two hours sleep nightly, on the third day of our own drive, namely, the
twentieth of July, at about ten in the morning, it was deemed necessary
by the American and French High Commanders that a long distance
reconnaissance should be made immediately in order to determine as near
as possible the intention of the enemy. The Americans did not have an
Army Reconnaissance Squadron at Château-Thierry at the time so the
mission came to us for proper action.
I talked it over with Brereton and we agreed that in order to do the
mission properly with full justice to every one concerned it would take
not less than twenty-five planes and considering the distance of the
mission, the time necessary in the air to complete it, and the supremacy
of the air held by the Germans, based upon the average of our
casualties, we decided we would lose not less than eight of these
planes, with a minimum of sixteen officers.
But things were in a very peculiar situation. We had been temporarily
stopped and it was necessary to find out whether the Germans intended to
make a firm stand or whether their stand was only temporary, in order to
give them time to withdraw their forces from the south. When we came to
our decision we consulted the high command, telling them the number of
planes it would take and what our minimum losses would be. We impressed
upon them our already heavy casualties and how short we were of
airplanes. The answer was that the importance of the mission would
justify all losses should the desired information be gained.
At this answer I suddenly became a tactician and strategist. I hit
Brereton with the suggestion that if we could find a pilot and an
observer who were overloaded with “guts” and properly “hardboiled” and
who did not care much for their lives, they might be able to get in fine
by going very low and thus get the information. My idea was that if we
went in with twenty-five planes this would be such a force that the
Germans would be able to concentrate practically their entire Richtofen
circus against us before we would have had time to make the large
circuit assigned and get out, while if one plane went in, extremely low,
several favorable suppositions might be possible; namely, the German
Chasse Patrols, high in the heavens above, seeing a plane so far behind
the line, would not think that it could possibly be other than a
friendly plane; and being by itself, the anti-aircraft and the command
reporting it would not call out so much pursuit as they otherwise would;
and, furthermore, being alone the pursuit planes would not have so much
chance of finding it. I agreed with Brereton that it was practically
hopeless, but at the same time it was a long chance and as it was in the
middle of the day, if this mission failed we could have another mission
of the twenty-five planes required, in readiness to take off to perform
the mission in compliance with the original plan. This large formation
could leave as soon as definite news was obtained that the first plane
had been shot down, or that it had failed to return after a reasonable
time. Brereton laughed sarcastically and said, “That idea is just about
as feasible as a single aviator trying to fly to Berlin, picking out the
Kaiser from the rest of the squareheads and hitting him with a bomb.”
I accused him of being arbitrary for not giving valid reasons against
the plan whereupon he sprang to his feet and puckering up in his
singular way, exclaimed, “I am running this Air Service, Lieutenant, and
I don’t need any suggestions from First Lieutenants.”
Tired and exhausted from lack of sleep, a court martial didn’t matter
any more to me than five cents does to a millionaire, and Brereton, who
had suffered the same loss of sleep and, of course, more serious
irritation on account of his responsibility, did not care any more for a
poor Lieutenant than an elephant does for a fly. The dog’s hair had been
rubbed the wrong way for I reared up on my hind legs and began to paw
air and it looked like the Corps Air Service was to have a slight
disruption. I was so sore that I almost bawled. I hotly informed
Brereton that if I was to hold the job of Operations Officer I intended
to express my opinion, and if it wasn’t approved, he had a right to say
so in a military manner, and in no other.
Then came my downfall. I raved on, “I’m getting good and tired of this
proposition of being stuck up on one of these bullet-proof jobs when all
my buddies are flying two and three times a day and getting killed,” and
after a moment of silence, I continued, “I came over to be a fighter and
I want to go to the Squadron and take my chances with the rest of them.”
Brereton was worn out and was in no mood to be irritated. “Well,” he
sharply and decisively replied, “if you want to go down to the Squadron,
go ahead, no one’s holding you.”
