star, for all the magazines had firmly implanted that on their minds.
They didn’t care about the insignia of any other nation outside of the
American and German. To them one was a star and the other a cross,
anything else was either friendly or enemy; and they would take a chance
on it being enemy and fire at it.
One day before the Château-Thierry drive I was flying low along the
lines and from my map I was quite sure which was our own territory, and
which was that occupied by the Germans. I was well in the edge of our
own territory when I heard machine guns firing at me from the ground. My
first thought was that the Germans had advanced, so I directed the pilot
to dive down to investigate. As we dived the machine gunners became
convinced that we were going to fire upon them, so they turned loose
upon us. As we flew on back, other gun crews having seen those machine
guns firing at us, began firing too and although the pilot kept banking
the plane up so that they might see our American cocarde, they kept on
firing. About a half a kilometer back of the lines we began circling for
altitude, and I kept hearing a few shots from a gun. Then, in a few
seconds I saw a bullet go through the fuselage. Looking down on the edge
of an old trench I saw about three lads with rifles firing at us, and
they were good, old Yankee doughboys; I was sure of it.
I felt like turning loose a burst of about fifty rounds, aiming close to
this group in order to give them a real scare, then I realized that
there might be other troops around who might be grazed by a stray
bullet, so I marked the place very definitely on my map, flew back to
the airdrome and landed.
This was a serious matter, so I immediately made a trip up to the Front
to find out about it. I trudged around the trenches for an hour before
any plane came in sight, then one of our own airplanes came along,
flying very low. Suddenly I heard a rifle firing close by. I immediately
ran in the direction of the shooting and I discovered a half-grown kid
surrounded by a couple of his companions, coolly taking pot shots at
this American airplane. In a rage I jumped on him with all fours.
“Don’t you know that’s an American plane?” I demanded in a manner
neither affable nor pleasant. To my great surprise he responded that he
knew it was an American plane.
“Well,” I continued, speaking even more severely, “what do you mean by
firing on an American plane?”
This doughboy casually continued chewing his tobacco and looking at the
ground for some reason, apparently not from lack of composure, for he
would take an occasional spit at an old, rusty helmet about six feet up
the trench. The presence of an officer bothered him about as much as the
presence of a king affects a bolshevik.
“Well,” I again asked, “where do you get that noise of firing at a
friendly plane?”
This was just the opening he wanted, for he threw out his chest in all
his independent dignity and said, “There ain’t no friendly planes around
here. I ain’t seen any, no how. Them American planes ain’t got no
business being back this far from the lines and if them aviators ain’t
got nerve enough to go over there and scrap them Boche on their own
ground, we’ll force ’em over with our guns and put a little backbone in
’em.”
Then the lad gave me a full explanation as to why they had fired upon
these American planes and he claimed the American flyers always ran from
the Boche; the Boche came over and shot up the doughboys and he had
never seen an American plane going over and shooting up the Boche. Then
I asked him if he knew the functions of the airplanes. I wanted him to
know that some planes had to stay behind the lines at times.
“Yep,” he said, “they’re all fighters, all of ’em, or supposed to be,
but they don’t fight. They stay back here; they’re scared to go over.”
Then I asked him if he had ever heard of an observation plane and if an
observation plane shot a signal of six rockets to him what he would do.
He replied that he did not know anything about observation planes and
didn’t want to know anything about them, but that several times large
planes had flown back there and had fired fire rockets at the doughboys.
“How many rockets did they fire?” I asked.
“Oh,” he said, “lots of ’em. Sometimes three and six at one time.” I
knew six rockets was the official signal from an airplane to the
infantry, and that they were supposed to put out white pieces of cloth,
their panels, to tell the airplane exactly where they were.
“Well, what did you do when the airplane fired six rockets at you?” I
questioned in a more tolerating tone of voice.
“What did I do?” he answered as if surprised at such a silly question.
