle of a wisdom tooth and
hits the nerve.
The other two American student observers were out on the field. Phil
Henderson, who always was the head of his class and very mechanical by
nature, gave me a few added remarks about some technical points of the
machine gun, how to do in case of a jam, etc., while Hopkins, the other
American, jollied me along. It was the first time I had ever had a ride
in a Sopwith. I do not know whether it was from the fact that I was not
used to climbing into the Sopwith or that I did not know what I was
doing, but anyhow I stepped on that one particular part of the fuselage
which is supposed to withstand only wind pressure and as a consequence
my one hundred and eighty-two pounds made a nice hole in the canvas. Of
course the Frenchmen had complex fits but the pilot merely shrugged his
shoulders as if to say that it wouldn’t impair the flying qualities of
the boat. I honestly felt that the tearing of the canvas was an omen
that I ought not to go. But already the other plane was taxiing out to
take off, and it was like a drowning man grasping for the last straw.
They came up to see if I was fixed all right. I was fixed, and in more
ways than one. I was holding on to the fuselage for all I was worth.
Fortunately they noticed that I was not strapped in and so they
proceeded to strap me.
They said something about the “mitrailleuse” but the “mitrailleuse” did
not worry me—I said it was all right. I did not know what they were
talking about, although I afterwards learned that they meant machine
guns, but what they wanted me to do was to shoot a couple of bursts into
the ground to see if the guns were working. I tried to twist the
tourelle (the revolving base upon which the machine gun turns) around to
shoot in the proper direction, but it would not budge. The Corporal came
around and pressed a little lever which released the mechanism and, of
course, the tourelle turned just as easy as a roulette wheel. Then they
told me by means of sign language to point it at the ground and pull the
trigger. I did, but I almost broke the forefingers of both hands trying
to pull the trigger. The pilot was getting nervous; I think he clearly
saw that I was probably like the American airplanes that they had heard
and read so much about—I was not coming across. The Corporal came around
to determine the trouble. I shrugged my shoulders, French fashion, as if
to say “ça ne marche pas,” that is, “it doesn’t work,” but lovely as
that gun lad was he did not give away my ignorance but simply said “Vous
avez oublié”—“you have forgotten something,” and he proceeded to pull
down the little latch on both guns which unlocks the entire mechanism.
Then he stepped out of my way and I pointed the guns. Having, as I said
before, almost broken both my forefingers trying to pull the trigger, I
pulled in the same manner, force and fashion, and before I could get my
fingers off of the triggers I had almost shot both of the magazines
full. I thought those guns never were going to stop firing. The
Frenchmen surely oil their guns and have a similar high strung technique
in pulling the trigger that our high-grade artists on the piano have
with staccato notes. I could see by the expression on the faces around
me that they were indeed surprised at American methods but anyway the
guns worked, so I said “tres bien,” and my pilot taxied the plane out,
gave it the gun, and took off.
This plane did not have telephones; if it did they would have been
useless, because I did not Speak French understandably, and the pilot
did not know a word of English, and we had not agreed upon any signs.
The other plane had gained considerable altitude and after about fifteen
minutes I was able to orient myself by means of my map and to know that
the aerodrome was directly beneath me. We had gotten about three hundred
meters above and two hundred meters behind the first plane. In a few
moments the first plane headed due north and we followed. Over to my
right I saw very plainly Souilly, which was later destined to play such
an important part in the history of the American Army, being the
Headquarters of our First Army in the Argonne drive. In a few moments
more I saw below me the shell-torn country and the two peaks known as
“Hill 304” and “Dead Man Hill”—to the French they are known as “Trois
Cent Quatre” and “Mort Homme”—which were so prominent in the fighting
around Verdun.
Only a few days before I had visited these same places on the ground and
I had seen the myriads of human bones in that mighty cemetery which,
though originally properly interred, were being continually brought to
the surface by the constant and incessant artillery fire. I thought at
the time how terrible it must be to live day and night in the trenches
of that graveyard, knowing not but that in the next instant you,
yourself, might be the one destined to replace the remains which, from
four years of exposure, were crumbling into the dust. On that visit the
thing that impressed me was the minuteness of the individual, for both
German and French, though the deadliest of enemies in life, found a
common resting place, side by side, in the same yard of earth for which
they had given their lives to gain.
