say. I had a vision of a young hero with a Distinguished Service Cross
and twenty-six and a half Croix de Guerre—I might not have been the Ace
of Aces, but I certainly was the Deuce of Deuces. After a moment’s
hesitation I knew it was the time to act, so I shrugged my shoulders,
casually lighted a cigarette and nonchalantly informed the General that
I came to see that the airplane had satisfactorily completed its mission
and to assure myself that he was satisfied and to tell him that any time
he had any trouble we wanted him to feel that the Air Service was behind
him, day and night; that if they only got the word to us, we would do
our best.
Believe me, every one of the staff, from the Lieutenant Colonels up,
shook my hand and individually thanked me for the efficient work we had
done in stopping that artillery fire. This was the real case of having
fortune thrust upon one. Perhaps I should have insisted upon explaining
that we had nothing to do with stopping that artillery fire, but somehow
I could not. It was a dream which was better undisturbed, for the German
Heavy Artillery had certainly stopped of its own volition, not ours.
Forever afterwards that General and his entire staff were strong
boosters for the Air Service, and when any one had anything to say
against the Air Service, if there was a member of that staff around an
argument was certain; and the General, I am told, still tells of how the
wonderful American Air Service stopped the German Heavy Artillery on
fifteen minutes’ notice at Château-Thierry.
VI
THE WILD RIDE OF A GREENHORN
One of the greatest experiences an observer can have is to take a new
pilot over the lines for his first trip; in other words, “break him in.”
I had sort of specialized in this work in the early days in quiet
sectors, but when I was sent up to the Argonne sector it was for an
entirely different mission. I had long since gotten past this
preliminary stage. The object of my being there was to carry on
adjustments of artillery on the moving enemy targets, for I had been
giving a great deal of attention to this special work all through our
experiences at Château-Thierry and Saint Mihiel. At the opening of the
Argonne drive on the 26th of September my position was that of
Operations Officer for the Corps Observation Wing of the First Army. It
seemed that the development of artillery adjustments on fugitive targets
had sort of been overlooked, so General Mitchell, who was then Chief of
Air Service of the First Army, began to realize the importance of this
work and decided that it should be given more attention. Of course, it
was strictly a Corps Observation mission, and so he passed the order
down to Brereton and Brereton, of course, passed the “buck” on to me,
for the buck never passes up—it’s always down.
It was an important matter, especially for the coming drive, and no
satisfactory method of carrying on this work had yet been worked out, so
I proposed to Brereton that I be authorized to visit each of the Corps
of the First Army during the drive in order to carry on this work; then
I could compile the proper manual for future guidance of our observers.
The big three, consisting of General Mitchell, Colonel Milling and Major
Brereton, all approved, and so I went first to the 5th Corps, whose
airdrome was at Foucoucourt, arriving there on September 25th, about six
o’clock in the evening. The big Argonne-Meuse drive was to begin the
next morning at daybreak.
The Corps Air Service Commander, Colonel Arthur Christie, and the Group
Commander, Major Joe McNarney, and I had a talk about the entire
situation. They decided that I should work with the Hybrid Squadron,
which consisted of a Flight of the 104th Squadron and a Flight of the
99th Squadron under the command of Lieutenant Jeff Davis. The Operations
Officer was Lieutenant Britton Polly, whom I knew quite well in the
Observers’ School, so I told Davis that I would like to take one of the
first missions the next morning, in order that I might get an early
start on my fugitive target ideas.
Polly told me the situation—they were up against it, as they had several
new pilots who had never been over the front, so he wanted to know if I
would help him out by taking one of the new ones over. Ordinarily there
is not much opportunity to do real work when “breaking in” a green
pilot, and although I knew this would detract from my chances for
success, I agreed.
That night I worked quite late preparing a very complete chart, showing
the location of all our batteries on the map, their radio call codes and
a miniature picture of each battery’s panels. I knew that the batteries
would soon be on the move, and my scheme of adjustment had for its
object the ability to call any battery which had halted temporarily,
whether its location was permanent or not.