This made me more peevish than ever, for I had in some way or other
acquired the idea that the Corps Air Service could not possibly exist
without me. My pride was bruised forever. With even more irony he went
on as if to leave no opportunity for a repetition of such bluffing on my
part, “If you’re so hardboiled and brave, why don’t you tackle the
mission you just outlined. Go ahead and win yourself the Croix de Bois
(Cross of Wood).”
I was serious about the proposition; I was pretty sure of getting
killed, but after that last sneering remark my decision was formed.
Momentarily, I hated Lewis Hyde Brereton more than I ever hated any one
in my life, but I knew his weakness, so, I was determined that we should
die together.
“Well, why don’t you go on?” he hotly demanded.
It was up to me; I did not have the composure of a jack-rabbit, and I
began to paw air again, pound the table and turn red, and said, “Well,
Major L. H. Brereton, I’ll go, you know that, and I’ll get the
information, but I can’t pilot a plane. I am the observer. If you will
order,” and I accentuated “order,” “a pilot for me, there will be no
further delay.”
I knew he would do it. He only needed to be brought to the psychological
moment. I knew his big nature would not permit him to order any one on
such a mission. Changing from his irritant, harsh and denouncing manner,
his face registered the greatest possible human kindness and the merry
twinkle in his eye told the world we were friends again.
“Well, Elmer,” he said, in a sharply pitched voice, which, however,
carried deepest respect and utmost conviction, “we have never asked any
one yet to do what we would not do ourselves. If you want to go on that
mission, I’ll go with you.”
We hopped into Brereton’s motor car and were off to the airdrome. Mathis
called the squadron and instructed them to have the command plane in
readiness. On the way to the airdrome the trip was marked by a prolonged
silence. We were not particularly fisty; at least, I was not, because I
was beginning to realize the magnitude of our undertaking. It seemed to
me that we were already making the flight. Just as a flyer keeps a cool
and level head when actually engaged in a combat, even though at great
odds, so, as we sped on, I did not feel any particular nervousness. It
was not necessary to talk over the mission for Brereton knew as well as
I what we were supposed to do, and the route we must take.
Arriving at the airdrome we found the plane ready. Only a few officers
were on the field and to these we said nothing more than the ordinary
greeting between flyers when leaving on a mission. We climbed into our
places. Brereton played with the throttle for a few moments, then he
turned around and in the usual way preparatory to taking off he asked,
“All clear, Elmer?” I looked around to see if any other planes were in
the air, whose landing might interfere with our taking off; seeing none,
I answered as cheerfully as possible, “All O.K., Sir.” But he did not
take off; he allowed the motor to idle away. Suddenly he turned his head
and in a tone that indicated profound sincerity, and at the same time
extreme uncertainty, he said, “Elmer, we’re a couple of boobs. We’ve got
no business doing this job. If they do get us who in the devil is going
to run this Air Service? Your darned hunch is all wrong this time.”
Here was a thought that had not entered my mind for we alone were
familiar with every detail of the organization of the operations for the
drive and our loss at that particular time would really have been felt.
I personally felt it was too late then to change, but this was a
question which I felt was up to the Chief himself to decide, so after
thinking it over a moment I said, “Use your own judgment, Sir.” He
hesitated a few seconds, then shrugged his shoulders and turned loose,
“Well, I guess Bill Mitchell can handle it all right, and as he made
that flight the other day by himself, I guess we, together, can make
this one.” He pulled his goggles down over his eyes, hastily adjusted
his helmet, motioned the mechanics to remove the blocks.
“All clear, Elmer?” he questioned.
“All clear, Sir,” I replied.
He gave her the gun and we were off. We headed straight over
Coulommiers, to La Ferte sous Jouarre, which was the headquarters of the
1st U. S. Army Corps, and followed the Marne on to Château-Thierry. We
lost no time in climbing, but in a steady path like the crow flies we
went directly over the lines. We were only nine hundred feet high and
every feature on the ground seemed to stand out perfectly. Our course
carried us straight north along the road from Château-Thierry to
Roucourt; from here we branched off toward Fere-en-Tardenois, and from
Fere-en-Tardenois we hovered along the road to Grandes Loges and St.
