a flyer. The boy lost his head completely and I was absolutely helpless,
not having a dual control, though I do not know much what I would have
done at that time even if I had been fortunate enough to have had a dual
control plane. We would take sudden jerks in which I would go half way
out of the cockpit, nothing holding me in but my belt. I knew the boy
was getting worse and I was figuring how I would look after the fall.
When we got directly over our own airdrome, to my surprise he called
back to me in a frantic voice, “I’m lost. Which way now?”
“Take it easy,” I replied, “our airdrome is right beneath us.”
The lad came down like a streak from the sky and I knew we were going to
hit the ground in one grand smash. The “Greenhorn” tried to land and
couldn’t, so he gave her the gun again, circled the field, and in
attempting to land almost hit one of the huge hangars with the tail.
Death looked like a sure proposition to me. I felt like jumping—anything
to get down to earth. In this second attempt he had a good chance to
effect a good landing, but for some reason or other he kept on going.
Then he foolishly did a vertical bank and came in with the wind,
intending to land. To land with the wind is one of the most dangerous
things a pilot can do, but it did not seem to affect our hero. Did he
land with the wind? I’ll say he did. As we neared the ground I was
sweating blood, for I knew what was sure to happen. Perspiration was
flowing from my entire body with the freedom that it rolls from the
winner of the fat man’s race at the old county fair. We hit the field in
the center, took a two-story bounce; the wind caught us and as the
wheels hit again, S-P-L-O-W! We rolled over on our nose. Good fortune
alone kept us from doing worse. We stopped, and I was up in the cockpit
about twelve feet from the ground, though I expected to be found
underneath the engine about ten feet under ground—and the ambulance came
rushing to pick up our remains.
They got me another plane ready and after considerable hard luck I
finally got the mission completed with the help of a very wonderful
pilot named Lieutenant Weeks. Late that afternoon the “Greenhorn” came
around and asked me if I would mind going with him again to-morrow. I
was forced to decline. He was relieved from further duty at the front.
It was his first and only trip over. I don’t think the “Kid” was a
coward—he simply could not stand the gaff of air fighting.
There is nothing more nerve-racking or terrifying than a ride in an
airplane with a pilot at the stick in whom you have no confidence, and
especially so when at war and in an active sector where the enemy has
control of the air. There are many times in my young and blameless life
in which I have been actually scared, but never one in which I have been
carried in that state of fear and terror for such a long stretch as in
that two hours, twenty-one minutes and eighteen seconds in a Salmson
airplane in the Argonne Forest on September 26, 1918, with a green
Lieutenant, fictitiously named “Greenhorn.”
VII
EILEEN’S INSPIRATION
Shortly after the great Argonne Offensive commenced, the Fifth Corps Air
Service was visited by a small troop of Y. M. C. A. entertainers. I was
at their airdrome at the time. In the party were two young ladies, one
blonde and the other a brunette. As I was a sort of special boarder
myself, I was very fortunately a guest at the Headquarters Mess, and at
the head of the table sat Lieutenant Colonel A. R. Christie, who was the
commander-in-chief of the Corps Air Service. I had heard early in the
afternoon that these girls were coming, and it had been so long since I
had seen a real American girl that my enthusiasm over their prospective
arrival was not exceeded by a country lad’s anticipation of his first
circus.
As luck would have it, at the dinner table I was seated next to the
brunette, which was just what I had wanted. I must say she was a
“Queen.” She had eyes that were all eyes, and when she smiled it seemed,
as the poet would say, just like the flooding of a dark and desolate
dungeon with the glorious light of day. She wore a daintily scented
perfume that made it all seem to be just like the environment of a
wonderful rose garden and this girl was the loveliest rose of them all.
I immediately felt my insignificance, for I was only a Lieutenant, and
around me were Colonels, Majors and Captains, and on account of this
subordinance I knew my place demanded reticence rather than verbosity.