While on the ground I had seen an airplane high in the heavens and I
thought how much more wonderful it was to fight in that broad, open
expanse of atmosphere where the extent of one’s endeavor is not limited
by a section of a trench, but only by the blue heaven, the reliability
of the motor and the accuracy of the machine gun. It is strange how
one’s outlook can change. Man is the slave of temperament and romantic
dissatisfaction. Excite him and he pleads for quiet, give him solitude
and it becomes unbearably monotonous. I was enwrapped by environment.
When in the trenches of that bleached boneyard the monotony and horror
were agony to me—so many bones and those huge trench rats—I wanted in
the worst way to get out of those trenches and back to the airdrome, to
take my chances mid those silver-winged birds that floated so gracefully
above. But, when I actually got over this same graveyard at six thousand
feet altitude that same picture again entered my mind. I knew I would
soon be crossing the lines. I began to think of the terrible fall of six
thousand feet before hitting that cemetery, and then I thought what I
would look like after I did hit. In fact, cold shudders crept through me
like a continued electric shock. For once I was downright scared and if
I could have changed places with the stalwart guardians of those
trenches in the rat-ridden graveyard beneath I would have run for the
opportunity. I would, at least, have something solid to stand upon.
We were going straight toward the lines and directly in front of Hill
304 and “Mort Homme.” They stood out extremely clear and plain. The
perpetual shell fire had left its mark for while the surrounding country
was green with vegetation, yet these two hills bulged forth, bald and
barren. Hill 304, or “Trois cent quatre” was the worse. It had nothing
growing on it at all. In fact, it was so bad that one of the polite,
French jokes on a bald-headed man was to call him “Trois cent quatre.”
After flying parallel to the line for a few minutes we turned back
toward our own lines. I determined that the French observer had found
his target and would soon be calling his battery.
This trip was a complete surprise because I understood from my meager
instructions that even when crossing the line the enemy anti-aircraft
artillery, commonly called “the archies,” would certainly open fire, but
everything was calm and peaceful—except my mind. I looked at my map to
find where the panels were displayed. Panels are large, horizontal
strips of cloth which are placed on the ground in various symbols near
the battery and are used as a means of communication between the battery
and the airplane. The airplane communicates with the battery largely by
means of the radio telegraphy, but as it was not practicable to receive
the radio signals in the plane from the ground, we used these panels.
Among the signals formed by these white panels, which are quite clearly
discernible from the air, are those meaning that the “Battery is ready
to fire,” “Battery has fired,” “Fire by Salvo,” “Change target,” and
many, many others including the signal “There is an Enemy Plane near
you,” which is the most dreaded panel that can be displayed. I might
incidentally mention that there is another panel which means “There is
no further need of you; you can go home.” Now this may not have a great
deal of significance to the average layman, but I’ll say that when the
sky spy has been tossed about for a couple of hours on the archie
billows he joins the union which says that “go home, you’re fired” is
the greatest little panel of the whole panel alphabet. So, in a few
minutes I picked up the location of the panels and I had a little chart
on my map board showing the meaning of these many panels. I had had some
instructions upon them while at Observation School, but I had depended
on crossing the bridge only upon arrival thereat, so I did not pay a
great deal of attention to them. The descriptive chart on my map board
interpreted the panels in French so I was not sure that the chart would
do me any good after all for my knowledge of technical or any other kind
of French was less than meager. I saw the panel “Battery is ready,” and
then the plane headed toward the lines and in a moment the panel changed
to “Battery has fired,” so I looked over in Hunland but I could not find
where the shells had hit. In my mind they were hitting everywhere so how
could I pick out the particular ones that Jones was directing. In a
moment I again saw “Battery is ready,” and again I looked directly
toward the supposed target. Suddenly I saw four shells strike real close
by and my vigilance was rewarded for I was to witness an actual
adjustment of artillery fire against a real enemy. Then I took a genuine
interest in the adjustment and paid very close attention to every
detail. In fact, I was so attentive that I was oblivious to the fact
that my mission was to protect the leading plane.
Delving into this new game I indulged in certain psychological
conclusions which took my mind off of the thing that had been troubling
me; namely, the unpeaceful condition of my mind. This was most
interesting. They had fired about six or seven salvos and were coming
very near to the target, which was a cross-road. I thought it must be a
wonderful observer to guide the battery with such unfailing accuracy and
I looked forward to the time when I too might be a genuine sky spy and
with American batteries seek out the enemy and destroy him, for after
all was not the position of the aerial observer one of the most
dangerous of the army, the spy—for his greatest mission was to find out
the intentions of the enemy and if he succeeded in bringing back the
information without being seen all would be well, and if he was seen it
meant he had to fight for his life. Like the spy he, too, lived within
the lines of the enemy.