I got on the field about eight o’clock the next morning and walked over
to the Operations Room of the 104th Squadron to find my pilot, who, for
the purposes of this story, we will call “Lieutenant Greenhorn.” Inside
the hut I found a tall, slender, effeminate looking chap talking to
Britton Polly. I was unnoticed by either. The lad was inquiring as to
this new guy, Haslett, who was supposed to fly with him at nine o’clock.
I heard him tell Polly that as it was his first trip over the lines he
demanded an old and experienced observer to take him over. Since he
didn’t know me, he said, and had never seen me, he would rather have one
of his own squadron go over with him, as he would have more confidence
in some one whose experience he knew. Polly, who was a sort of
hardboiled war horse, told him that he wouldn’t find any observers in
the American Service who were more experienced than Haslett and that he
had better take me while the taking was good.
After “Greenhorn” left I had a good laugh over the matter with Polly and
then I followed the lad to his room, went in, and disclosed my identity.
He was noticeably nervous and made me a confession that he had had very
little flying and that he really had no business being at the Front;
and, as this was his first trip over, he didn’t want to stay long and
wanted to know how it felt to be up there, and what to do when he was
attacked, and what to do when the enemy anti-aircraft artillery shot
him, what to do if his motor failed him over the lines, and a lot of
such odd and foolish questions. My experience with Phil Schnurr on his
first flight made me leary. I didn’t object to taking a man over the
lines for the first time so long as he knew how to fly well, but when a
man did not even have confidence in his ability to fly—well, it was a
very different matter. I was not seeking any thrills—observing had
become a business with me, so I felt very much like refusing to fly with
him, but on afterthought it came to me that perhaps this lad was not
such a bad sort after all and maybe it was just his modesty and timidity
that caused him to talk so disparagingly of his ability. At any rate, if
he was going over, for his own good I would take a chance and try to
start him right.
I proceeded with a story something like this (the same that I told all
the new pilots I ever took over the lines for their first trip):
“The pilot in an observation plane is, in one sense, the chauffeur. On
account of the fact that communication between the pilot and the
observer is ordinarily very poor, we refer to the pilot as the horse,
for he must be guided, and for that reason we append to his arms
directly under the armpits two pieces of twine, string or cord which we
extend back to the observer. The observer holds the reins. The observer
is given the mission to perform and, while he expects the utmost
voluntary coöperation of the pilot, when it comes to any matter of
tactical decision the observer’s word is final; for instance, in this
flight, should we see five planes and decide to attack them, I would
simply give the word and you would direct the plane toward them; or if
we are attacked by them I would give the word whether to dive toward the
ground and run from the enemy or stay and fight it out; or should I see
a machine gun nest on the ground which was holding up our advancing
troops, should I decide to go down and destroy that machine gun nest it
is your duty to direct your plane down on the machine gun nest even
though you know it is certain death. The observer points out the
direction in which he wants to go, how long he wants to stay there, how
long he wants to stay at the line, and, in fact, is the commander of the
plane. As I said before, he is the holder of the reins.
“Now, there is only one exception to this, and that is when something is
mechanically wrong with the airplane. For instance, if the engine is
failing or if a strut is broken, or if flying wires are destroyed—in
such a case the pilot becomes responsible for the command of the plane.
The fear of failing to hear clearly the directions given by the observer
through the speaking tube is the reason we have the lines to guide the
pilot like a horse, and when the observer wants to go up he points up
and when he wants to go down he points down; and should he want to go to
a certain place he would point to that place. It is a sort of mental
telepathy which is expressed in a sign language and is ordinarily easily
understood, so don’t worry—just pay close attention and don’t lose your
head and you will get along all right, for after all, flying over the
front is not so full of thrills as one ordinarily is led to believe, and
whether you live over your allotted twenty hours over the lines depends
largely upon your ability and good luck and watchfulness.”
“Greenhorn” took it all in and said he understood fully. After quite a
little delay in getting a serviceable airplane we finally made a stab at
getting off. I told Greenhorn to take me to a little town called
Avocourt, which was in No-Man’s-Land, and I carefully pointed it out to
him on the map. Of course, Avocourt had been destroyed by shell fire and
nothing remained but the ruins of the town, but they were plainly
discernible from the air. I tested out my wireless and everything was O.
