panels and saw a huge “Y” displayed. I did not pay much attention to the
“Y” but I saw Jones’ plane taking a steep spiral toward the earth. I did
not call the attention of my pilot to it because I thought “Y” was
something usual, meaning, perhaps, that the signals were not understood
so Jones was going down low to get closer to the battery in order that
his wireless could be heard, but Jones kept going right on down near the
battery and finally kept circling around close by at about three hundred
feet altitude. I looked around and did not pay any great heed; I thought
Jones would soon climb up again. In a few moments I saw the battery take
in their “Y” and put it out again; take it in and put it out, as if to
attract my attention. Then I saw them running back and forth with
individual panels in different directions, which had a sort of cinema
effect. Then they brought out double panels and made a great, huge “Y.”
Then I thought “Y” must mean something if they were making all that fuss
about it, so I thought “Y”—“Y”—“Y”—“Y.” It was a memory test for me. I
felt I should remember some of those panels and here was the chance to
think clear and quick. I went through the various fake memory courses I
had taken and tried in every way to determine the meaning of “Y,” so
after trying to figure it out by the law of association, the law of
likeness of sound, the law of impress and five other such hopeless laws
I began to regret that I had paid so much for that memory course. Then I
casually took out my map chart to find out what “Y” meant. As I ran
slowly down the list of signals I came to “Y” and looking across it I
saw “Attention! Ennemi avion pres de vous,” which in English means “Look
out! Enemy plane close to you.” I thought I did not know French but I
certainly acquired it with the speed of lightning. I dropped my map
board like a shot, jumped up in my cockpit, grabbed my machine guns,
released the tourelle, and whether I knew anything about that tourelle
or not, it followed me as I spun around three times in a complete circle
of three hundred and sixty degrees with the speed of a ballet dancer—I
was bent on getting anything near me. I stopped—looked frantically at
the pilot, expecting to find him dead. He had turned around to find out
what the rumpus was about. I did nothing but to give him a sickly smile
for I had nothing else to give. They had a signal commonly used among
observers to describe a cross with the forefinger and point when the
observer saw a German plane, but this was among the thousand things I
had not learned about aerial observation. So, he went on, straight
flying, just aimlessly drifting on.
I gradually calmed myself and looked into the sky above me and I saw
seven airplanes which were hidden from the view of the pilot on account
of the position of the wing above him. I was quite sure from the
lectures I had had in America from instructors who had never been at the
Front, that one could easily distinguish an enemy airplane by the huge
black cross that is painted all over it, and so I skimmed my eyes over
them trying to discern the cross. I could not, and yet the airplanes
stayed about six hundred meters above me and kept on circling around. I
decided that I was being duped and that there was some under my tail, so
I hung my anatomy over the fuselage and after a hasty examination I was
convinced that the only airplanes in that sky, except our own, were the
seven above me, and Jones, who was down by the battery still circling
around. I looked down at the panels and they were still frantically
waving that “Y” and peering at the planes above me I saw that they were
still circling around. I did not know what to do. In fact, I did not do
anything for fully thirty seconds, except to watch those planes, but
they did not make any sudden maneuvers or show any inclination to
attack. I looked down again and they were still putting out that big “Y”
and my pilot was just floating along as if nothing had ever happened; in
fact he had never seen the panels and was not paying any attention,
having undoubtedly an abundance of confidence in the ability of the
American observer, and as I could not disappoint him in his splendid
judgment as to my ability I just used my perfectly splendid logic and
decided that if they were German planes they certainly would have
attacked me before this time, and since they had not attacked, they
could be no other than French; and the solution was that the battery had
probably received notice from the Squadron Commander that there was a
green observer up and so they were undoubtedly flashing this “Y” trying
to play a joke on me, believing that I would run home, and thinking,
perhaps, that I had not seen Jones go down in his rapid spiral. So, I
decided to show them that they could not fox me and I just stayed up
there, floating around. After I had stayed up there for about fifteen
minutes Jones pulled out for home, and when I saw him shoot off in that
direction I decided that perhaps the signal had been changed and “Y”
meant that “there is no further need for you,” and that they were just
trying to attract my attention so that we would start home. I decided I
would not show any more ignorance than I had and would say nothing of
the incident.
