prominent right off, and with it went the title of “Hardboiled.” So,
when several of my newly formed acquaintances solemnly asked me how long
I expected to live doing “Infantry Contact Patrols,” I hied me forth to
the Operations Room and asked the Chief Observer what it was all about.
I was handed a pamphlet written by Colonel William Mitchell, who was
Chief of Air Service at the Front. It started out with these words,
“Infantry Liaison, or Infantry Contact Patrol is the most hazardous, but
most important of all missions.” My eyes began to bat like a
heavyweight’s before he falls for the count, and as I read on I came
rapidly to the conclusion that the volunteer system was absolutely all
wrong and the next time any of these nice, uncertain jobs were offered
I’d take my place in the draft.
I found that Infantry Contact Patrol indicated the airplane that gains
contact with the infantry in battle, which is done by flying extremely
low over the troops, finding the advanced lines, transmitting signals,
calling for reinforcements, ammunition or the like, attacking machine
guns or anything else which is holding up the advance of the infantry;
further, that the great drawback to this kind of work is that the
infantry airplane is constantly under fire from enemy machine guns and
enemy pursuit planes, which, of course, concentrate to hinder this all
important work. I decided that with my huge body in a slow A.R. plane my
life on this work would be measured in minutes. It was a real scare.
[Illustration: AN OPERATION ROOM OF AN AMERICAN SQUADRON AT THE FRONT,
SHOWING BATTLE MAPS, WAR PLANS AND PHOTOGRAPHS]
There was no backing down since I had already volunteered, so I began to
study the bulletins, with the greatest care. No attacks, however, took
place in this quiet sector so I hit upon the brilliant idea of trying
out this new work in practice on the Germans, then I would be properly
experienced should there ever actually be an attack. The trenches in the
Toul Sector were well marked, especially around Layeyville and
Richecourt. So I studied those trenches from maps, photographs and from
the air, until I knew them perfectly.
One evening I had as my pilot, Lieutenant Jack Kennedy, who was one of
our flight commanders, and who was in for anything new and exciting, so,
we fixed it up that we would try out a practice infantry contact on the
Germans. When we finished our usual evening reconnaissance of the
sector, we played around looking for a good situation that might be
assumed. When we got just above Richecourt, which was the beginning of
the German lines, I discerned quite clearly, about ten, big, fat Heinies
slowly wobbling down a communication trench. It apparently was a relief
going into place. The trench was unusually long and was not intersected
by any other trenches for some length.
“Those Germans are bringing up ammunition reinforcements for the
battle,” I assumed. “They must be stopped!” The ammunition was soup.
I called Kennedy, pointed them out to him, and told him my assumption.
Without waiting for a signal, he dived like the winged messenger of
fate. Kennedy had been trained with the English Pursuit Pilots and he
was handling that big, slow, lumbering A.R. like a little fighting
scout. We came out of that dive with a quivering groan, and Kennedy, at
about one hundred meters altitude, began to circle over that
communicating trench, waiting for me to halt the procession. He was too
fast for me, but when I finally got my heart gauged down a bit, and my
Adam’s apple released from its strangle hold on my windpipe, I began to
make my final estimate of the situation. The Heinies had stopped and
were eyeing us like country boys at their first circus. It was easy. All
I had to do was to pull the triggers, for my guns were directly on them
and the enemy reinforcements would never reach its intended destination.
