battle, for we were simulating a real, active battle move. Our trucks
left in the afternoon about three o’clock and without mishap, should
have arrived there about midnight. The planes were to wait until the
next morning and fly down. The truck train got there all right, and got
busy fixing up quarters and getting ready for immediate operations. We
expected to see our famous eighteen planes arrive in a well organized,
close formation at about eleven o’clock that morning, but at eleven they
did not arrive and we heard nothing from them until about three o’clock,
when one of our young pilots came from somewhere out of the sky and
landed. We asked about the other seventeen, to which question he showed
the greatest surprise, and explained that he had been detained by motor
trouble and had been unable to get off with the main formation which had
taken off four or five hours before him. Immediately Dame Rumor stepped
forth, and the absence of the other planes was attributed to everything
from being lost in Germany to being shot down by a German plane.
While we were discussing the matter some one noticed two planes very
high in the air. We thought, of course, that they were our planes and
were probably lost. Ideas were rampant as to how we were going to signal
them to get them down, when suddenly we heard the splutter-splut-splut,
intermittently, of machine guns way up in the sky. This was new to us.
We thought, of course, that some one was merely trying out his guns.
These ideas were soon dispelled for following this short, intermittent
sound we heard one, steady, singing stream of sound—then we knew that an
air fight was on. We did not have time to realize exactly what was
happening for the steady stream of fire suddenly ceased and we saw one
of the planes falling, out of control. It was swaying back and forth
like a falling leaf, and filling the air with a miserable swish-swish
sound. The horrible speed of the fall caused both wings to collapse and
fold, and the compact mass soon came diving toward earth like a huge
torpedo. It crashed with a terrible thud on the very edge of our own
field. When the awful horror of the moment passed, we all started to run
to see the Boche that had been shot down.
We dragged two crushed and lifeless bodies from the debris and in
contrite and humble reverence to our hostile brothers of the air we
removed our caps, while the Surgeon began to take off their flying
garments in order to find their names. It is hard to imagine the ghastly
horror of the shock we received, when, upon unfastening the collar of
the outer-garment the green uniform of the German aviator was not
revealed, but instead the Royal Seal of the Crown of England. Two brave,
British lads had made the Supreme Sacrifice. It is a memory that will
never be obliterated from my mind, and I can well remember how the
sentiment of the crowd changed like a burning slap, from icy but human
feeling to one of fiery hatred and cold-blooded revenge. High in the sky
above the victor was winging his way back to the land of the Hun. Young
Davidson was the only pilot we had there and we had only one A.R. on the
field. It was the one in which Davy had just landed. We knew it would be
foolhardy to send that Antique Rattletrap up against that Hun, but every
man in the Squadron from the Chief Mechanic to the Major’s orderly and
the second cook wanted to go with Davy to avenge our British brothers.
Davy and his Observer, however, took off but only got several hundred
feet when the motor stopped. We had no more gasoline, but the Hun was
already too far toward home and our A.R. could never have climbed the
altitude at which the Boche was flying, so we were obliged to give it
up.
There was no loss of morale, however. Matters were too serious to even
think of that. The thing that was worrying us was what had happened to
our other seventeen planes. Had they all met the fate of the British
Tommies? Had they too been caught unawares, for a lot of them had flown
with mechanics at the observers’ guns. They had undoubtedly lost their
formation and in straggling about it was quite easy to suppose that
they, too, had become an easy prey for the Hun in the Sun. Believe me,
we worried. Not very long afterwards a French soldier came along and
handed us some messages which had been received at the French telegraph
exchange in a nearby village. They were all from our aviators and the
wires indicated that they were scattered all over that country from
Nancy to Chaumont, and from Colombey-les-Belles to Lunéville. The whole
bunch had gotten lost and in trying to pick their separate ways they had
certainly made a mess of it. I expected to hear of some landing at Paris
or Bordeaux, but while they did not do that, after we finally plotted
their various locations on our map, take it from me, it was a study in
polka-dots. One by one they drifted in and outside of one valuable plane
that had to be salvaged, in a couple of days we were able to work.