K., so I motioned for him to head on up to the lines. I paid very little
attention to the ground, intending to sort of take it easy until we got
to Avocourt, thus getting a general idea of the lay of the country over
which we were flying. I instructed him to let me know by shaking the
plane when he came to Avocourt. He seemed to be flying along in good
shape so I didn’t concern myself with our location until he finally
shook the plane. He pointed down to an extremely large city and motioned
his lips “Avocourt.” I looked down below me and recognized very well the
historic city of Verdun, as I had flown over this sector one time with
the French in the early days. I shook my head and pointed toward
Avocourt. “Greenhorn” had missed Avocourt only by about fifteen
kilometers. However, the kid was insistent and nodded his head in
affirmation of his own decision and he pointed to his map again and
pointed down and said “Avocourt.” I swelled out my chest and pointed to
myself to impress upon him the lesson that I was running the plane as
per our previous conversation and that he was to go in the direction
pointed without further argument. He hastily acquiesced and turned the
plane in that direction, and from that time on I used the cords attached
to his arms to guide him. When we got over Avocourt I attracted his
attention, pointed down and said “Avocourt.” He gazed down at the
shattered ruins of what was once a town, but said nothing. However, his
eyes and face expressed very well the fact that he would never have
recognized Avocourt from her photograph. I couldn’t blame him, for from
the air a ruined town is highly deceptive and unless one had flown over
that sector he could not realize that the effect of artillery
destruction could be so complete. In a moment he gave some sort of a
shrug of his shoulders to indicate that he was entirely lost, so I
signaled to him and gave him his directions. Then, taking my map, I
pointed north and said “Montfaucon,” which is easily distinguished from
the air for miles, being situated on the crest of a very high hill.
“Greenhorn” immediately headed toward Montfaucon, thinking that perhaps
I had pointed toward that town with the intention of going there. I did
not have this in mind, but since one place was just about as good as
another until we found a target I let him go.
[Illustration: TANKS GOING INTO ACTION, AND THE TRACKS LEFT BY THEM]
Just over Montfaucon we were opened up on by the German anti-aircraft
artillery. I heard a heavy thud under our tail and at once the plane
began to side-slip and quiver. The “Greenhorn” was badly frightened and
began looking in every direction. Then his eyes fell on me and I have
never seen the equal of the expression on his face when he saw me
laughing. He did not realize the significance until I pointed to the
anti-aircraft bursts, which were fully three hundred yards behind us. I
assured him that everything was O. K. and he had done well. That put him
a little more at ease. After a while I spied a splendid target, so I
started him back toward the line so that we could call our batteries. We
then played over our own lines for about an hour, as we were having a
great deal of trouble in getting any batteries to answer, since they had
all started to move up farther to support the fast advancing doughboys.
I didn’t know whether “Greenhorn” appreciated that ride or not, but
believe me, that sight was beautiful. The heretofore impassable region
known as No-Man’s-Land was now converted to Every-Man’s-Land, for the
whole shell riddled section was simply covered with the advancing
American doughboys—in trenches, shell holes, everywhere. The mighty
tanks were slowly plugging and lumbering along over the shell holes and
we could easily see our most advanced lines, the troops deploying, the
German machine gun crews at their nests vainly attempting to hold back
the advancing infantry, and farther back we could see the retreating
Germans, their supply trains, artillery and convoys. I marked down the
location of our advance units, as this was important information, and
told “Greenhorn” to fly north. As we circled over Montfaucon to the west
we drew a very heavy machine gun fire from the Bois de Beuges, which had
put several holes in the plane, and since “Greenhorn” was getting more
and more unsteady in his flying I thought it well for our own safety and
comfort to get a little better altitude, so I motioned up and
“Greenhorn” started a steep climb right off the bat. Of course, I did
not intend for him to make such a steep climb, and as we started our
ascent the machine practically stood still in the air in a stall. This
gave the German machine gunners a chance to concentrate on us, and
believe me, they certainly made the best of their opportunity.