They could not scatter—they were rats in my trap. Then an intensely
human appeal struck me—poor, belated, unfortunate Heinies—they were not
my personal enemies, and if I pulled the triggers it would be little
short of murder. To balance this was another series of thought—they were
enemies of my country—of the United States—and, if I allowed them to
live, would probably kill many of our own brave doughboys; perhaps they
belonged to machine gun squads; perhaps it was they who had killed my
pals, Angel and Emerson, a few days before. Such were my thoughts when
suddenly, Spiff! Spang! and two bullets went between me and the gasoline
tank, tearing a hole in the top plate. Spiff!!! Another went through the
fuselage, smashing into bits, my hard-rubber wireless reel. It was no
time to indulge in psychological deductions—I realized that I was being
fired at from the ground, and like my lumbering old A.R., I was about to
pass from obsolescence to obsolete. The application of proper psychology
indicated that since I was being fired at, the war between the United
States and Germany had not ended and below me was the enemy. I was
conscious of something within calling me to “Do my duty!” I did. The
bullets began to sing at the rate of six hundred per minute, and my
tracer bullets did not betray me. They were finding their mark. Measured
by the standard that an Ace is one who gets five or more Boche, I became
an Ace in a day—and also the first American Ace. However, strangely
enough, when my friends to-day ask me, “How many boche did you get?” I
can truthfully say, “Between seventy-five and a hundred,” but when they
say, “How many boche planes did you shoot down?” I have to renig for I
am not an Ace.
I was quite certain that my assumed reputation of “hardboiled” would be
justified by this day’s performance. The mechanics took a just pride in
the holes in our plane and patched them over, as was the custom, with
miniature Iron Crosses, showing the date of the puncture. The next
morning I noticed myself being pointed out by several officers of the
squadron and this gave me the rather satisfactory feeling commonly
described by the English as “cocky.”
Brereton had nothing whatever to say about the mission but Captain
“Deac” Saunders said “Bully,” and called me “Hardboiled,” but my
reputation lasted only two days, four hours and twenty minutes, for the
Group Commander threw ice-cold water over everything by saying that he
considered it very poor work, that it had no military value and that it
only encouraged reprisals on the part of the Hun who would soon do the
same thing. So, I was temporarily classed as bone-headed, and a “dud”
and was in dutch all round. There was one little spark of encouragement
in a remark that Brereton made, which got to me through the medium of a
friend, and it took away the sting of the Group Commander’s criticism,
for to me the only boss I had was Brereton, and what he said was law.
The adverse remarks of the Group Commander hurt at the time, I admit,
but when Brereton said he did not exactly agree with him that the
mission had no military value, and also several months later, when this
type of mission had so developed that we had special squadrons in the
Saint Mihiel and Argonne offensives that did nothing but this particular
type of work, I was happy indeed. Later, all types of planes were
ordered to fire at troops on the ground when their assigned missions
were completed, and the opportunity presented itself.
Shortly after this mission, Henderson, who was the Operations Officer
under Captain Saunders, the Chief Observer, left for the aerial gunnery
school in the south of France, with three other observers, to take a
month’s course in firing and then return to the Front. This left the
much coveted position of Operations Officer open and, of course,
everyone was wondering to whom it would fall. It was the biggest job in
the squadron next to the Commanding Officer and the Chief Observer, and
since the Operations Officer dealt directly with the observers I was
mighty anxious to find out who my new boss would be, so that I could
make it a point to get along with him.
That night Saunders came around and called me out of a little game we
were having—I thought perhaps I was scheduled to go on a special mission
of some kind, but there was a surprise, undreamed of, awaiting me.
“Haslett,” he said, “Henderson is going to Caseaux to-morrow and I have
recommended you to Brereton for appointment as Operations Officer. He
kicks like the devil that you haven’t had much experience, but he likes
that mission you got away with and thinks you are ‘hardboiled,’ so he
may come across. He is going to decide before breakfast to-morrow.”
I could not believe what he had said and humbly asked him to repeat it
all over from the beginning. I slept very little that night, for to me
this was the biggest thing in the world, it would clearly indicate that
I had made good and that my stay at the front was assured.
The announcement on the bulletin board the next morning was signed by
Charley Wade, the best Squadron Adjutant I have ever seen, and stated
that I had been detailed as Acting Operations Officer. I was the
happiest lad in the world. I don’t believe any success I can ever
achieve will make me as happy as I was when I read that order. The first
thing I did was to consult Brereton and Saunders as to how they wanted
it operated. Brereton gave me no dope whatever, except “to run it as I
darn pleased and if it did not please him he would soon get some one who
would.”
