from opposite directions, can come together, for before I had time to
actually realize what was happening we were in the midst of a one-sided
running fight in which we were doing the running and in which the
Germans were peppering lead into us from all sides.
We had accomplished our mission for when the German planes attacked us,
it guaranteed that they would not be able to attack the balloons, which
would have plenty of time to be hauled down to a position of safety at
their beds. While the diverting was successful, the diversion of
diverting was not, for we still had to get ourselves out of the mess.
We were going in some direction, but which direction it was I didn’t
know and did not care. Right after us were these four Fokkers. This was
the first opportunity I had ever had to make a comparison of the Salmson
plane in a running fight. It was wonderful, for while the Germans were a
little faster, it was hardly noticeable. The horrible truth of our
predicament did not dawn upon me until, by some hunch, I looked at the
ground during the fight and saw already considerably behind us, the
village of Montfaucon, which is so clearly and unmistakably discernible
from the air. I realized we had been completely outmaneuvered, for we
were headed straight and going farther and farther into Germany. No
wonder the Boche had not closed in on us. They were simply leading us to
our slaughter on their own ground, or even worse, if we did survive we
would be prisoners of war, a thought I had always dreaded much more than
death, for once in flying over Pagny-sur-Meuse in the Saint Mihiel
fight, I saw the thousands of Huns we had captured packed in bull pens
like so many cattle. From this I preferred death to prison. Dropping my
machine guns for the moment I violently pulled the cords that were tied
to the pilot’s arms and emphatically motioned him to turn completely
around. He seemed to think that we were headed toward home and was
extremely obstinate. The situation was serious; it was no time for
discussion. I was sure of my direction. Reaching over the cockpit I
frantically struck him on the shoulder and demanded that he turn around.
[Illustration: PAGNY-SUR-MEUSE, SHOWING PRISONERS CAPTURED BY THE
AMERICANS AT ST. MIHIEL]
We turned and as we did the Germans realized that we had found ourselves
and the battle royal ensued. The leader came first and behind him the
three others in good formation, throwing two singing streams of fire
from each plane, for in attacking balloons they used incendiary bullets.
The leader, to my mind, was the only one that seemed to have had
experience—he was, indeed, good—but the rest of them I thought were
boobs—they did not seem to have the least bit of initiative, always
waiting for the leader and doing exactly whatever he did first. Then
they tried a formation I had never seen before. Climbing about two
hundred feet above and on all sides of us, they kept making a series of
short dives, each plane firing about twenty-five rounds at each dive.
The object of this was undoubtedly to get our morale and if possible
force us down without taking a chance on coming close where machine gun
fire could become effective. This was to our advantage for we were
making time toward home and I only had one full magazine of ammunition
left and it was all in my right gun.
Upon seeing that we were not falling for their cunning ruse the leader
became unusually bully and came directly upon us. I let him have it for
a burst of about forty rounds which I knew went into his plane and at
the end of which he had gone under my tail in a dive. It looked as if I
had gotten him. With typical precision the other three came on. I
deliberately aimed my gun upon the nearest, greatly encouraged in the
belief that I had gotten the leader. Their bullets of fire were going
into my plane, but with a most deliberate aim I again pulled the
trigger. It would not fire. At most I had only sixty rounds left, but
even in sixty rounds there was hope. The gun was jammed and I could not
get the magazine off to put it on the other gun. I was desperate. How
close the three came I do not know, but seeing my predicament they
realized my helplessness and pounced upon me like a toy target.
Frantically I worked at the gun, my hands bruised and bleeding,
hopelessly trying to unlock the jam for a last chance with life. If I
only had something to fit in the cocking piece to give me enough
leverage to clear that jam. In my mad desperation and hopelessness I
looked around for something to hurl—anything to get them away. There was
nothing to be done—it was all up with us. By chance I glanced into the
bottom of the cockpit and on the floor my eyes caught sight of a Very
pistol which had been left in the plane by the observer on the previous
mission whose duty it had been to find the front line of our advanced
troops.