Fortunately, beginner’s luck was with the boy and we got out of it after
he finally heeded my frantic effort to get him to fly ahead for speed
and not for altitude. I looked the plane over carefully when we were
without the range of the German machine guns. Other than a few holes in
the wings and the body of the plane I could find nothing wrong with it;
at least, all the flying wires and struts were still good and the engine
apparently was running perfectly. Upon getting more altitude, however,
the “Greenhorn” started in the direction of home without any orders from
me at all.
Suddenly I heard a faint, indistinct put-put-put and I began scouring
the sky for the place from whence came the familiar and unmistakable
sound. Away over to the right, north of Montfaucon, I saw a genuine
scrap going on. There must have been fifteen planes and soon the faint
put-put became a continuous rattle like the roll of an over-tight snare
drum. I could very easily tell by their maneuvering that it was a dog
fight and if we could only get over there in time we would undoubtedly
get into it. Maybe some of our boys needed help and sometimes the
arrival of one additional plane can turn the balance of power in a
scrap. So I shook the plane and called to him to head over that way as
fast as he could. I expected some slight coercion would be necessary,
but to my surprise “Greenhorn” immediately headed toward the show. As we
were speeding along like the assisting ambulance I decided to try out my
guns to make sure they were in trim condition for a combat, so I pulled
the triggers on both machine guns for a short burst, not thinking to
warn the already irritated “Greenhorn.” Instantaneous with the first
report the plane began to go into a wild spiral. I dropped the guns and
turned around to see “Greenhorn” twisting in every conceivable direction
and manipulating the joy stick right to left, forward to rear, with the
same cadence that the jazz orchestra leader handles his baton—while I
was thrown around in the cockpit like the contents of a shaking
highball. I had a similar trick played on me myself one time while
flying with Brereton at San Mihiel. Brereton and I were alone on a
mission photographing a difficult area behind the lines. Brereton, who
was always a cautious flyer, ordinarily had a small mirror attached just
above the edge of his cockpit in which my every movement was reflected.
Thus he could tell when I was looking the sky over for enemy planes or
watching the artillery or down in the pit operating the camera. I used
to stay down in the cockpit too long at one stretch to suit him. His
idea was that the observer should spend most of the time searching the
sky in order that the Hun could not pull a surprise attack. In this he
was right, but it was extremely difficult to do this and at the same
time do the mission well. Brereton had previously been accustomed to
getting me out of the cockpit by shaking the plane, which merely
consisted of gently vibrating the control lever from right to left. This
day I was trying to get some very good photographs and I admit in so
attempting I was staying down in the cockpit too long. Brereton shook
the machine several times, but I didn’t come out because I wanted to
finish my set of pictures, taking my chances on an attack in the
meantime. Brereton was unusually irritable so he decided that I did not
have the right way of doing things. He immediately turned loose his
machine guns for a continuous burst of about twenty-five rounds, which
sounded to me like two hundred and twenty-five. Believe me, I came out
of that cockpit. I grabbed my machine guns and swung the tourrelle upon
which the guns were mounted full around several times, up and down,
under my tail; in fact, in every conceivable direction, for I was
absolutely convinced that we were in a real scrap. Finally I got a
glimpse of Brereton’s beaming countenance. He was in a perfect uproar of
laughter. The incident had its intended effect, for always afterward
when Brereton would shake the plane, no matter how slightly, I would
come out of the cockpit right off, just as the ground squirrel comes out
of his hole when you give him sufficient water, but with an uncomparable
difference in rapidity.
So when I fired my guns poor “Greenhorn” was pitifully fussed. I could
see he was losing his nerve, but I pointed in the direction of the fight
and, obedient to my instructions, he headed the plane that way. It would
never have done to have withdrawn after getting this far, for in so
doing he would never again have been worth anything in the air.