Thus I started. As new pilots reported I always took them over the lines
for the initial trip. Saunders asked me to do this for he felt that I
was either absolutely worthless or extraordinarily good. If I was
worthless there would be no loss if the green pilot killed me, and if on
my part, I succeeded in getting the pilot back safe, it would be
wonderful training for the pilot. Some logic, I reasoned—thus my job of
official breaker-in of new pilots. I say “breaker” for a new pilot
coming to the front must be broken in just the same as a horse has to be
broken for riding or driving. It is equally true in both cases that the
first ride is the worst.
We had one boy who had been with us since the formation of the squadron,
but who had been sick and was unable to fly. His name was Phil Schnurr,
a young lieutenant from Detroit, Michigan. Phil did not get his first
trip over the Front until some time around the first of June. Of course,
I was the goat and took him across. It was not new for me as he was
about the sixth I had broken in.
I emphasized to him that in my experience over the lines among other
things I had found that the best way to get away from the “archies” was
to dive when they got near you for the reason that it was much easier
for the “archies” to correct deflection than it was for them to correct
range. Whatever that means, it’s all right. Phil knew.
I decided that we would call on a battery and adjust the artillery on an
enemy battery in a woods close by, which was causing our troops
considerable trouble, so I explained to Phil just what we would do,
going largely into detail.
The plane was a little shaky even at the take off, and I decided right
away that Phil was not quite in the class with Rickenbacker, but I
attributed the cause to his natural nervousness, which would soon wear
off. After calling our battery by wireless for several minutes they
finally put out their panels and we immediately went over to look for
the hostile battery that had been reported the same day. I found it and
we just started to cross the lines to go back into France when Fritz
played one of his favorite tricks. The Germans allow the observation
plane to cross the line and come in for not more than three or four
kilometers, then when you turn to come out, having followed you all the
time with their range finders, they suddenly open up with all their
anti-aircraft artillery and generally catch you in their bracket at the
first salvo. You are bracketed when they have fired the first shots—one
above, one below and one on each side of you. It is not a pleasant
position in which to be caught. But they did more than that to us—they
not only bracketed us, but one shot got us right under the tail and when
Phil heard that burst, known commonly as “Aviator’s Lullaby,” which is
the most rasping and exasperating noise it is possible to imagine, he
remembered my admonition to dive if they got close, so just as the tail
went up from the force of the concussion of the shell directly below us,
Phil pushed forward for all he was worth on the control stick. The
sudden jarring of the plane from the explosion and the more abrupt dive,
released the throttle, throwing the motor into full speed. And with one
mighty jerk like the sudden release of a taut rubber band, all three
forces working in the same direction, and aided by the flyer’s greatest
enemy, Newton’s law of gravity, that A.R. omnibus started straight down
in one terrible dive. Poor old Phil was thrown completely out of the
pilot’s seat and was only saved from going headlong into the open air by
his head striking the upper wing of the plane, which knocked him back
into the seat, dazed and practically unconscious. The “hardboiled”
observer in the back seat did not have a belt, for my famous A.R. plane
was not equipped with them. I went completely out of the cockpit and in
that brief second I had one of the rarest thoughts I have ever had—I was
sure I was going to be killed and I regretted that it was in such a
manner, for it was, indeed, unfortunate that I should be killed in an
airplane accident when I might have died fighting in combat—there, at
least, I would have had an equal chance with the enemy. As I shot out of
that cockpit with the speed that a bullet leaves the barrel of a gun, my
foot caught on the wire directly underneath the rim of the cockpit. With
superhuman effort doubled by the intuitive hope of self-preservation, I
grabbed the top gun which in those days was mounted on the top of the
upper plane. Backward I fell. For a moment I was completely free of the
airplane, in midair; as I fell my chin hit the outward pointing muzzle
of the machine gun; I threw my arms forward and closed them in the grip
of death. I had caught the barrels of my machine guns and the next thing
I was conscious of was that I was hanging over the side of the fuselage,
below the airplane, but clinging on to those machine guns for dear life.
The old admonition “to stand by the guns, boys” was tame compared to me.
My watchword was “hang on to the guns, boy.”