A Very pistol is a gun resembling an ordinary pistol, except that it has
a wide barrel. It is used to eject brilliant fire rockets as a signal
from the airplane to the infantry. These signals vary with the number of
stars fired. For instance, a rocket of six stars means “Where are you?
Show your panels,” whereupon the Infantry displays its white panels of
cloth, while three rockets indicates “Understood” upon which the
Infantry takes in its panels of white cloth.
I grabbed this Very pistol in a wild effort to throw it as a last means
of defense, but the three had already passed under my tail, while to my
disappointing surprise, I discovered that I had not gotten the leader as
I had thought—he was coming up under my tail, already firing. The others
seemed to be getting their formation behind him. As the leader came up
under me in a final blow of death, I madly drew the pistol back in a
position to hurl it at him when the sudden idea struck me that if it
were loaded I would have a chance to set him afire. The cartridge was
intact—it was ready to be fired. Amidst his volley of fire, I reached
far over the cockpit and as the leader passed beneath me, I fired. The
charge missed him completely, but directly behind him burst the
signal—six flaming stars which brilliantly floated slowly on toward
earth. My last chance had failed.
Suddenly resigned to my fate I awaited the onrush of the other three—I
was sure it was only a matter of seconds—I had no defense. To my
absolute surprise the first of the three violently tilted his plane,
banked to the right, and the other two followed. I was at a loss to
understand this move; then came another thought—there was still a
chance. Rapidly ejecting the empty cardboard shell from the Very pistol
I attempted to adjust the barrel to the cocking piece of my jammed
machine gun. It fitted—here was the needed instrument of leverage—with
all my force I jerked—something gave way and I fell to the other side of
the cockpit—from the side of the gun there hung a mashed defective
cartridge and the jam was cleared. With luck, there were fifty or sixty
bullets left. Approaching me again was the leader, but where were the
other three? I glanced back—they were still headed to the right—they had
left the fight. Calmly I waited his onslaught. Boldly coming up with the
certain knowledge that I was still helpless and certainly his easy prey,
he came, for nothing but wonderful luck on our part and rotten shooting
on theirs had saved us so far. This time he did not fire until he had
dead aim, nor did I fire until I had dead aim. Following his approach
with extreme care and closest possible adjusted sights, I waited. When I
was sure, I pulled the trigger—I don’t know how many rounds he fired,
but only a few, for my aim had been true—his guns suddenly stopped—his
plane climbed steeply, even up beyond me, then tumbled over in a sort of
half loop and began to swish away helplessly to one side and then to the
other, like a falling leaf—at last it dived headlong and from its last
dive it never recovered.
My ammunition was gone, but to the greatest of luck and horseshoes, I
attributed the fact that the other three planes were also gone. In a few
moments more we again passed over Montfaucon and crossed the lines. The
balloons were just beginning to rise again. “Well,” I thought as we
passed them, “you seem to be safe enough this time, and I must say I
admire you for going up again so soon after such a narrow escape, but
for me—never again! I’m going to stay on the ground the rest of my
life.”
Of course, I often wondered why those other three Huns had left the
fight. Here is the solution of the mystery. At Christmas time, three
months later, I was in Coblenz, on the Rhine. The war was over and we
were a part of the Army of Occupation. Under the terms of the Armistice
the Germans had to turn over two hundred airplanes to the Americans and
were to send twenty German flyers along to test the planes in the
presence of competent American judges before they were accepted. Late in
the evening, after a joyous Christmas dinner, at which wine and
merriment abounded, an orderly came in and told us there were two German
officers to report. We found that they were two of the flyers detailed
by the German Government to turn over the planes. One of them was a lad
named Donhauser, who claimed to have shot down twenty-six allied planes,
among them Quentin Roosevelt; the other was a lad named Teske, who also
was an Ace. We invited them to join us, and during the conversation that
followed it was interesting to note the many battle fronts over which we
had fought against each other. Upon discussing the Argonne it developed
that Donhauser’s squadron was opposite the area in which I had this
fight on the twenty-eighth of September, so, I took occasion to clear up
the incomprehensible reason why these three had left the fight. I
casually asked him if at a certain hour, at a certain place, on a
certain date, he had a patrol, evidently bent upon attacking balloons,
diverted by a bi-place observation plane. He took out a little book from
his pocket and after hastily scanning the well-kept notes, he looked up
and said, “Was one of the Deutschen planes shot down?” I answered “Yes.”