“What do you think I’d a done? Why, I fired right back at ’em. There
ain’t nobody goin’ to fire at me and get off with it without me firing
back.”
The other buddies backed him up absolutely and I spent a half hour
explaining to them the real facts about the airplane game. They finally
came to my way of thinking on every point except the courage of the
American airman. They could not be dissuaded; they were convinced that
most American flyers were cowards and “yellow.”
I, of course, reported this firing on friendly airplanes to Headquarters
and an order was issued so as to acquaint the Infantry with the Allied
insignia. However, it was not until late in the Argonne offensive that
this misapprehension of the doughboy was entirely cleared away. Time and
time again when I would ask infantrymen, even officers, if they knew the
American airplane insignia, they would say it was a “Star,” but that
they had never seen any American planes on the front. Perhaps it is for
this reason that there are many doughboys who to-day declare they never
saw an American airplane over the front. They undoubtedly saw many
American planes, but they never saw any with the much-advertised star in
the cocarde.
We had a great lot of trouble with wireless equipment in our artillery
adjustments. When anything went wrong it was always blamed on the radio
attached to the airplanes and we, of course, always attributed the fault
to the artillery station on the ground because our wireless sets were
always tested from the air to our own squadron station before starting
on any mission. If the radio was not working, we always came down and
fixed it. But this continual, unsatisfactory coöperation on radio
communication was a serious affair all the way through and it was a bone
of contention between the Air Service and the Artillery in many
instances. Finally radio officers were appointed to inspect the
equipment on the airplane and the equipment on the ground and to
determine where the fault lay. This helped some, but the trouble was
never actually overcome. If the trouble was with the airmen, it was
perhaps due to failure to throw in their switch. An experience I had,
led me to believe that the trouble was more with the personnel than the
material. In each artillery regiment in trench warfare, there was one
battery designated to fire upon a sudden call from the airplane. This
battery was known as the fugitive target battery and the wireless crew
was supposed to be constantly on duty from daybreak until nightfall so
that when an airplane called, the designated battery could be
immediately notified and the adjustment of artillery fire undertaken at
once.
One day I decided to make a thorough reconnaissance of the Front and to
call the fugitive target battery to a certain regiment to make a rapid
adjustment. I crossed the line, found my target, which was a small
convoy on the road within a forest. I was well within range of the
fugitive target battery, so I immediately began to call the wireless
station of the battery. I called it for fully twenty-five minutes but I
could get no response. They did not put out any panel at all. I happened
to know the location of the wireless station in the next regiment, which
was also supposed to be looking out for fugitive target calls, so I
called them and they immediately displayed their panel that they
understood me. I was then certain that my wireless was O. K., so I flew
back to my first battery and began to call them again. After another
fifteen minutes I still received no response whatsoever. As the target
had long since disappeared and being without the range of the alert
battery of the next regiment, I flew home.
After making my report I called up the Colonel of the Regiment in which
the battery was located. He, of course, being a very busy man, was not
especially anxious to talk to a Lieutenant, so he transferred me to his
wireless officer. I told the wireless officer that I had called them for
forty minutes and had gotten absolutely no response and that I was sure
that my wireless was all right. He, in a very nice way, responded that
he was quite sure that my wireless was not all right, because he was
certain that the battalion concerned had their wireless in very good
shape. We got into quite an argument in which I told him that I called
the designated battery of the next regiment and that they had answered
and that I called my home station both on leaving and returning and that
they answered, but the Captain repeated that he didn’t give a
continental how many answered, he still knew his wireless stations were
all right and he didn’t want any argument over the telephone about it.
Whereupon I mentally cussed the whole Army, but merely said, “Yes, Sir,”
and hung up.