So we went home and I felt pretty good that I was in sight of the
airdrome again and still alive and that nothing unusual had happened
after all. Jones got there about five minutes ahead of me. Meanwhile the
battery had called up the Squadron and told them that the observer in
that second plane was either the bravest man they had ever seen or the
biggest idiot, that he had stayed up there daring seven Germans to
attack him single handed, while they had toiled feverishly for fifteen
minutes with “Y’s” and double “Y’s” trying to give him warning and that
his utter disregard of their signals had so unnerved the crew that fifty
per cent. would be sick for a week. So, of course, the entire flying
personnel, including Adjutants, Sergeants, Corporals, Lieutenants and
Aspirants (Cadets) were there, as well as the Capitaine, to meet and
greet us. Jones, of course, had gotten out and also told them about our
narrow escape from the seven Huns and you can imagine the excitement and
ejaculating of a bunch of Frenchmen when anything so preposterous as
this should happen, especially with a new American who as yet was
untried in valor on the battlefields of France.
They were thoroughly convinced that I was an unusually hardboiled
soldier and that I had just dared the Germans to come down, and knew all
the time that they were Germans and that I was really seeking a fight
with the seven. Imagine the reception—they all ran up to the plane,
double time, including the rather heavy Captain, waving their hands and
shouting, but their remarks were so jumbled that I could not grasp the
entire meaning. They all came up and shook my hand and patted me on the
back and said “Bravo!” “Tres Fort!” and “Vive l’Americain!” and a lot of
other stuff. I was not much excited about it because I thought perhaps
that was customary as it was my first trip. Then, just as suddenly as if
they were waiting to hear a pin drop, everything became quiet, and they
demanded my story. Strangely enough I was perfectly convinced that we
had done nothing wrong, so I asked one of the Lieutenants who spoke a
little English to tell me what it was all about. He threw his head back
in great surprise and demanded in low tones, “Did you not see those
seven planes above you?” I quietly answered, “Certainly, I saw those
seven planes,” for I did. Then he continued in the same low voice, “And
did you not see the battery putting out the ‘Y’ with the panels?” I
said, “Certainly!” Everybody and everything was as quiet as death, and
then the light began to come to me just as the sun’s rays so suddenly
and rapidly dispel a fog, and I knew exactly what the next question was
going to be. He said, “Those were German planes, didn’t you know it?” At
those words I almost faded away but this was the real time for a little
“emergency” drama, so I assumed the rôle of a modern Daniel emerging
from the Den and shrugging my shoulders with a very much emphasized
forward motion of the chest, I bellowed, “Sure, I knew they were Germans
all the time. I didn’t run (emphasizing “I”) because I wanted to say I
had shot down some Boche on my first trip over the lines.” Their fond
expectations of the bravery of the Americans and incidentally my prowess
were met. They were proud of their new ally. Then came many cries of
“Bravo! Bravo!” and indiscreet whispers of “Croix de Guerre,” and we all
went home, with the American Sky Spy about the most popular fellow he
has ever been.
That night we had a real banquet at which I bought the champagne and the
red wine. While we were celebrating I was going over the whole matter
and long before I went home that night I realized that it was more than
luck and a “handful of Marines” that had saved me from those seven Huns.
It was manifest destiny, for I found that the reason those German planes
did not attack when they had me cold was that one of the aerial tactics
in vogue at that time, was to send one plane low as I was, with a strong
pursuit patrol high in the clouds above so that when the enemy attacked
the lower plane the pursuit planes high above could dive on the enemy,
thus having the great advantages of position, speed and surprise. The
seven Huns thought I was a dupe—I was, but not the kind they thought.
Mine was a case of ultra-distilled beginner’s luck.
II
HARDBOILED
Every soldier from the General to a private sooner or later gets his
reputation. It comes through observation of a man’s action and attitude
by his fellow soldiers. Those who early in the game get a favorable
reputation are indeed fortunate while those who get in bad, so to speak,
are generally strictly out of luck for reputations are like postage
stamps—when once stuck on they are hard to take off.
There was one reputation which many sought but which represented to me
exactly what a real man’s nature ought not contain—this was the common
prefix to one’s name of “hardboiled.” The accepted meaning of this word
varied with localities, but I did not like it even in its most liberal
and favorable interpretation.