Brereton did not arrive with the squadron. He had been ordered to
General Headquarters for a conference of some importance, which
occasioned him some delay. The morning he arrived, however, he brought
Henderson, Herold and Hopkins along. They had been detached from us at
Toul in order to take a Gunnery Course at Caseaux, in the south of
France.
Henderson again took over his duties as Operations Officer. Brereton
called me in his office and told me a big secret. He stated that there
were big things ahead—that we were going to Chateau Thierry quite
soon—that he would be Chief of the Air Service for the First Corps and
that I would be made a Captain and the Operations Officer for the Corps.
He asked me how many times I had been over the lines in the last month
to which I answered that it was about thirty times. He said that was too
much and that I needed a rest. He then told me I should not fly any more
for a couple of weeks, so, I took him at his word and settled down for a
rest, meanwhile forming plans for my new job. I strutted around the
Squadron and gave as my reasons for retiring, that it was for my nerves
and the doctor had so ordered. The boys all fell for this line and they
were very thoughtful of me and asked me many times each day as to the
condition of my nerves.
In a few days, the 42nd Division was ordered out of the line in order to
prepare themselves for the affair which we afterwards learned was
Chateau Thierry, and the 77th, which was the first National Army unit to
go in the trenches, was ordered in the line. Their Artillery was not yet
ready for work, so, some of the 42nd Artillery stayed over to support
them. The first morning after the 77th took its place in the trenches
the Germans pulled off a raid, the result of which put about six hundred
of the 77th in the hospital from gas and wounds.
When the raid came off, the first reports we got were from the French at
daybreak. They said that the boche had attacked along the entire
divisional front from Domévre to Badonvillers, and that we should send
out a plane at once and find the line in order that the General might
know where to send reinforcements. It was Lieut. Hopkins’ turn on alert
duty, so, he took off right after daylight in the execution of his first
mission over the lines. Hopkins had lots of courage—he was a brave
fellow—he got tangled up with the “archies” and a huge piece of shell
tore away a part of his knee, but he stayed right up there trying to
execute his mission until he realized he was losing consciousness from
loss of blood. I knew nothing about the attack and was still in bed when
they dragged old Hoppy in.
This looked like exciting business for us so when they dragged Hoppy in,
I got up and began to pay attention. Meanwhile they had got the next man
on the “H” list—Lieutenant Armin F. Herold—whom I knew quite well and he
had already been sent out to get the line. I helped lift Hopkins into
the ambulance to be taken to the hospital and then went over to get my
breakfast. I was about half finished when some one rushed in and said
that Herold was also coming in. Of course, we hurried out just as the
plane taxied up to the hangar. The mechanics lifted Herold out of the
plane with his right leg shattered at the ankle by machine gun bullets
fired from the ground. He, of course, had been unable to get the line of
our troops, but gamely stated he had gone the limit to find our troops
having flown most of the time at about two hundred meters.
I saw Brereton looking around for a new crew to send out. I knew my name
began with “H,” but I knew also that I had been put on the resting list,
and furthermore was sick, according to the doctor, so my mind was
perfectly at ease. There were others in our squadron whose names began
with “H”—among them, Henderson, Harwood and Hinds, and we were not
restricted to “H’s.” But Major Brereton was known to do funny things. I
was starting into the mess shack to finish my breakfast when I heard
that familiar voice and its equally familiar inflection demand with a
tone of final decision, “Where’s Haslett?” I had a creepy feeling run
all over my ribs for I knew it was an off-day. Brereton came into the
mess hall after me. I certainly had not gone out to seek him. Then he
showed the first and only sign of weakness I ever knew him to
display—“Haslett,” he said, “do you want to go and finish this mission?”
Always before he would have said “Haslett, go and do this mission.” I
neither answered “Yes” or “No” for I could not honestly answer “Yes” and
I dared not answer “No.” I simply started to get my flying clothes.
Johnny Miller, who had been the pilot for Hopkins on the first attempt,
and who afterwards was killed at Chateau Thierry, begged Brereton to be
permitted to finish the job. Brereton agreed.
We got into an A.R. plane and I fairly filled the cockpit with signal
rockets for the Infantry. I was determined that there should be no
reason for the Infantry claiming that they did not see any rockets.