I immediately dispatched another plane to call the same battery and to
keep on calling them until they answered. Then I got into the car and
drove up to the battalion concerned. I paid my respects to the Major
commanding the battalion and told him the trouble—that we had called and
had received no response. He was sort of peeved at the whole world so he
said he was getting disgustingly tired of these airplanes hollering
about the Artillery’s wireless; that his wireless was all right and it
was the inefficient airplanes; that his wireless men were on duty and
had been from daybreak until night. I told him I would like to go over,
if I might, and look over his wireless station. He became very indignant
and said, “Lieutenant, that is quite an unnecessary request. I know the
efficient condition of my units and I know my wireless is listening now
and I know that they have been listening in all day.”
I was beginning to become accustomed to these rebuffs by this time so I
smoothed it over the best I could and finally he agreed to take the time
to walk over to the wireless station with me. The plane I had dispatched
ahead was circling above and I knew he was calling. We went to the
wireless station, which was a sort of improvised one down in a dug-out.
The place was deserted and there was not a person in sight. The Major
was sore, but apologetic. He remembered that Battery C was supposed to
furnish the detail and that they were supposed to be on the job
permanently. So we went over and found the Captain of Battery C and the
Battalion Signal Officer, a Second Lieutenant, who were busily engaged
in a poker game. The Major, in a terrible voice, demanded, “Where in
’ell are those radio operators?” The poor Lieutenant meekly gave the
only answer he could think of. “Why, Major,” he said, “they are right
over there at the station; they have been there all day.”
The Major calmly asked, “Lieutenant, have you inspected the radio unit
to-day?”
Whereupon the Lieutenant solemnly said, “No, Sir, I have not inspected
it, but I am positive that the operators are right on the job,” and he
described definitely the place from which we had just come.
We asked him the name of his radio operators. They were all privates.
With the Captain and the Radio Officer we went over to the radio
station. It was still deserted. The Major began to tell the Lieutenant
in language that will not permit of repetition just what he thought of
him. The Lieutenant was speechless, and out of sympathy for him I made
the suggestion that there was an airplane above which was probably
calling them now and that it might be a good idea if we could get some
one there at the station to listen in. The Radio Officer grasped the
opportunity, jumped down and put the clickers to his ears, and the first
thing he said was, “Q-P-R, Q-P-R—that’s our call!” I felt like a million
dollars, for this time the Artillery was forced to concede that it was
not the fault of the airplane. With the assistance of the Major and the
Captain we manipulated the panels while the wireless officer took the
calls and the lad in the airplane did the adjustment. Then we went back
to find out where the radio operators were; that is, the three privates.
The Captain dispatched an orderly to find the first sergeant. In about
five minutes the sergeant was located and made his appearance. He was an
old non-commissioned officer and was seasoned by experience in many
climes and in dealing with many classes of men. He was rather heavy, and
had not shaved for several days, which fact, in addition to his heavy,
disheveled mustache, gave him the appearance of a hardboiled bulldog.
“Sergeant,” began the Captain, “do you know where the radio operators
are?”
“Yes, sir,” grumbled the top soak, affirmatively nodding his head with
self-satisfaction that he quite well knew where they were.
“Well,” went on the Captain, “I want to see them at once. If you will
show me their quarters it will save time.”
“They ain’t in their quarters,” came the reply. “They’re in the
kitchen.”
We went to the kitchen and found the three expert radio operators—two
were scrubbing big, black pans and the third was peeling spuds.
For moral effect, the Captain called the Top Sergeant off to one side.
The rest of us had to laugh.
“Why have you got these men in the kitchen?” hotly demanded the Captain.
“Well, Sir,” replied the Sergeant, closing in his jaws firmly in
determination, “there ain’t no more reason why the rest of the battery
should do K. P. and excuse the wireless men. I heard one of ’em say
yesterday that he ain’t never done no K. P. since he’d been in this
man’s army, and that kind er talk is bad for the morale of the battery,
so I just stuck ’em all on fer a few days to show the fellers they ain’t
no favors played in this battery.”
“Yes, but what about the radio?” asked the Captain. “You should have
left one of them on the job.”