Therefore, when introduced I merely told her quite formally how happy I
was to know her and then I closed shop with all the good intentions of a
huge, triple-locked, steel safe. However, Eileen, for this was her name,
had the master combination for unlocking the deposit box of pentup
conversation. She started it, but after she had been going for two or
three minutes, rank did not amount to anything to me, because I was
quite sure, as I had been several times before and have been several
times since, that this was the one girl God had made for Elmer. So to me
Rank was business and Love was pleasure, and pleasure superseded
business.
Versatility was this girl’s middle name, and to my great surprise she
even had a conversational knowledge of aerial observation, which is,
indeed, unusual for a woman. Perhaps the reason she was so friendly to
me was that I had some knowledge of aviation myself, and she wanted to
learn more. She asked me no questions, however, simply volunteered her
own information, so I felt she could not possibly be a spy, but whether
she was or not it didn’t matter to me, for I was thoroughly convinced
that there never before had been a girl like this and there never could
be another afterwards.
While dining, it developed that I was especially anxious to get a method
for the rapid adjustment of artillery fire on moving targets. I
explained to her that while it was no easy matter to make an adjustment
on a moving target even in a quiet sector in closed warfare, the
observer, at least, had the advantage of knowing where the battery was
located, what the battery’s signal panels would look like and what code
signals both would use and what method of fire the battery would pursue.
But in a war of movement in which we were engaged, our own batteries
were constantly on the move, and even if we did find a battery that was
not moving there was no way of finding what code call it had been
assigned, for the reason that they never displayed their panels as
prescribed when taking a temporary position. So I explained in a
careless way just what difficulties I had to surmount before reaching a
successful method satisfactory for all conditions. Perhaps I said a
little more than I should, but I couldn’t help it. I simply had to talk
to this girl. She had the art of flattery well in hand, for she
delighted me by demanding what business I had serving as an ordinary
observer with my superior knowledge of things, whereupon I told her what
a great man I really was—that I was the Operations Officer for the Air
Service of the entire Wing, which consisted of six Corps, and that I was
only in this drive doing very special work. This sounded bigger than it
really was, but it seemingly got by, for she seemed very sympathetic
from the first. I was quite sure I had won my happy home.
That night, upon an improvised stage in one of our huge airplane
hangars, she sang. Galli-Curci, Breslau, Schumann-Heink or Farrar had
nothing on her. She trilled and as she trilled, I thrilled. I even had
wild ideas of a little home in California and everything. After the
performance was over I reported for duty and we started to walk back to
the main quarters together, she having spurned the proffer of one of my
superior officer’s car. I had just made a grand and glorious spiel about
the beautiful night, and the myriads of twinkling stars in the heavens,
and how wonderful it was to be walking along in the lovely delight of it
all with such a charming and entertaining companion, and how I dreaded
to think that in the morning I must go out to fly again and might never
come back to all these wonderful things.
I was raving and sputtering away, the enslaved victim of temperament,
sentiment and ephemeral love. In brooding over the possible tragedy of
the next day I was, of course, fishing for sympathy, expecting her to
say, “Oh, don’t talk like that,” or something similar to jolly me along,
but she evidently had had that line pulled on her before.
“You know, Lieutenant,” she smilingly said in a voice as welcome as that
of a dying aunt about to give you a hundred thousand dollars, “I’ve been
thinking of the wonderful work you are doing, and while I was singing my
first song to-night I looked down at you and I had an inspiration which
I think will help you.”
This was the highest compliment I had ever been paid in my life. I had
disgusted people, displeased them, and even been repulsive to some, but
this was the first time I had ever been the cause of inspiring any one.
I thought it was the psychological moment to put the question. I had
previously concluded that when a woman begins to talk about inspiration
she has fallen in love herself, so without inquiring further about this
particular inspiration, I turned to love.
“Eileen,” I said, and my voice quivered, for I had not called her that
before—it had been Miss ——, “do you know, I want to ask you a question.”
She said nothing, and I did not look, though I was certain that she had
modestly turned her head away from me, bashfully anticipating the fatal
question which was sure to come.
