before us a full-fledged German aviator, whose face was nicked and
scarred from the great German pastime of fencing. Although wonderfully
straight and well-built, with a face and jaw that spelled determination
and strength, his eyes possessed all the hellishness and heinousness of
a Hun. We were introduced, whereupon this young Flying Lieutenant
clicked his heels together and gave us a salute almost as perfect as the
world-famous salute of General Pershing.
After some sort of a framed-up conversation, the flyer sat down and the
Intelligence Officer explained to us that the flyers and the
anti-aircraft artillery and the machine gun crews had been in a
controversy as to who should have the credit for bringing us down and
that this Lieutenant had contended that the Squadron which he commanded
was responsible; and he wanted to find out who it actually was that
gained this victory. This did not seem to interest the other
German-American officers present, so they excused themselves and left.
The only remaining officer who spoke English was the Intelligence
Officer; the young, battle-scarred Lieutenant, to the best of our
knowledge, did not. So when the Intelligence Officer stated that this
Lieutenant was in one of the four planes that was firing on us when we
finally went down, Davis went to pieces and snapped out the impertinent
question, “And was he one of the four who fired on us after we were
already shot down?”
The flyer conceded that all four of them fired at us, but that they were
certainly not trying to kill us but were merely trying to keep us from
escaping. This was too sad an excuse to get by. Davis told him that he
didn’t care a hang who got the credit for shooting us down—we were down
and that was all there was to that subject—but that in the American Army
it was considered mighty poor to strike a man when he was already down.
The Intelligence Officer was surprised and scornfully asked me if the
Americans did not do exactly the same thing. Davis reared back like a
rattlesnake about to strike and with eyes flashing fire of indignation
and contempt told them that if an American Aviator was caught doing a
thing like that—firing on the enemy when he was already down—that the
Americans, themselves, would take their own countryman out and, without
giving him the pleasure of being shot to death, would tar and feather
him and hang him, for to an American, when a fellow was down he was
down, and whether we were fighting a war or not, we wouldn’t stand for
murdering any one in cold blood. I saw we were getting in Dutch, right
off, and so did Davis, for as the Intelligence Officer explained it to
the high-spirited flyer we could see his temples throb and his eyes
quiver from anger; and his jaws closed with hatefulness and scorn. The
Intelligence Officer, realizing that the conversation was getting into
deeper channels than was especially desired for the occasion, told the
German aviator something and without saluting or otherwise rendering
military courtesy, he left the room.
There remained only the Intelligence Officer, Davis and myself. The
court of inquiry was in session—the suave Prussian on the bench and two
obstinate American jailbirds in the pit. The German told us to help
ourselves to the cigarettes, and believe me, we realized that it might
be the last time we would have such a liberal invitation for, maybe,
many months to come. We accepted. Take it from me, we certainly
smoked—rapidly, but at the same time languidly. We consumed those
cigarettes like a Vacuum Cleaner takes up dust. When we had depleted the
supply of twenty the Intelligence Officer produced twenty more.
As a hard and fast rule a prisoner should never talk. In this way it is
certain that no information will be given out. Once in a great while a
prisoner can do some good by talking—I am sure that no American ever
told, deliberately, any true information, either voluntarily or under
pressure or even threat of execution; but a great deal of dope was
gained through subterfuge, or from the ordinary man who foolishly tried
to spar against the keen mind of the officer who has made a life study
of that particular work. Thus our case was different, for as an
Operations Officer of an Army I also was versed in intelligence work. At
least, I had an equal chance.
As usual, the first ruse of the German was to find the location of our
airdrome, for, since they found an identification tag on Davis, they
knew his squadron was the 104th. Of course, I didn’t belong to that
squadron, but I said nothing, for the reason that it would serve no
useful purpose to dispute this presumption. He showed us some absolutely
marvelous photographs of our airdrome taken by German cameras at
extremely high altitudes and also pictures of other airdromes close by.
I recognized them all right, but, believe me, I gave no signs of it.