“Oh, well, Captain,” came back the “Top” Sergeant, “it ain’t goin’ to
make no difference; these airplanes don’t call the station more than
once every two or three days and we ain’t got enough men to waste on
sitting around awaiting for ’em to call and they don’t do nothing for us
when they do call.”
Thus I found one of the main reasons for this early lack of results.
These old timers did not take the Air Service seriously. They had no
faith in its present capabilities nor its future development. To them an
Army was composed of Infantry, Cavalry and Artillery. Every other arm or
service was experimental. I am glad to say, however, that later this
battery, in fact the entire regiment of Artillery, became very
proficient in the work with the Air Service and the results were,
indeed, satisfactory to all.
In the actual advance at Château-Thierry the ground liaison—that is, the
communication by telephone, wireless telegraph and ground telegraph
between the line units and the Air Service—became poorer and poorer as
the troops advanced until it was really in a deplorable state. The area
over which troops passed was all shell torn and it was impossible to
move our flying fields farther up because we could not cease operations
in order to make the move since we had no reserve Air units, and worse,
we had no fields prepared and the Germans had destroyed theirs in the
retreat.
As the days advanced conditions became more terrible. The entire corps
headquarters had only one telephone wire and one ground telegraph line
to the Corps Advance Headquarters and from there only one out to the
various Divisional Posts of Command and in front of those Posts of
Command almost everything was done by runners. Our little force at the
Corps Air Service Headquarters was all worked down. After the first few
days the drive ceased to be exciting and it became purely drudgery and
habit. We were all irritable and cross. We were overworked and loss of
sleep was showing very much in our dispositions. This particular day
things were getting pretty bad up the line. The German artillery was
making a strong defense and all of our Command Posts were getting their
full share of German artillery fire. At noon our radio operator told me
that some one had been trying all morning to put through a message to
us, but that we had been unable to receive it. Either the transmitting
set at the line was not working or our receiving set was not. At any
rate, something was urgently wrong somewhere at the front or they would
not have been so persistent. About nine-thirty they started trying to
call us and they kept on until eleven-thirty, but the operator could not
get anything definite out of the sound. In addition, at about a quarter
of twelve they succeeded in getting a telephone call through, but we
could not hear. We tried to relay it, but that did not work. We worked
an hour on that—until a quarter of one. Then they managed to get a
priority call through on the ground telegraph, which telegram was dated
at the Post of Command at one-thirty in the afternoon and was delivered
to me at one-forty. The telegram read as follows:
“To Chief of Air Service. First Army Corps.
German artillery firing on my Post of Command. Stop it!
General.”
Of course, we all had a real laugh at the situation; that is, Mathis and
I, for we were the only ones there, Brereton being away on business and
Harwood being up at the front on liaison. Of course, such a request was
obviously impossible. An airplane can spot certain batteries when
firing, but when there are fifteen hundred different guns firing
continuously on fifteen hundred different objectives one can imagine
what possibility an airplane would have of picking out the particular
battery that was firing on this particular post of command. At the same
time, as it was signed in code by a General, it was imperative that
something be done because that unit had not been any too friendly toward
the Air Service, and, of course, the wishes of a General must always
have immediate attention.