“Do you know if it was the leader?” he inquired. I told him I thought it
was. He again verified the time and the place and then opened up. This
was his story:
“The leader, who was shot down, was an exceptionally good flyer and had
several victories to his credit. There was something queer about it—in
the squadron it was known as the ‘Mystery Mission’ for the reason that
three of the German planes left the fight when the Observation Plane was
absolutely helpless with jammed machine guns. They claimed that the
German leader had fired a signal rocket to them, which was their signal
for that day which meant for all the planes to leave the fight at once
as larger allied patrols were approaching.”
He explained that the German theory was that in obeying the signal the
three German planes had left the fight, but the leader, being a very
daring fighter, took a last chance, hoping to get away before the
reinforcements arrived, and in attacking the observation plane alone,
was shot down. He also said that this was the story the three had told,
who all claimed to have seen the signal fired by their leader. Even at
that they were threatened with court-martial for cowardice in leaving
the combat and deserting their leader, and they were only saved by
several German officers, who had also seen the same signal from the
ground, testifying in their behalf.
Thus—the mystery was cleared—the Very pistol had saved the day. It was,
after all, better that I had not set the leader afire with the flaming
rockets. Indeed, they had served a greater use.
What happened to Eileen? Naturally that should be explained. Well, it’s
this way: I had a lot to tell her, so, when I got to the airdrome I
hastened across the field to the Headquarters to find her.
“Lad,” I said to the orderly standing in front of the headquarters,
“have the pretty girls of the Y. M. C. A. gone yet?”
“Yep,” he replied, “that’s them goin’ down there now—to Souilly,” and he
pointed to a huge cloud of dust following the trail of an army auto a
half mile down the road, and in that cloud of dust, seemingly rising
into the sky, floated also my fond hopes and prospects of Eileen, for
conditions, in a few days, made it impracticable for me to follow her
movements for some time to come.
“Well,” I said, sort of sorry like that they had gone, “they were sure
pretty girls, weren’t they?”
“Yep,” he grinned.
“Especially the black-haired one,” I went on.
“Yep, she’s mine, Lieutenant. She’s been talking to me for a half an
hour this morning,” and again he grinned sheepishly, until his grin
almost became a smile, and we both looked longingly down the road where
the car was fast disappearing from view.
I looked at the orderly and the orderly looked at me. “Talked to you
half an hour, eh?” I questioned. “Yep, fully that,” was the proud reply.
I put my hands in my pockets and started to walk away muttering to
myself “how do they do it? how do they do it?”—for this soldier was
about the homeliest and most unattractive person I could imagine, yet he
had evidently put my hopes to rout in quick order. Then came an idea:
and I wheeled around and called to the soldier, “Hey, boy, what’s your
rank?” “Ain’t got no rank, Sir,” he replied; “I’m a buck private.”
Whistling a light tune I walked on. “I get it, I get it,” was my
soliloquy. “Eileen still following instructions on catering to the
junior ranks. She’s sour grapes.” And thus she passed from my life—but I
hope not forever.
VIII
DOWN AND OUT AND IN
Eddie Rickenbacker told me a story while we were a part of the Army of
Occupation which about expresses my idea of this narrative, the fact
that I lived through it being what I consider my greatest
accomplishment.