Johnny gave her the gun, but as we left the ground the engine failed. We
got the plane back to earth without a crash, although we were quite near
to one, and that was a premonition for me. I had always figured that if
anything mechanical failed, it was certainly, a sign that I had no
business in the air that day. When that engine failed I told myself
“Goodbye.” I felt my time had come.
We jumped out and got into another plane which was the one they had
brought Herold back in. The cockpit was spattered from one end to the
other with blood, but we did not have much choice in planes, so, we had
to take what would run. The sight of that blood and honest-to-goodness,
downright fear caused me to grow momentarily weak. I wanted to get out,
take the count, and worse. As we were getting ready to take off one of
my very dearest, old friends ran out to the plane, all excited, as if
the spirit had suddenly moved him. It was Captain “Pop” Hinds, who was
killed later that same day, in an airplane accident. “Haslett, God bless
you, old boy,” he said, fairly weeping—“something tells me this is an
off-day, and that you’re not going to come back. You’ve taken too many
chances already. I don’t want you to go, old man.” Believe me, that took
all the pep I ever had out of me. I leaned over the side of the fuselage
and patting him on the back said, “Pop, don’t let it worry you. I’m the
luckiest guy in the world—they can’t get me.” And in my soul I thought,
“Well, those are my last words—they’re not half bad at that. How will
they look on my tombstone?”
So, I gave Johnny the high sign and we took off. I could see Johnny was
nervous because in taking off, the wing almost scraped the ground.
Herold had told me where he thought he had seen a panel displayed by the
Infantry, so I first looked that place over and then we flew along the
Front at exactly five hundred meters above where the line was supposed
to be. I began shooting off my fire rocket signals to the Infantry in
order to get them to put out their white panels from which I could mark
their location on my map, but regardless of the many rockets I fired
they did not put out a single panel. We went down to four hundred
meters, flew along the line for fully twenty-five minutes and fired
rockets, rockets, rockets. Still there was no sign of a panel on the
ground. Down to three hundred we went—no panels yet. I felt like going
home because I thought three hundred meters was plenty low enough,
especially on an off-day, but there was only one thing to do—that line
had to be located somehow so, we went on down to one hundred. No wonder
they got Herold, the machine gun fire was something terrible. I had
already fired my last rocket and was never so disgusted in my life for
there was no response. Finally with the naked eye we located our troops
at less than one hundred meters. I hastily plotted their position. If
ever a man feels he needs a friend it is when he is going through that
awful machine gun fire at two hundred feet and trying to be composed
enough to accurately mark on his map the location of things he is seeing
on the ground. We developed some very fine observers like Wright,
Baucom, Bradford, Powell and Fleeson, who got to be wonders at this
work, which is, after all, the greatest work of aviation.
We had been up for about two hours, so, when we landed the whole bunch
came rushing out to meet us, including Brereton. It was the only time I
ever saw him run. I showed him the line and told him how we got it—the
holes in the plane from machine gun bullets convinced him of the truth.
I told him I would hazard my little reputation that the doughboys did
not have any panels to put out, for if they had displayed them I would
certainly have seen them.
He was genuinely peeved and after telephoning the location of the line
to appease the growing anxiety of the French, we got into Brereton’s car
to go to Divisional Headquarters to find out what was the matter with
the Infantry.
We arrived at Bacarrat, went to the Division Headquarters, and the
Signal Officer, in reply to our inquiry, told us quite unconcernedly,
that the Division had panels all right, but this had been their first
occasion to use them and they had not been issued for the doughboys
would get them soiled, or might use them for handkerchiefs or the like.
Brereton, of course, was in a rage and we demanded to see the Commanding
General of Infantry. On duty at the Infantry Post of Command was a
Lieutenant Colonel in the National Army, who had probably held some big
job in civilian life, but who was certainly not born a soldier. He said
that the General had been awake all night and had just gotten to sleep
after the morning raid and so he did not care to awaken him under any
circumstances. Brereton began to cuss in great style and said he’d be
blamed if he’d send his aviators out any more to be killed unless he got
some coöperation from the Infantry and it was a terrible note when the
Chief of a Service could not see the General when an all-important
matter was pending and that if this Brigade wanted the Air Service to
work with them they had better show some willingness to help. He then
demanded that the panels be issued at once. The Lieutenant Colonel began
to show a little concern, and although he was looking right straight at
our wings, he asked, “Are you aviators?” Brereton said, “Yes, of course.