Remy. Leaving St. Remy we clung to the road leading north and finally
reached Soissons. Banking to the right we skimmed along the River Vesle,
searching the roads on both banks to Misy-sur-Aisne. We followed the
Vesle down to Braisne and Fismes. At Fismes we were thirty kilometers
within the German lines, and had reached our farthest objective; it was
now only necessary to get out without being caught.
I cannot remember the exact route we took in getting out. I only
remember that Brereton asked me at Fismes, which way home and I
answered, “south with the wind.” I remember that we crossed the Marne
again at Dormans and headed toward La Ferte to drop our message of
information. In fact on the trip out I was not concerned with the route
particularly—I knew that south meant home and we already had the
information wanted, so, to me, life and happiness meant home by the
shortest possible route.
[Illustration: ROUTE · COVERED · BY · ‘BRERETON’S · FAMOUS · FLIGHT’]
In undertaking such a mission as this, that is, in being so far behind
the lines without protection, I fully realized the utter futility of
trying to concentrate my attention on the sky in search of enemy planes
and at the same time do justice to the importance of the mission which
would require practically constant attention to the ground. I quite well
know that if we were caught so far back we would have no possible chance
to get away with our lives, so, in my mind, it was of no importance to
watch the sky. My watching the heavens would not help us from being
seen, but at the same time, as we were carried along, I was also carried
off with a multitude and variety of thoughts. About the biggest question
I was attempting to solve was just how long I would last after a German
patrol started after me. Then, I figured myself falling in flames. It is
strange the many thoughts that will play upon one’s mind in similar
circumstances. The sudden pangs of regret that you ever left the
airdrome and even more sincere sorrow that you ever got into the Air
Service; the wondering what the boys in the Squadron are doing, and how
the folks back home are, and whether you will ever see them again, and
what the preacher in the village church will say at your memorial
services and whether the Commander of the Army will write your mother a
nice letter of condolence and whether the girl who jolted you will be
sorry; and you wonder what you would finally have turned out to be if
you had not been killed, and other such trivial, little things; and the
fact that you had wished you had burned all your letters before you left
and a lot of little things you should have attended to before—for
instance, on that flight I remembered that I was directed to call up the
Corps Artillery Squadron and relieve them from two flights during that
day. I brooded over the thought that if that Squadron went on with those
flights and one of the flyers got killed how sorry I would be—how sorry
I was that I had not attended to that before going out on this fool trip
myself.
I was certainly thankful that I had $10,000 worth of Government life
insurance and was wondering how my mother would get along on $57.50 per
month for twenty years, and I wished I had taken out $20,000 worth in
private life insurance instead of spending two hundred dollars last
month in Paris. All these more serious thoughts were going through my
mind, having practically no one dependent upon me and with only the
expendable rank of First Lieutenant upon my shoulders, and then I
thought of poor, old Brereton with a wife and two children, and a
Major’s responsibility. Very shortly before this, Major Brown, in
command of the 96th Squadron, had gotten lost in Germany and had landed
with five other American planes and their crews, and this matter had
occasioned unfavorable remarks as to his judgment. None of Brereton’s
friends would ever be able to explain why, in his responsible position,
he ever even started out on such a hazardous mission as this.
Well, I came to the conclusion that one has two brains—one constructive
and the other retrospective, for actually while I was thinking all of
those things I was at the same time intently watching the ground and
carefully noting the location of all my information.
That trip, from a standpoint of a war panorama, was a sight-seeing tour
of wonder. Imagine the solid and continuous barrage of thousands and
thousands of shells bursting in a line for miles and miles, the barking
cannons on each side, like so many ferocious dogs spitting fire, roads
filled with on-marching troops, coming up in formation from both sides,
walking as it were, into that veritable valley of death and destruction;
the air filled with hostile planes and our whole safety depending upon
the supposition of being alone and so far behind the lines that the
Germans would not realize the presence of an enemy plane.