“Rick” had in his famous 94th Pursuit Squadron, a hair-lipped pilot with
whom I was earlier associated in the equally prominent 12th Observation
Squadron. This lad was one of the few of our many airmen who realized
that the flyer at the front plays ninety per cent in luck and not on
good judgment. His flying was daredevilish and reckless, which, while it
might be considered good form in pursuit work, was such that it involved
entirely too great a risk for the two-place, or observation plane. So,
the kid was transferred to Pursuit where he made good right off.
It was the day of the Armistice. The boys were talking it all over,
reminiscing and the like. Several of the famous pilots of the 94th had
given accounts of some particular thrilling fight in which they had
finally won, naming it—their greatest accomplishment of the war. So, as
that was the topic of conversation, Eddie asked our friend what, after
all, he considered his greatest accomplishment. The boys all listened
attentively for the kid usually sprang something. The hair-lipped lad
puzzled for a moment, then answered with his inimitable impediment,
“Well, Captain Rickenbacker, the war is now over, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” replied Eddie, hopeful that this was the correct reply.
“——which means no one else will get killed, doesn’t it?” he added
solemnly, and Rick solemnly attested to this fact. “Well,” the lad went
on, “you see me; I’m still here.”
“That’s right!” said the great Ace of Aces. “What about it?”
“Well, Captain Rickenbacker,” replied the boy with evident surprise at
Eddie’s apparent density. “Look me over, Captain, I’m still alive. That
is my greatest accomplishment.”
And after all, I am sure that all of our fighting men who have done
actual service at the front—going through its hazards and dangers for
any length of time, will agree that their greatest accomplishment is the
fact that they came out of the thing alive; for while the code of
military ethics at the front taught that one’s own life should be
secondary to the accomplishment of one’s mission, yet there could not
help but be a justifiably selfish pride after the mission was
accomplished, that the participant was also alive to tell the tale.
The 30th of September was a terrible day—there was very little flying,
it was foggy and the clouds were low, irregular and uncertain, while the
wind was almost a gale. We had no business going out—our over-anxiety,
which the French say is the greatest fault of the American soldier, to
get our work accomplished was the only justifiable reason for the trip.
But even at that on the morning of September 30th the Flying Corps had
no reason for being in the air unless the mission was of grave urgency,
and fortunately ours was urgent for I was still adjusting our artillery
on important enemy moving targets. Here is how my greatest
accomplishment happened:
I arrived at the hangars shortly after daybreak and found Davis, who was
assigned to fly with me, ready and waiting. I had never flown with him
before, but I had heard of him and his reputation, and it was a relief
to know I was to get a genuine pilot, such as Lieutenant Raymond Davis,
whom we called “Uncle Joe Davis, of Danville,” since he hailed from the
same well-known town as Uncle Joe Cannon.
At first, the weather was impossible, so, we had to wait for the
atmosphere to clear a trifle and for the clouds to lift some, as a high
ceiling in heavy artillery adjustments is not only advantageous but
necessary. So, we hung around and hobnobbed and got acquainted. At about
eight o’clock we decided we would try it—for the importance of impeding
the retreat of the enemy as much as possible was imperative. The advance
through the Argonne was proving itself to be a hard enough tussle for
the doughboys, and we all felt that they certainly merited all the
assistance it was possible for aviation to give them.
Luck was not our way, for it was not until after trying four different
planes, all of which failed for one reason or another, that we found a
bus that would buzz. It looked like an off-day, for the gale was so
sweeping that we almost had a serious accident even in taking off. There
is safety in height, so, when we got up three or four hundred feet our
morale also went up a trifle. The ground station signaled that my radio
wireless was O.K., so I jokingly called to Davis, “All aboard for
Hunland.” He answered “Check,” and we headed toward the line for our
last mission of the great war.
I knew the wind was high, but I did not actually realize its true
velocity until I happened to look toward the earth and to my surprise
saw to our right the familiar ruins of the village of Montfaucon sitting
high and distinct amid the surrounding ruins and desolations. I had
never flown so fast, for a strong wind behind the airplane adds
marvelous rapidity to its speed. We were swept along like a feather in a
gale. In front, on the Bois de Beuges, there was raining a tremendous
artillery barrage, which we knew extended all across the Argonne front.