I knew there was no answer that I could send back over the wire that
would quiet the situation, so we simply acknowledged the receipt of the
message. At the same time I knew there was no use to send a special
airplane for this request because we already maintained a plane over the
front every hour of the day, the one duty of which was to report by
wireless the location of any enemy batteries seen firing. I was mighty
busy on a multitude of other things, but still the General must be
answered, so I finally decided the best thing to do was to go up to the
Post of Command and explain the entire situation, telling why it could
not be done. After an hour and a half rough riding we finally approached
the Post of Command concerned. I left the car about a quarter of a mile
away so as to not attract the attention of the German airplanes to the
presence of a Command Post. All the way up I had been considering just
what I would say, because, being a Lieutenant, I wouldn’t have much
chance with a General, and yet I felt that since I had to do it I ought
to have something worth saying. I had decided upon my whole speech—I
would simply say that the mission was not only impossible but such a
request was preposterous—an airplane was a great thing, but it had a
limit of activity. At the same time I was in great fear of being laughed
at and being balled out, because in a great many cases a Lieutenant
speaking with a General, with the slight difference in rank, is at a
disadvantage. I knew I had to make some sort of a stab so, though I was
determined on my speech, I really felt very much like a bashful school
boy. As to procedure I had it all fixed up that I would go in, click my
heels together, salute smartly and explain to the General that I was the
Operations Officer for the Corps Air Service, whereupon I thought he
would certainly have some deference for me on account of the important
position I was holding with such low rank. My greatest hope was that he
would be reasonable and would take my statement regarding the situation
as final and authoritative, without further argument. I concluded that
the best way would be to impress him with the knowledge I had on the
particular subject and not give him a chance to come back. To do this I
must be absolutely firm and convincing in what I had to say, but at the
same time, way down deep in my heart I felt it was a hopeless task, for
these “higher ups” are inclined to consider nothing but results—and
since we could not give him the results he wanted, he would conclude
that the Air Service had failed, and as the line units had done on
several other similar occasions, they would merely remark, “the same old
story,” shrug their shoulders and pass it up. I, of course, expected to
find the General down in his dug-out, being heavily shelled, but I was
determined to show him that I was a real hero by walking right through
the shell-fire and calmly explaining to him why we couldn’t help him.
This last decision really required nerve on my part, for if there is any
one thing I cannot stand, it is shell-fire on the ground. It did not
worry me so much in the air, for there seemed to be such a good chance
to dodge, but on the ground—well, I had been caught in it several times
and, in each instance, I made the necessary distance to safety in
considerable less than record time on the fastest tracks.
I picked up a stray doughboy to guide me to the Post of Command. To my
absolute surprise I found that everything was apparently quiet. However,
the surroundings bore the unmistakable evidence that the region had
undergone a very heavy and prolonged bombardment. I could not understand
this; in fact, I was certain that we had come to the wrong Post of
Command.
“Orderly,” I said to a lad standing at the door, “is this the P. C. of
General Blank?” using the proper code name.
“That’s right, Sir,” he smartly answered.
“When did the bombardment stop?” I demanded.
“About two o’clock, Sir,” he replied.
“May I see the General?” I asked.
“What is the name, Sir?”
“Just tell the General or Chief of Staff that Lieutenant Haslett of the
Air Service would like to see either of them at their convenience. There
is nothing urgent.”
The orderly stepped inside and almost immediately a Lieutenant came out.
“I’m the General’s aide,” he said, extending his hand. “The General will
see you at once. Come right in.”
The door opened and I was ready with my speech. Out rushed the General
and his Chief of Staff and the rest of his staff around him—none of them
less in rank than a Lieutenant Colonel. Of course, I stood at attention,
stiff as an iceberg, but they thawed me out by a cordial “Are you
Haslett, the Operations Officer of the Air Service?”
I had never before in my life spoken to such a high ranking General and
in a quivering, quick voice which indicated that I expected to be
crucified at the next moment I said, “Yes, Sir.” The General advanced,
put out his hand and said, “Lieutenant, I want to congratulate you. That
is the first time we have ever had efficient service and coöperation
from your airplane crowd. All morning while we tried to get you by
wireless and we knew we had not succeeded, for you did not answer—they
were firing upon us terribly; and then we tried to get you on the
telephone, but I think the bursting shells around us was one of the
reasons you could not hear; but when we got that telegram through at
one-thirty and you acknowledged receiving it at a quarter of two—it was
simply fine. We saw an airplane circle overhead promptly at two o’clock
and that artillery stopped firing at exactly five minutes after two. Now
that’s what I call splendid work, and I am going to tell the Corps
Commander about it.”