“Do you know, Eileen,” I stammered on, nodding my head affirmatively in
order to carry along with my words additional evidence of my sincerity,
“I have been wondering why you have paid this attention to me to-night
and have been heedless of the pressing attentions of the Colonels, the
Majors and the Captains. I don’t like to talk like this so soon, but you
are leaving to-morrow and I might never have another opportunity.”
Then I thought of that song, “Just you, Dear, just you,” and I knew
quite well that she would say that she had been giving me all this
attention amidst the jealous and envious looks of my superior officers
because she, herself, individually wished to and because she liked or
maybe loved me. Whereupon I was going to second the motion and say,
“Ditto, I love you, Eileen,” and all that sort of bunk and close the
contract. I pictured myself enfolding her in my willing arms and making
solemn vows such as I would stand on my ear for her, etc.; all of this,
of course, being contingent upon her responding in the way I fully
expected.
Smiling—her teeth reflected glory in the moonlight—she demurely asked
me, “Why, don’t you know?” That would have been all right ordinarily,
but it had a ringing inflection I failed to comprehend, and being a man
of words instead of action, I said, “No, I don’t know.”
“Well,” she went on rather surprised at my stupidity, “you see, our
manager instructed us that the higher officers do not need the attention
and encouragement of the young ladies because they do not have to
undergo any hardships, so we have been instructed to pay as much
attention as possible to the junior officers, and as you were about the
most junior here—well——”
This was sufficient. I realized that I was on about the fifty-fourth
floor of the Woolworth Building and had better catch the express
elevator down, for it was going to be an awful fall. I had hit the mat
and was already taking the count.
“I was telling you about the inspiration,” she went on, and in a hollow
voice I said, “Yes, Miss ——,” swallowing many cubic feet of chagrin and
remorse, yet still determined.
“I think I have a plan for adjusting your batteries. I got the idea
while I was singing to-night. Of course, I know nothing about the
practical part of it, but why wouldn’t it work this way?” and she
roughly described a scheme that seemed about as feasible as most
military tactics that women conceive. I offered her no encouragement,
but she asked me if I wouldn’t try it out and I told her I would do
anything for her. It would, at least, give me some excuse for keeping in
touch with her, since I could inform her from time to time how her
system was getting along, and I was firmly bent, in spite of the
momentary rebuff I had just received, upon knowing this charming and
bewitching damsel better.
As usual, the night gave me the opportunity to calm down considerably,
so the next morning I took off quite early, the same old guy as before,
with no domestic worries. Eileen was momentarily forgotten—my ardor was
perhaps but a passing fantasy.
At a little village several miles north of Montfaucon there is quite a
fork having two roads branching off to the south and over which the
Germans were passing in their forced retreat. Flying in that direction
the approaching roads were dotted with scattered German transports which
consisted of many horses and very few motor vehicles as the Germans were
short of gasoline and what they did have of this scarce article they
used for their airplanes—their general transportation work was carried
on largely by horses and a more extended use of their steam locomotives
and railroads. But, coming from the south were several of these convoys
trudging along as fast as they could, which, at best, was very slow.
This was unusual for a retreat is generally done under cover of
darkness, but, I suppose this material was such that it had to be moved
at all costs.
Ah! I thought, this is a splendid target. I’ll put the artillery on. So,
directing the pilot to go back to our own battery, I began to make
furious attempts to get into communication with our artillery, by flying
low and finding the location with the naked eye.
Again my theory of the previous day seemed to be all wrong, for in spite
of all I could do I couldn’t get an answer from any of our batteries.
Finally, flying extremely low I found a couple of them and threw them
messages. Neither of them would fire. Why? I don’t know. Perhaps they
were about to move up again. However, I knew that of all of the
batteries in our Division there must a few that could work. Here was a
wonderful target. I was to the last straw—there didn’t seem to be
anything else to do but go home, so, pretty well disgruntled I motioned
the pilot to go on home. Thus, my mind being freed of the cares and
responsibilities of the mission, it naturally began to turn toward the
personal interests of life, and, naturally enough I thought of my
recently acquired acquaintance, Eileen—and instantly I remembered her
inspiration—that silly, tactical dream she had conceived the night
before. I knew it was impossible to try it out as she had suggested it,
but the principle had possibilities, and seemed to be worth taking a
chance on. If it failed, it would do no harm, and, at least, I could
give her some kind of a report.