Almost instantly, it seemed, we were over Romange, which was Boche
territory, and hastily I picked my target. We would again pile up the
German traffic by adjusting our heavy artillery on their cross roads in
front of our own 91st Division, whose batteries were around Epionville.
We would repeat our previous successful adjustment and when the traffic
was heaviest, would call for fire. Imparting this information to Davis,
he turned the machine and we started back toward the line to call our
batteries and start the fatal ball rolling.
A favorite trick of the Hun’s anti-aircraft artillery, and our own, as
far as that is concerned, is to allow the entrance of observation planes
to a considerable depth within the lines without molesting them, closely
following it all the time with finely adjusted sights, and just as the
plane turns to go back toward the lines the artillery opens up with
everything available.
I knew it was going to happen as soon as we turned into the wind and
that in bucking the wind we would practically stand still in the air,
making us an easy target, especially since we were skimming along low,
heavy clouds upon which the artillery could easily get accurate data as
to range and direction. It happened. The Archies opened up. As luck
would have it they realized our position and had us in their deadly
bracket. One high-explosive shell burst directly under our tail,
whereupon the plane reflexed like a bucking broncho.
The airman is bracketed when the archies have bursts on all sides of
him, for in such a case he knows not what direction to go for one is
about as bad as the other. One thing was certain, we did not dare to
stand still in the air hanging on the propeller, as we were doing in
fighting the wind. We must slip the deadly noose of the bracket and do
it before it was too late.
Realizing the necessity for quick action, Davis sharply slipped the
plane into the wind, and amid a deafening applause of exploding shells,
we plunged to momentary safety behind the curtain of the low, dark
clouds with which the sky was filled. We were in the cloud, perhaps, for
five minutes and the wind was with us. I knew we were covering a great
deal of territory and in the wrong direction. So, when we emerged I
quite well knew we were completely off our course. I asked Davis if he
knew his location. He answered frankly that he did not—that it was away
off his map. I was in the same predicament exactly as to the location,
it being off my map as well, but fortunately I recognized the
bomb-shattered town nearby as Dun-sur-Meuse, as I had many times studied
it as a very prominent bombing objective.
“Head due south along the river,” I cried through the communicating
tube, “We’ve got to hit the lines sometime.”
Dun-sur-Meuse had been bombed very heavily in the drive and I am sure
the remaining inhabitants thought we too had that intention, for in
heading south they certainly let us know we were not welcome. This time
it was not only artillery, but machine guns in such a hail of fire that
we would have been brought down with little effort had we attempted to
fly a straight course. We didn’t attempt it. We answered by sharp
zig-zags, and it was the master job of my life to keep up with the
snaps, jerks, slips and dives of Davis’, in dodging the archies; and to
still keep our direction in mind. We attempted this for fully ten
minutes, but we were making no appreciable headway. The firing was too
heavy—we must get higher as we could not expect to live at nine hundred
feet at a very long period. We had been lucky to survive this long.
Davis headed due south by his compass which was east by mine. It looked
all wrong to me.
“Is your compass pointing south?” I asked feverishly, for it was a
question of life and death.
“Yes, due south,” he replied.
I knew one of the two was considerably off, but it might be mine as well
as his, so I decided to try his. A constant mist of rifle fire and
archies followed us in our ascent into the clouds, which fortunately was
not long—thanks to the climbing power of the Salmson airplane. We were
in and above the clouds for fully twenty-five minutes, and believe me,
those twenty-five minutes were prayers that Davis’s compass was
unerring.
Finally, considering the wind velocity, our probable distance from the
lines, and the speed of the motor, I was convinced that if the compass
were true we should be well over the French lines, so, hoping to
encourage Davis, I called, “Well, Davis, if that old pointer of yours is
right we are in La Belle France again. Let’s go down and see.”