What did you think we were?” The old boy then showed some speed; he got
hold of the telephone and after saying “Sir” many times in order to
appease the wrath of the General who had been so rudely awakened and so
as not to increase his disfavor, proceeded to tell him that the Airplane
Major was here, and wanted to talk to him. Brereton was forced to laugh
at this new title and for some time afterwards we all called him the
“Airplane Major.” The General of course realized the gravity of the
situation and was also mighty peeved about the failure to provide the
troops with panels. The mission ended with the agreement that the panels
would be issued immediately and the General expressed his sincere regret
at the loss of our aviators, and, I believe, became converted to the
fact that the Air Service was also a factor to be considered in winning
a war.
On our way back to the airdrome we stopped at Artillery Headquarters and
they wanted us to go up that afternoon and do an artillery adjustment,
as a couple of batteries were sorely in need of more accurate regulation
in View of further raids by the Germans. When the Artillery Colonel
asked who would do the work Brereton looked at me and I looked at
Brereton, and I knew it was settled. “Why, Lieutenant Haslett here has
been worked pretty hard and I wanted him to rest up, but I guess he can
do this one and then take a rest.” The Artillery Colonel was surprised,
but I was more surprised at what he said—“So you are Haslett! Well,
well, I’m glad to know you. Colonel Sherburne of the 26th Division
Artillery told one of our Majors about a big mission you pulled off for
him in the Toul Sector. We sure will be glad to have you work with us.”
This was the first recognition of this kind that I had ever gotten and
coming from Sherburne it was like a million dollars to me, for he was
one of the greatest men with whom I had ever worked. Of course, after
that compliment I was delighted and I certainly would not have let any
one else do the adjustment at all. I felt like a hero with three wings.
I was determined to do the best adjustment I had ever done in my life.
When we got to Bacarrat on the way to the airdrome, an orderly handed
Brereton a message which dampened my spirit and determination
completely. It read that Captain Hinds—Pop Hinds—the old man who that
morning had told me about his premonition that it was an off-day and
that I ought not go for I would not come back—was himself killed while
taking off from the airdrome, his plane having gone into a tailspin. His
observer, another “H”—Henderson, the Operations Officer, was seriously
injured. This news hurt me more than any I had ever received. Pop was
about forty-six years old and had gone into the flying game simply from
the desire to help along American Aviation, having had some little
amateur training before the War. We had tried our best to get him back
from the front because we realized that the old fellow didn’t have much
of a show against the Hun and under actual fighting conditions, but Pop
would not go back. He was always the first to volunteer for any mission.
A braver man I have never seen. He was a real daddy to us all and his
great human understanding and sympathy caused us to pay him a marked
deference and respect. He often won a lot of money from the officers
playing poker, but in his characteristic unselfishness, he spent it all
for candy, cigars, cigarettes and tobacco for the enlisted men and
mechanics. He was their idol and there was little, if anything, that
they would not do for him.
Henderson was one of my best friends and happily though he was not
killed, it had a peculiar significance to me that one hundred per cent
of the day’s casualties were “H’s.” It looked like an off-day for the
“H’s” without a doubt. There were only three of us left—one was the
Ordnance Officer, Hall by name, who was not a flyer; Harwood, who was
busy as could be on some assignments; and myself.
The only “H” left was to do an artillery adjustment that afternoon. I
thought it might be a good idea to put off that adjustment until the
next day, but I could not get up the courage to tell Brereton my honest
convictions.