We must have seen between a total of seventy-five and one hundred German
airplanes during the entire flight, for do not think that we kept our
eyes glued to the ground all the time; at least I did not; and in one
place we were so near a Boche airdrome that we saw the German planes on
the field milling around about ready to buzz up after us. Yet even at
such a low altitude we were only fired at once or twice by machine guns
from the ground. At the front the machine guns were busy firing forward
and in the rear there did not seem to be any available.
Our mission had been a long one and one of the few in which the crew can
use their own judgment. So, when he circled over La Ferte, the
Headquarters of the Corps, and dropped our message, we had not only
stated the facts as we had seen them, but also our conclusions, taking
the whole aspect as it presented itself.
When we got back to the field Brereton circled the field twice before he
could land. He was considerably discomposed—personally, I was the living
Wreck of the Hesperus. Brereton’s car was waiting and we rushed up to
headquarters. The boys on the field were still ignorant as to where we
had been and what we had done. Neither Brereton nor I said very much
about the mission for we didn’t know whether we would be condemned for
undertaking it or congratulated upon its successful completion. Of
course, the line units around Corps Headquarters did not realize exactly
the importance of such an undertaking, although I admit that Lieutenant
Colonel Williams, whom we affectionately called “Houdini,” and who was
in charge of G-2 Information Group, stated that night, at the nine
o’clock conference, that it was good dope and whoever got it, he
certainly wanted to congratulate them. Brereton kept closed like a clam,
while the position of my mouth was not unlike an oyster. However, when
the French Air Service Commander, Commandant Gerard, heard of it, and he
knew of it almost immediately, he came right over and offered his
congratulations and was very profuse in his praise. Then we began to
think we had really done something. The French told General Mitchell
about it and he came right up to Headquarters and patted me on the back.
Brereton was out, but when General Mitchell did that I knew we had done
something.
In a very short time came the famous order of the great French officer
who commanded our Army—General De Gouttes. It was as follows:
SECRET
VIth Army 24 July 21h 50.
TELEPHONE ORDER.
The enemy is in retreat on all our front. I give the order to march
without stopping in such a way as to lay hands upon the enemy, to
accelerate his retreat and not to lose contact with him under any
pretext.
DE GOUTTES.
* * * * *
136/G3 Headquarters 1st A. C.
24 July 1918.
Copy transmitted for your information and thorough compliance.
By Command of Major General Liggett:
MALIN CRAIG,
Chief of Staff.
Hq. First Army Corps
Official
Operations Section
Afterwards, when we were around French Headquarters we were always
pointed out as “tres fort” and “tres brave” and were treated with a
great deal of consideration by the French, for they considered the
flight as about the greatest thing they had seen pulled off for some
time, especially since the information had been accurate and had been of
great assistance. In fact, they thought it was so good that they did not
hesitate to decorate Brereton with the Legion of Honor and the Croix de
Guerre. At that time I was only a Lieutenant so I was decorated with the
Croix de Guerre and, as Brereton expressed it, as long as I was with him
I was in the Region of Honor. However, I received stacks of approbation
that I feared for a while would be condemnation, but those are the
chances one takes in undertaking any flight which is revolutionary in
the form of tactics or strategy. In fact, if we had been shot down on
the mission and had been unsuccessful we would probably have been
referred to, even at this late date, as the participants in “Brereton’s
Famous Flight,” only there would have been a different accent of
insinuation on the word “Famous” than there now is in its common
acceptance.
V
TROUBLES ON THE GROUND
Here is a story dedicated to the boys who fought the war on the ground,
the holders of the famous “Croix de Chair,” who were commonly known as
swivel chair artists, or “Waffle Seaters.” I was engaged in this duty
myself at times and I know what it means. It is the most exacting and
yet least appreciated task of the war. We used to call these staff
officers “Waffle Seaters” for the reason that they sat so long on cane
bottomed chairs that the seats of their trousers were beginning to take
on the impression of a waffle.