In every locality except the front, the common acceptance of the term
“hardboiled” indicated one who in any position of authority was a
pinheaded, tyrannical crab, who was so engrossed in himself and his big
stick position that he was entirely oblivious to the feelings and rights
of those he commanded. In other words, one who neither sought counsel
nor permitted argument. At the front, however, common usage had changed
the meaning of this famous term. There it ordinarily referred to the
soldier who had the maximum quantity of bravery and the minimum amount
of common sense and who purposely flirted with death for the fun of it
and who valued life somewhere between eight cents and two bits, war tax
not included. I paraphrase Mr. Shakespeare in that some people are
naturally hardboiled, others acquire it and still others have it thrust
upon them. I must add another class which has grown quite common since
the war is over; that is, assumed hardboiledness, and it is ordinarily
recognized in the blowing of one’s own horn lest it be not blown for
true enough the genuine hardboiled soldier in the fighting
interpretation of that word, is strictly a man of action and not words.
It is, of course, safe now for the parlor sofa soldier to explain to his
audience just how much help the rest of the Army gave him in winning the
war. I sometimes pull this gag myself when there is a good chance to get
away with it. For those who, during the war, were in the rear waiting
for the chance to get to the front it was also healthy to emphatically
emphasize just what wonders they would accomplish when fortune favored
them by sending them to the lines. There it was entirely a matter of
environment for there was no likelihood of those perfectly harmless
bluffs being called since there was no possible opportunity at hand to
demonstrate the modest announcements of their prowess. But take it from
me as the greatest lesson I ever learned, it is the most ill-advised
speech possible when one arrives at the front and begins to scatter
broadcast promiscuous remarks either about one’s own particular courage
or any one else’s lack of it, for, believe me, you will no more than get
the words into sound than they will be called and called strong. At the
front they have the peculiar faculty of making immediately available
full opportunity for demonstrating daring, bravery, or any other manly
virtue that the newcomer claims as a part of his makeup.
The now famous 12th Aero Squadron formed, with the 1st Aero Squadron,
the first American Observation Group at the front. It was located near a
little village called Ourches, about fifteen kilometres northwest of
Toul. Upon completion of my training with the French, during which time
I had just the one trip over the lines, I was assigned to the 12th Aero
Squadron. My time over the lines amounted to only fifty-five minutes.
The only thing I knew about sky-spying was what I had read in my books
and what I had picked up in our embryonic course of instruction at the
schools. Just as soon as I had gotten to the squadron I began to hear
wild rumors of how the Commanding Officer was going to send back to the
rear all those observers who did not have sufficient experience over the
lines and that he expected them all to have had, at least, ten trips
over the lines. I immediately realized that I had no chance whatsoever
with that standard, so my only hope was that the Commanding Officer
would be a nice man and that I could talk him into making an exception
in my case. I found out that the squadron was commanded by a young
Regular Army officer by the name of Major Lewis Hyde Brereton. No one I
could ask seemed to know a lot about him, for the squadron was just
being organized and would not operate over the front lines for a couple
of days, at least. So I had no dope on the manner of man I was to
approach and who fortune had destined should become the leading and
controlling influence of my life at the front.
Captain “Deacon” Saunders, who has since been killed, had been one of my
instructors at school and he had been designated by Brereton as Chief
Observer. “Deac” was a wonder. It was his duty to round up the wild
observers and present them to the Commanding Officer, who
cross-questioned them as to their experience and the like. So, “Deac”
grabbed me eventually during the morning of the second day and took me
over to meet His Royal Majesty, the Commanding Officer of an actual
American Squadron at the front. He was quartered in a wooden hut
commonly known as an “Adrian Barrack.”
Saunders gave a sharp military knock of three raps and I, of course,
expected to hear a nice, soft, cultured voice say, “Won’t you come in?”
What I heard, however, was considerably different. “Who in the hell’s
there?” The voice was sharp and impatient, and it suddenly made me feel
“less than the dust beneath thy chariot wheel.”
Captain Saunders spoke up, “Sir, I have a new observer reporting and
would like to present him to you.”
“What’s his name?” gruffed the irate voice.
“Lieutenant Haslett, Sir,” replied Captain Saunders.
“Who in the devil asked for him?” came from the inside.
“Sir,” said my godfather, “he was included in the list sent down by
Headquarters.”
“Well! Is he there now?” said the power within.
“Yes, sir, right with me now,” was the reply, and I began to pull down
my blouse and otherwise mill around in preparation for my entrance, for
this last question was encouraging.
“Well,” came the growl, after a discomforting hesitation, “I don’t want
to see him. I’m writing a letter to my wife and I can’t be bothered.”