The plane had fallen about one thousand feet and was still going, but
stunned as he was, Phil was doing his best to level her off. I was sure
if he ever did level her off the strain would be so great that it would
fold or strip the wings. I cannot account for the strength that came to
me, but I do know that if I ever should get into a good fight, I only
hope I may again be that superman, with the agility of the ape riding
the flying horse at the three-ringed circus.
I scrambled up on those machine guns, grabbed the rim of the cockpit and
the brace of the tourrelle and climbed in. My ears were splitting; I was
certain that the top of my head had been shot away, for there was
nothing there but a stinging, painful numbness. My heart was beating at
the rate of nine hundred and ninety-nine round trips per second. I felt
that my whole body was being flayed by sharp, burning, steel lashes.
Then I suddenly grew as cold as ice and passed out. It was almost a
literal case of a man being scared to death. When I saw the light again
I was limp in the bottom of the fuselage. My first sensation was that we
had crashed and I was alive in the wreckage, but the drone of the motor
brought me to the realization that we were still flying. Evidently Phil
had gotten control again, so I pulled myself up to my seat in the
cockpit and got my bearings—we were headed toward home. Poor Phil had
his eyes set straight ahead. At his right he had a mirror which
reflected the movements of the observer, thus obviating the necessity of
continually turning around. When Phil saw my reflection in that mirror,
however, he whirled around at top speed to verify it. His countenance
changed from being horrified to complete surprise and then to genuine
delight. He had evidently looked around immediately upon gaining
control, and not seeing me, had realized that I had been thrown from the
plane. He was going back to the airdrome to tell the horrible tale.
I could read the look in his eyes, and I do not know what in the world
possessed me to do it, but I gave a huge, roaring laugh that would have
made the jovial laugh of the old southern mammy sound meager in
comparison. Phil did not laugh, he only gave a sickly, sympathetic
smile. The boy was thoroughly convinced that I had suddenly become
insane—he had justification for his conviction for there was nothing in
the world at which I could find a reason for laughing at that
time—either in law, fiction, fact, heaven or earth.
I was still sort of dazed, but we were fast approaching our airdrome.
The thing that preyed on my mind was that we had started out to do an
aerial adjustment and had not finished it. What would Brereton say—and I
was now Operations Officer—what would the Battery say? Could I ever get
the results from observers when I did not bring home the bacon myself.
There was only one thing to do—the adjustment started must be finished.
I shook the plane and spoke to Phil through the old rubber tubes we had
in those days. I told him what had happened, but that I was all right
now. Then he told me what happened to him.
“How’s your head feeling now, Phil?” I asked.
“It’s cracked open,” he answered.
“Can you go ahead and finish this adjustment?” I demanded.
“Yes, I can,” he said, “but I’m not going to, I’m sick.”
“So am I, but you know that’s no excuse at all. Let’s try it,” I
ventured.
He said nothing but turned his plane toward Germany and we were again
speeding toward the lines.
The battery must have realized what had happened or almost happened, so
when I began to wireless to them the location of the target, they were
sportsmen just like all the rest of that 26th Division and they
immediately put out the panel meaning “There is no further need of you,
you can go home.”
This was commendable on their part and it sorely tempted me to take them
up, but I quite well knew there was no excuse to make for going home now
since we had both decided to finish it, so I immediately called back and
asked “Is Battery Ready?” They, of course, put out the signal that it
was. So I gave them the coördinates of the target and we started to
work. We were both extremely nervous and weak and the anti-aircraft kept
firing with unceasing violence. We stayed in the air for exactly an hour
and fifty-five minutes and fired a total of fourteen salvos. But luck
was the reward of our perseverance. On the fourteenth salvo we struck
the huge ammunition dump next to the enemy battery and I have never in
my experience seen such a huge and magnificent explosion. Our plane,
five thousand feet above the explosion, even quivered at the concussion.
We, of course, announced to the battery that they had hit the target and
then started for home. The last wireless was unnecessary, however, for
they had seen the explosion. It was visible for several miles around.