There were troubles in the air and troubles on the ground. One of the
reasons that made it extremely difficult to get a proper understanding
between the units on the ground and the Air Service was that the ground
units had never had an opportunity to work with the Air Service and
they, therefore, could not understand the possibilities and the
limitations of aviation. Neither the airman nor the ground soldier could
be brought to realize that many of the troubles encountered were common
to both. This lack of understanding and coöperation gradually was
eliminated as the units became more experienced in working with each
other.
However, for a long time the airman could not possibly comprehend how
the same faults that bothered the flyer could also bother those on the
ground. The contrary is also true—many on the ground thought the airman
would not be bothered by the same elements that would hinder ground
work.
An incident illustrating this occurred between a couple of air officers,
a Colonel who was in charge of American Balloons at the Front, and a
Lieutenant, a Balloon Observer. This superior officer was a full-blooded
German, born in Berlin. He spoke a German-American language that was
mostly German. His name was Lieutenant Colonel John Paegelow. Paegelow
was a Regular, and a regular fellow. We all liked him very much for he
was very jovial and good natured. Anyway, his loyalty was unquestionable
for he was about the worst Hun-Hater among us. However, he had the
Prussian idea of discipline and he took it out on the balloonatics
whenever he felt they needed it. At Château-Thierry the balloons were
under orders to remain in ascension day and night, and the personnel of
the balloon companies had become noticeably fatigued from this prolonged
vigilance; the balloon observers, especially, were worn out and
naturally cross and irritable. It was a rainy night and Paegelow was
standing on the ground holding the telephone in communication with the
balloon observer two thousand feet above. This observer had been up for
fourteen consecutive hours and was about all in, and the rain had made
it a desolate and disagreeable night, adding considerable more woe to
the occasion.
“Colonel,” the young observer telephoned, in a very disgusted voice.
“Vat?” alertly answered Paegelow, thinking the lad had spied something.
“It’s pitch dark up here, I can’t see a damn thing and it’s raining to
beat Hell up here,” spoke the observer.
“Iss dot up dare all de trouble you got?” said Paegelow, indicating his
overruling of the demurrer.
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” demanded the exasperated
Lieutenant.
Paegelow hesitated a second, then replied, “Vell, vill you shut up and
go on and vork. It iss pitch dark down here, und I can’t see a damn ting
down here either, und it iss raining to beat ’ell down here too.”
When we started to work with new Infantry and Artillery units some were
pleased and others did not want to have anything to do with us. It was
at Château-Thierry that such lack of liaison became a serious matter and
at the same time was the basis for several amusing incidents. The line
units were prone to blame the Air Service for everything that went
wrong. The reason was that they considered an airplane so experimental
and uncertain in itself that that fact alone would preclude any argument
as to the proper placing of blame for every failure.
One of the hardest things we had to contend with was impressing upon the
line units the fact that the Corps Observation and the Corps Air Service
Commander had absolutely nothing to do with the Pursuit and Attack
planes; that all these came directly under the French Army Commander.
Several times I answered the telephone to receive the scathing
denunciation that “the Hun was over shooting up some of our Posts of
Command and that none of our d—d airplanes had been seen in the air all
day.” Whereupon we tried to explain that we did not control the pursuit
planes; that it should have been reported to the Army Headquarters and
that we, of course, would report it immediately. The ground units
considered this rather poor tactics and a very unsatisfactory answer,
for to their minds all planes were offensive fighters. Had the line
units realized the actual number of planes we had on the front and the
area they were patrolling they might have realized why our planes were
not seen oftener. We did not have them to be seen.
One of the greatest difficulties we had was in teaching the doughboy to
recognize the American insignia. Our publications were responsible for
this, for every magazine published in the United States pictured the
American airplane with a big star painted on its wings, while the
insignia actually adopted was a cocarde—three circles of red, white and
blue, within one another, the center circle being white, the British
center circle being red, and the French center circle being blue. As a
matter of fact, the star in the air, at a reasonably long distance,
looks exactly like the German Maltese Cross. In fact, a French airman
once remarked that if the American had gone into combat with that much
advertised star and the Germans failed to get him, a friendly airman,
misjudging the star for a cross, certainly would have given a real
battle.