I felt about as welcome as a skunk in a public park. In all my military
experience I cannot remember anything that really hurt me so much. I
wanted like a starving man wants food, to be a plain buck private in the
Infantry, for this was the most inconsiderate sort of a bruise; it hurt
me more, of course, because I was an officer and was wearing my pride on
my coat sleeve. The only thing that bolstered me up was the fact that I
had finally gotten to the American front and I was willing to sacrifice
practically anything to stay there, but I certainly realized that the
man who put the “boiled” in “hardboiled” was no other than Major Lewis
H. Brereton.
At noon I saw Brereton for the first time. Some one was kind enough to
point him out to me, and I remember thinking at the time, “How can a
pleasant-faced youngster like that be so hardboiled?”
That afternoon, around three o’clock, “Deac” Saunders said we would
again attempt to get an audience, and just as he introduced me, for some
reason, Saunders was called away, and I had no friend to sponsor my
cause before a hard judge. Brereton had just finished his after-dinner
nap and was in the act of dressing in flying clothes to take a little
flight around the field, so being in a hurry, he began throwing out
snappy questions at me, as if trying to establish a record in getting
rid of me. He lost no time in continuing his dressing, and did not even
ask me to sit down or to allow me to relax from my painfully rigid
position of Attention.
“What’s your name?” he commanded.
“Lieutenant Haslett, Sir.”
“I’ve got eyes,” he snapped. “I can see your rank all right. How does it
happen you are Infantry?”
“I volunteered, Sir, for Aviation and was detailed.”
“Volunteered or was ordered to volunteer?” he queried. This hurt for it
had been strongly rumored that in the selection of aerial observers,
many line commanders had gotten rid of their undesirables by sending
them to aviation—as observers.
“Volunteered, Sir!” I replied, bluffed and bewildered.
His attitude showed plainly that I did not strike him at all well. I was
still standing at attention, when he sharply commanded “Sit down!”
Believe me, I did.
“How many hours over the lines?” he fired next.
Hours! That word removed the floodgate and the last ounce of my
composure ebbed away. My time over the lines was measured in minutes and
here was a man talking in terms of hours, already. This was the one
thing I must avoid, so I sought to evade the question.
“I have had eight hours in the air, Sir.” But I did not lay any stress
on “in the air.”
“I don’t care how many hours you’ve had in the air. I asked you how many
hours you have had over the lines. That’s what counts with me,” he said
emphatically.
There was no escape. If I lied he could look up the record, so, I
decided to tell the truth from necessity for this was not the place or
time for “period of the emergency” statements.
“Fifty-five minutes, Sir,” I confessed.
“I thought so,” and he nodded his head in proud self-approval just as
does the cross-examining prosecutor when he finally forces an admission
from the man at bay. “How many adjustments over the lines?”
“None, Sir.”
“None!” he said with a noticeable inflection. “How many in the air at
school?”
“None, Sir,” I said meekly enough.
“None!” he exclaimed emphatically. “How many on paper?”
“One, Sir,” I said, hesitatingly, for my energy was getting low.
“Well,” he snapped, as if glad to dispose of me on my own lack of merit.
“You don’t know a damn thing about observation. How in the hell did you
get to the front, anyway? I might use you as a mess officer, but if you
ever intend to fly over the front you’ve got to go back and learn
something about your job. This is a service squadron, operating over the
front. Whoever ordered you to Toul intended to send you to Tours, so
I’ll call up and get orders for you to go back to the rear.”
Tours, by the way, was the great aviation primary school of the American
Forces—while Toul in those early days signified the front.
My pride fell like a demonstration of Newton’s law of gravity. This
hardboiled man could not be approached by man or beast; and it seemed
the only thing I could do was to say “Yes, sir” and beat it. I had
visions of returning to the rear for further instruction, yet here I was
at the front—I had finally realized my ambition and yet was on the verge
of having it strangled by this man’s inconsideration. I could not endure
the thought—my attitude changed in a moment—I determined to assume
hardboiledness, for after I had gotten that close to the front I
certainly was not going back without putting up some sort of a fight.
Besides, I had a few days before written my folks and my friends that I
was actually at the front, and what kind of a legitimate reason could I
give in my next letter when I would have to tell them I was no longer at
the front. The only legitimate excuse a soldier has for leaving the
front after being fortunate enough to get there, is an incapacitating
wound, and while Brereton had dealt me several wounds which were sure
enough incapacitating, yet they were not the kind that would put pretty
little gold wound stripes on my arm. Sure enough—I was down and about to
take the count.