When we got to the airdrome every one was feeling mighty low, because
these were our first casualties, outside of the loss of Angel and
Emerson in the Toul Sector. The bunch all felt that though the sun was
still shining and it was a good day for flying that there were better
days ahead. Even the squadron surgeon sent out the recommendation that
the flying be suspended for the day. I felt quite relieved for I could
not conceive of any one going against the recommendation of the
“Medico.” But this did not appeal to Brereton. In his characteristic
manner he loudly and emphatically announced that he was not going to let
a little thing like that stop the War; if a squadron went to the Front
they must expect some casualties and that flying would go right on. I
did not eat any dinner; I did not care for it; for, as usual, I did not
agree with Brereton. I honestly felt that flying ought to be suspended
in deference to old “Pop” Hinds if for no other reason at all.
I really dreaded that flight and even the praise of that Artillery
Colonel meant nothing in my life. No one came out to see us off. It was
the wrong atmosphere. There was gloom in the sky, gloom on the ground,
and gloom within our own beings. In fact, the whole world looked like a
dark cloud. The ordinarily jovial mechanics were all acting like a bunch
of pall bearers.
Brereton gave me a pilot by the name of West, which to my mind seemed
particularly pertinent for I sure felt as though I were going in that
direction.
For protection they sent a plane piloted by Schnurr with whom I had
previously had a narrow escape and as his observer they sent Thompson
against whom I had no complaint at all, for Thompson on his first flight
over the lines with the French, shot down an enemy plane. His presence,
of course, was no meager consolation, for while I did not want any
drawing cards along, I felt that if the Germans were going to attack it
would be a good thing to have some one along who could do the fighting,
because my experience in actual fighting up to this time put me in about
the same class that the St. Louis Nationals generally have in the
Baseball Club standing. I was at the bottom of the list. In fact,
Thompson was the only one in the squadron who had so far had a fight and
that was while he was with the French.
When we got over our battery I began to call them on the radio and they
put out their panels. We picked out the target which we had agreed upon
and sent the signal to fire. I had promised to adjust two batteries. The
plan was to finish the adjustment of the first battery and then begin
the second. So, after an hour and a half I completed the first
adjustment after about fifteen salvos, which, I admit, was rather rotten
work, then I started on the second.
The name of my second target was “Travail Blanc” which consisted of a
section of the trench which was especially heavily fortified with
machine guns, having a sweep on our lines in the ravine beneath. I had
just given them their first signal to fire, and of course, these
batteries not having had a great deal of experience in adjusting
artillery fire by airplane, were very, very slow in firing. Ordinarily
the observer can time the firing, as a prompt battery fires immediately
upon getting the signal from the airplane, and the observer can see the
burst almost immediately thereafter. It is extremely important to get
the first salvo bursts, for from this the observer knows approximately
where to look for the next. So, having pressed the key, I was oblivious
to all else in the world except the area immediately surrounding Travail
Blanc. I must have eyed it for fully thirty seconds, which is an
unusually long time to watch one particular spot on the earth, for with
the speed of a modern German airplane against my antique A.R., in thirty
seconds the Hun could get in a very advantageous place from out of a
cloud or the sun. I was still straining my eyes on Travail Blanc when I
heard the rat-a-tat-tat of something. It was the first time I had heard
machine guns firing in the air while in the air myself, so I felt that
we had probably lost altitude and that they were firing at us from the
ground. I knew that I could not remedy the situation now, so I again
turned my eyes toward Travail Blanc, when I saw the four bursts of the
salvo strike about two hundred yards from the target. I had just started
to reach for my key to send the correction to the battery when again I
heard the long, continuous rata-tat-tat of a machine gun getting louder
and louder. I leaned over the fuselage to take a look at the ground
beneath me. I thought we should be high enough so that they could not
possibly be firing at me and I could not figure what it was. I wondered
where Schnurr and Thompson, my protectors, were, so I began to scan the
air directly above me. As I threw my head backwards a streak of fire
crossed my face barely missing me. I realized that “White Work” (Travail
Blanc) was all wrong; my immediate target was “Dirty Work,” for instead
of seeing my protecting plane above me there was bearing down upon us,
with a speed that was indescribable, and spitting a thousand balls of
deadly fire at me every minute, a German Albatros Scout Fighter, and
directly behind it were two others of the same type. The Hun was already
not over a hundred feet from me and was coming on every iota of a second
with the speed of lightning and with a deadly accuracy of fire that
seemed to preclude any defense.