Attracting the pilot’s attention, I motioned him to turn around and
although he gave me a look that indicated he had some doubt as to my
mental balance, he followed the instructions. It was just a hunch at
most. Instead of calling the particular batteries designated to fire on
fugitive targets I calmly proceeded to call each and all of the
twenty-four batteries assigned to the Division. In about five minutes,
to my extreme delight, I picked up a new panel from a battery.
Consulting my chart I found its call. I immediately wired them a message
and instantly they put out the panel “I got you” or “Understood.”
Communication was established. The inspiration was a success.
Over to my right, my eye caught another panel of another battery.
Consulting my chart again I found that they were both Heavy
Artillery—just what I wanted! The only fault with this method was that
with so much wireless being flashed through the air it would very likely
interfere with any other plane doing similar work in that sector. I knew
of no other aerial adjustments going on just then, so, the chance was
worth it.
Having gotten the two batteries ready to work I wired to every other
battery I had called, sending them the code message, “I have no further
need for you,” this, in order that they would not, by any chance, hold
up their firing on account of my previous message. “Well,” I thought,
“the nice thing about Eileen is that she is not only beautiful and can
sing, but she is sane—she has a good bean.” Even before I had done the
work, which I felt sure I would be able to accomplish, I was formulating
dreams of the way she would receive me when I told her of the great
success of her inspiration.
I did not register these two batteries on the road fork, itself, for
should the first few shells fall near the road fork it would give a
preliminary warning and the Germans would, undoubtedly, stop their
traffic and scatter. A few shells, even if they did happen to hit, would
not serve the end I had in mind. I was thinking of something bigger—a
few pot shots on the road would do more harm than good. So, selecting a
point about a quarter of a mile, directly to the right of the road fork,
I reported the location to the battery. Of course, consulting their
maps, they could not find a legitimate reason for my desire to fire on
this particular point; that is, from its natural location, but
fortunately they did not question my decision and presently gave me the
signal “O.K.” I immediately wired them to fire. On account of the hasty
advances it had been necessary for these batteries to make, their firing
data was considerably off, so, it took me almost an hour to get the two
of them accurately placed on my temporary target. This accomplished, I
began to again pay attention to the road fork. Our firing had not
interrupted the traffic. Coming from the south about a quarter of a mile
down, there seemed to be approaching quite a composite transport made up
of wagons drawn by about four horses each, and coming from the north,
approaching the same road fork, were a body of men and some horses. The
men were not mounted, except in a few instances, and I should say there
were almost a hundred men and about forty horses. To the best of my
calculations, the head of the column coming from the south would pass
this body of men with their horses at the road fork within a few
minutes. With the road fork filled with passing troops and horses it
would be all the more advantageous as a target.
The mathematical calculations and mechanical adjustments necessary for
the batteries to correct a difference of a quarter of a mile in
deflection, are considerable, I had been told, so, it was necessary that
they know their new target immediately in order that they might fire
immediately at my command. I wired them to change their target three
hundred meters to the left and then I specified the exact point by
giving the coördinate location and last I told them to be prepared to go
into a “zone fire” at signal. “Zone fire” is the deadliest of all
destructive fire. It consists of firing the guns as rapidly as possible
into an area, or zone, immediately adjacent to the target specified. The
object of zone fire is that by the scattering of shells the target will
certainly be hit by at least a few of the shells and if the target is
large, as was the case here, the results would be disastrous.
To impress upon the batteries the urgency of speeding up their
corrections I continually wired them in code, “Is battery ready?” “Is
battery ready?” They put out the panels “Wait a few minutes,” but I
continued to wire, “Is battery ready?” We had no code for “Hurry up;” I
wished many times we had, for the columns were fast approaching each
other. In a few minutes it would be too late to get both columns. I
realized those battery commanders had just cause to make use of an
extended stream of profane language when I gave them that large
correction of three hundred meters or a quarter of a mile after
adjusting them to such a fine point, for, undoubtedly, they could not
see the necessity for it. Fortunately they both had confidence and
stayed with me. Just as the heads of the two columns began to pass each
other, which was just a little north of the cross roads, the first
battery put out a panel, “Battery is ready.”