We were so confused and nervous that we fiddled around another half hour
before we could find our airdrome. We finally landed and poor old
Schnurr was a nervous wreck. Pride forbids me from accurately describing
myself.
Schnurr confessed to me later that he barely knew how to fly, having had
only a few hours in a plane, but that he was so anxious to get to the
Front that he managed to slip by the “Powers that be” and finally got
there. He begged me not to tell it for fear he would be sent back to the
rear. Phil was an example of the high-spirited boys who first led the
way for America’s aerial fleets. These high-hearted men were America’s
first and greatest contribution.
However, for Schnurr’s own good I decided that he should have more
training. I got Brereton off on the side and whispered some things in
his ear. He was furious at the fact that a pilot had been slipped over
on him who did not know everything about flying, and said that he would
send Schnurr to the rear right away, but when I finished whispering
these things in his ear he changed his mind, for I repeated to Brereton
that in my opinion the greatest thing an aviator can have is nerve, or
to again use the Army term, immodest as it is, “Guts;” ability is only
secondary. Then I told him how Schnurr had gone on and finished the work
and had blown up the ammunition.
Brereton agreed to keep Schnurr, and we gave him several hours solo
flying under the instruction of more experienced pilots before again
permitting him to go over the lines.
What happened to Schnurr? Well, he turned out to be, in my estimation,
undoubtedly, the best observation pilot on the entire front, and he went
through the hard fighting at Chateau Thierry, Saint Mihiel and the
Argonne, and although he had some of the hardest and most discouraging
missions ever given to a pilot, he was one man who could always be
counted upon to deliver the goods if it was humanly possible. In fact,
he became known as “Old Reliable,” for he never failed.
On the matter of promotions and decorations Phil Schnurr had the worst
deal that was ever handed to any one. He started as a Second Lieutenant
and ended that. He was never decorated although recommended to my
knowledge, at least eight times. Something always went wrong. Where
several proposals would go in, Schnurr’s would never go through. If any
one in the American Army in this War should have his chest covered with
medals and crosses from the Congressional Medal of Honor on down—it is
Phil Schnurr.
From this mission, which is small compared to some of Phil’s later
accomplishments, we were both cited by General Edwards, commanding the
26th Division, as follows:
HEADQUARTERS 26TH DIVISION AMERICAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE
France, September 17, 1918.
GENERAL ORDERS
No. 78
Extract
* * * * *
4. By his accurate registration of Battery F, 101st Field Artillery,
on June 10, 1918, First Lieut. Elmer R. Haslett, 12th Aero Squadron,
caused the destruction of a large quantity of enemy ammunition, his
plane being pierced several times during this dangerous work. The
Division Commander takes great pleasure in acknowledging the
valuable aid of this officer and congratulates him on his skill and
daring.
* * * * *
C. R. Edwards,
Major General, Commanding.
After this mission Brereton, himself, classified both Schnurr and me as
“sufficiently hardboiled.” The boys took up the refrain and thus, after
assuming the attitude necessary, I finally acquired the title and had
the emoluments and incidental responsibility thrust upon me.
III
MY FIRST SCRAP
The early days in the Toul Sector are remembered by the aviators in the
observation end of the game as quiet ones. All the time I was there with
the Americans I had never even seen a Boche plane. I understand they
were around all right, but all of our young pursuit pilots of the 94th
and 95th Squadrons were so determined, individually, to become the first
American Ace that they scoured the sky from daylight to dusk, and to
such a degree of success that the Boche thought it rather risky to even
leave their own airdrome.
About the middle of June the Rainbow Division was down in the
Bacarrat-Lunéville Sector and having been there some time without
aviation, it was decreed that the 12th Aero Squadron, which had done
most remarkable work in the Toul Sector, should proceed at once to a
little place called Flin, near Bacarrat, to work with the 42nd
Division—the Rainbow—in order that they might have more experience in
aerial coöperation.
We still had our famous old A.R. training busses, although we had been
again promised everything from Spads to Salmsons. So, with our eighteen
pilots and eighteen observers and our eighteen A.R. busses we started
for our new station, which was about one hundred and fifty kilometers
distant.