We were still quite a distance from the show. I was looking over the top
wing to get a line on the fight. They were still at it and it was just
getting good. It seemed to be the ordinary aerial dog fight in which one
allied plane is on the tail of the enemy plane and two of the enemy
planes are on the allies’ tails, and three of the allies on the tails of
the two enemies, and so on—all going round and round, exactly like a dog
chasing its own tail. Suddenly one of the planes dropped from the combat
and, making a steep dive, it burst into flames and fell toward earth. I
shook the plane violently and, pointing toward the falling plane, I
joyously cried to the “Greenhorn,” “Boche! Boche!” He was not so
enthusiastic as might have been expected and I had no more than gotten
the words out of my mouth when another plane started falling—also out of
control. At this point “Greenhorn” again suddenly headed his plane
toward home. In a rage I shook the plane violently and with fury in my
face I again pointed toward the fight. He shook his head. I became more
infuriated and again pointed toward the fight, but the “Greenhorn” just
as furiously shook his head and determinedly kept on going toward home.
This would never do—I would feel like a coward the rest of my life, so I
reached over the cockpit and grabbed him by the shoulders and very
affirmatively pointed toward the fight. He motioned for me to put on my
speaking tube, and amid the pounding of the motor, in his high, squeaky,
girlish voice I could hear him uttering something about “Motor bad.
Mechanical trouble.” It did not sound that way to me, so I doubtfully
shook my head. He vigorously affirmed his statement, showing surprise
that I should doubt his word or question his decision on mechanical
matters. For the purpose of camouflage the plane kept rocking from side
to side and the motor would become very strong and then suddenly die
away. It was my belief that it was being controlled from the throttle.
There was nothing I could do. I was not only disgusted with the
“Greenhorn,” but I was thoroughly ashamed of myself. I felt like a
sneaking coward.
As we crossed the lines our anti-aircraft artillery suddenly began to
fire violently and rapidly into the heavens. Then I picked up a lone
enemy plane swiftly diving out of the clouds in order to attack our
balloons. Here was our opportunity—I knew for a fact that a plane
attacking balloons has not much chance to see any other plane
approaching, so I shouted at the top of my voice, “See that plane
there,” and I pointed to it. “That is a Boche that’s going to attack
this first balloon. Then it’s going over and attack the next one to the
left. We won’t have time to get him before he gets them both, but we
will get him after he leaves the second balloon, for he won’t see us.
We’ll get him sure. Here’s our one chance to redeem ourselves. Nurse
your motor along for we are on our own side of the lines anyway.” The
man at the controls hesitated a moment and then started in the proper
direction with full motor. I realized the danger of getting into a scrap
with a plane that has for its object the burning of balloons, for they
use nothing but incendiary bullets, and while I had no serious fear of
being killed by a clean bullet, the idea of burning in midair was quite
repulsive. Then, too, there was a green pilot, but I actually craved in
the worst way a chance to redeem our plane from its disgraceful conduct
in the dog fight—here was the chance.
The balloon crews already were on the job and were frantically
attempting to haul the balloons down to safety. No other planes were in
sight. We were the only hope of saving the day. In a few moments I saw
the observer of the first balloon jump with his parachute, saw the Boche
empty his fire into the huge bag and then saw the balloon burst into
flames. I do not know why it was, but for some reason at that particular
minute our engine began to die and grow strong, then die again. I
appeared not to notice the motor and excitedly pointed the “Greenhorn”
to the direction in which we could meet the Boche most advantageously.
His face registered a doubtful hope that he might be able to comply with
my urgent request and then, as if his conclusion was drawn after a
consultation with his better judgment, his expression changed to one of
disappointed regret, for he again pointed to the motor and began to
utter “Mechanical trouble.”
He headed the plane toward home and away from the Boches. I knew what
the people on the ground would think at our performance after we had
once started after that Boche. They would be too ashamed of us to say
anything. I was thoroughly disgusted and angered to the highest degree.
Unmolested, except by local defenses, the Hun burned the second balloon
and triumphantly flew back into Germany.
The “Greenhorn” was unbalanced by horrors he had seen. The morning had
his goat, for he kept on looking back, time and time again, as if he
were sure that he would be the next one to go down in flames.