There is always a way to get out of the most entangling net. Sometimes
it narrows down to only one way and if the captive fails to choose that
one particular hazard out of a thousand plausible ones, he is out of
luck. So it was, there was only one way to extricate myself from the web
that Brereton had spun so quickly around my whole ambition. Very, very
fortunately I had picked the winner. It was a long chance, but I was
Houdini this time. This hardboiled monster had to be met with his own
style. So, with an assumed rôle of the hardboiled, man-eating cannibal,
I right away cut out that “sir” stuff, took out my pipe and calmly
started to fill it with “Bull Durham” tobacco, which was the only brand
our little canteen had in stock, and we were really mighty happy to get
even that.
Brereton plainly saw that my temper had gotten out of bounds and that I
was preparing to come back at his apparently final decision either with
tears or blasphemy or both. But just as the matador seeks to infuriate
the bull by waving a red flag before slaughtering him, so Brereton
seeing me about to fill my pipe with this well-advertised and justly
celebrated brand of tobacco, ventured forth.
“Lieutenant,” he said, clearing his throat by way of emphasis, “I take
it that you are about to use some Bull.”
He said this quite seriously, without even a follow-up laugh to dull the
cutting bluntness of it. It apparently was his day, for like the
infuriated bull, I was seeing red already. I made the final run to gore
him or be stabbed myself by his waiting poniard of arrogance.
“You can call it Bull, if you like,” I fairly cried, “but, pardon my
frankness, the fact that you classify what I have to say even before you
have heard it shows your premature judgment, just as you prematurely
judged my ability or lack of ability as an observer before even giving
me an opportunity to demonstrate it. Of course, I don’t know whether you
have ever been over the lines or not, but if you have, you will concur
with me that the greatest thing an observer needs is ‘guts.’ I don’t say
I’m a world’s beater in experience, but one thing I have and which can
be demonstrated nowhere else but over the lines,” and here I threw out
my chest, “and that is ‘guts’ or politely ‘intestines.’ Now, if that
asset means anything to you, you will give me a chance to stay with the
12th. All I want is an opportunity to render good service, and to show
the stuff I am made of. Now if you don’t want to give me a chance I can
do nothing further except to tell you that I will get the chance
elsewhere and that I know more about observation than most of your
observers ever will know.”
Major Brereton was dumbfounded. When he recovered he gave a real,
ringing, golden, genuine laugh, came across and said, “Damn it all, my
boy, maybe you’re right. I haven’t been over the lines myself yet.”
I knew quite well he hadn’t. If it had been otherwise I would have
mended my speech considerably.
“But, old man,” he said, “I was only thinking for your own good. Hell,
if you want to be a damn fool and go on over the lines, knowing as
little as you do, it’s not my worry. Go ahead!”
I thanked him and told him that I had to start some time and I would be
all ready to go over at my first opportunity.
Fully decided to make myself at home I went out to the hangars and to my
surprise, I saw the same kind of old airplanes we had used in the
observation school in France. They were an obsolete type of French
service plane, known as “A.R.’s”—Avion Renault—which in English meant
“Renault Airplane.” The accepted meaning to the Americans, however, was
“Antique Rattletrap.” The only good feature about the A.R. was the
dependable motor, but they were very slow and did not fly well. They
might in those days pass for a second class training plane, but to have
them on the line, functioning as service planes, was a great surprise to
me. The life of the airman depends very largely on the bus he drives. We
all wanted Spads, Salmsons or Breguets, and, of course, any prospect of
an American plane in those days was a myth, so there was noticeably keen
disappointment when we found that we must fly over the front in those
old, discarded and obsolete A.R.’s. However, they were all we had and so
far as I was concerned, I knew that my stay in the squadron was largely
by sufferance and I could not afford to kick lest I be also kicked out,
so I immediately decided to think a lot, but say nothing.
Those first few missions over the lines were tame enough. Happily enough
I got in as substitute on the first mission of the squadron over the
lines. The only diversion was the anti-aircraft artillery fire, or the
“Archies,” and there was nothing tame about that. However, there was
more activity in sight for in a few days Brereton announced that he
wanted his squadron to be a specialized one and that he desired the
names of a few observers who would volunteer to specialize in “Infantry
contact patrol.” “Infantry contact patrol” to my mind meant nothing, so
from force of habit I volunteered. The only other observers who
volunteered were Lieutenant Emerson, a fine, young fellow who was killed
a couple of days later, and Captain “Deacon” Saunders, our Chief
Observer.