The airplane signal to fire was three long wireless emissions so it was
only necessary now to press the key three times and the show would be
on. I called the battery rapidly, but before I gave the fatal signal I
thought of the warden of the penitentiary about to press the fatal
buzzer that sends the doomed soul to his death. The simile naturally
struck me for I had a hundred men and more horses directly in my trap.
There was no way for them to escape. The deadly zone fire, with the
speed of lightning, would soon crush them. I could imagine our men at
their guns in the improvised battery pits, ready for the minutes of
strenuous work before them, waiting for the radio buzzer to speak and
command. As I looked down I could see the troops and transports were
already passing each other—the road fork was filled—it was now time to
act. I felt as if I simply could not bring myself to the point of
pressing the key. The men and the crushing out of their lives, the
blighting of the hopes of many fond sweethearts, the wrecking of many
homes and the grief of many mothers were strangely enough only passing
thoughts, for it had to be done—“C’est la Guerre”—they were the enemies
of my country. But there was another side of the story, the horses—for
if there is any one thing in my life I have always loved it is a horse.
Since I was a lad I have always picked up with the worst old skate in
the town just out of sympathy, and to see a man abusing a horse would
draw me into a fist fight quicker than anything else. The poor
horses—dumb and senseless—they were not my enemies, except from a
cold-blooded standpoint regarding them as war material of the enemy.
Looking back I found that the other battery had put out their panel
“Battery is ready.” It sternly called me back to my duty and the task
before me for it was not the time to indulge in sentimental reveries—I
must act! I hastily called the second battery and again repeated my call
to the first, then directing my pilot to head toward home I took one
last look at the slowly moving, unsuspecting columns—then, setting my
face homeward, I firmly pressed the key—one, two, three times.
There was no doubt in my mind but that we should call it a day, so, we
were homeward bound with that intention. From a strictly military
standpoint we were proud enough of our performance and as we winged our
way along I took things easy but kept casually looking about the sky to
see that we were not taken unawares by any stray patrols. Looking ahead
I saw the friendly captive balloons lolling along peaceably enough and
my mind was centered pretty largely upon the seemingly monotonous
existence of the men in the balloons who had to stay in one position for
hour after hour, but I shuddered as I thought of being forced to jump
from one of those bags in case of attack. After all, I was glad I was in
an airplane instead of a balloon.
For quite a while it seemed that we were lower than the balloons, then
suddenly the balloons seemed to be considerably below us. My impression
was that we were gaining altitude, but upon consulting my altimeter I
found that we were flying at a constant height. One thing was certain,
the balloons were getting lower; they no longer lolled, but everything
seemed taut. For some reason they were frantically being hauled down. I
readily ascertained the reason,—four German Fokkers coming head-on from
Hunland with the undeniable intention of either burning the balloons or
burning me. I hesitated a moment; the Huns kept straight on and I heaved
a big sigh of relief. They were not going to burn me; at least, not for
the present. The balloons seemed to be going down mighty slow, and the
planes were coming fast. If the Huns could be stopped for only a
half-minute the balloons would be safe. Here we were in a very happy
position to divert the attack should we care to and also in a very
unhappy position if we did not care to, for while it was not our duty to
attack, yet indeed, in this case, it was our privilege. My mind was not
made up what to do. If we turned to the right we would be directly in
their path and above them. From instinct I shook the plane and motioned
toward the four Fokkers and before I knew it, the pilot, thinking I
intended to attack, started directly toward them.
Now there is a vast difference between maneuvering for the purpose of
diverting and maneuvering for the purpose of attack, for had it been one
or two planes I would not have hesitated to attack under the
circumstances, but I want to say that I’ll wait a long, long time before
attacking four fast enemy Fokkers of my own accord under any
circumstances.