After about thirty-five minutes of dickering with those photographs in
which he tried by every possible manner and means to catch a clue as to
the location of our airdrome, he pulled the very subtle change in
conversation from airdromes to the general feeling about the war. He
wanted to know what schools we had attended and what subjects we had
taken, and what Americans did for diversion in their colleges, whether
or not they fenced, and then he nicely asked us to explain a little
about football; in other words, perfectly harmless questions. We gladly
talked football, but kept on the alert lest we be taken unawares.
Suddenly in the midst of these immaterial questions and discussions
about our schools, customs and life in general, from a clear sky and in
a very nonchalant manner, came a new surprise.
“Oh, about your relatives and friends,” he remarked
sympathetically—“they will be very worried to hear that you have been
reported missing in action.” We both agreed to that, of course. “Well,”
he went on as if he had been inspired by a solution, “if you wish to
write a little note to some of your friends back in the squadron the
German flyers will very gladly drop the messages over the lines on the
next patrol, which will be to-night. You see,” and he cleared his throat
by way of emphasis, “by this method your parents and your friends will
not worry; otherwise, they may think you have been killed.”
I was surprised, really, at this ostensible kindness—it was attractive
enough to bear investigating. As a matter of fact, the recent illness of
my mother convinced me that she could not withstand the shock of my
reported casualty. I immediately decided that if it was possible to
adopt this expedient news service, provided I did not have to give any
military information, I would do so. Like every boy, I knew that the one
person in the world who loved me most was my mother. She had a right to
know. So, accepting his pencil, I wrote very rapidly:
“To Any Allied Officer or Man:
Kindly Notify American General Headquarters that Lieutenants Raymond
Davis and Elmer Haslett, Air Service, are safe prisoners of war in
Germany.”
He took it, read it, and in a business-like manner wrote something over
it by way of endorsement, which, he explained, meant “Censored,” and
handing it back to me I read what I had written to Davis. Calling a man,
who like all the other Germans we had seen so far, gave a smart salute
upon entering, the officer handed him the note and muttered something in
German, then hypocritically smiling, he assured us that he was sending
the message direct to the airdrome to be dropped over the lines by the
next patrol. His matter-of-fact attitude led us to believe that
everything was a matter of course, and the incident was closed. However,
after the soldier had been gone a few seconds the officer jumped up,
hastened to the door and called him back. The man handed him our note
and, hastily glancing at the address, the Lieutenant said smilingly,
“Oh, you know, you neglected to write on the note where you want it
dropped,” and handing me a pencil he continued quite concernedly, “Lucky
I thought of it, wasn’t it?”
I began to see the gleam and color of the snake in the grass. So I wrote
on it “France.” I knew he expected to see the name of our airdrome on
there, so after a cynical laugh he tried to look serious, although he
well realized that he was being outmaneuvered.
“Oh, you know,” he explained, “you must make it more definite than that.
Where are your friends? That would be the place to drop it.”
Whereupon I told him to write upon it “Paris.”
“Oh!” and he manifested complete surprise, “you have come from Paris?”
I laughingly told him that I had been there, and then he grew serious,
but did not show any anger.
“Now really,” and he looked directly at Davis, as if to solicit some aid
from him, “you should tell us your airdrome, for instance, which would
be the best place to drop it.”
Davis told him that we really did not know the name of our airdrome, or
its location. This was a good hunch, and backing Davis up with our
mutual ignorance, I told him that if he dropped the message anywhere
over the lines it would certainly be found, and while we, ourselves,
were not very well known in France, having been there only a very short
time, the American General Headquarters was well known and our names
were on record at Headquarters. He was nonplussed, for his last card had
been played and the location of our airdrome had not yet been divulged.
The Germans were, of course, anxious to find out the location of our
airdrome for the reason that if by collaboration of information they
found that several squadrons had been moved from other places to
airdromes opposite their own front they would know that the forces were
concentrating at a particular point and that something was likely to
pop. Thus, it gave them the opportunity to distribute their own strength
accordingly. He had failed on this, so he started out on new tasks.
“How do you like Rickenbacker?” he said very casually, by way of
changing the subject.
“Who?” I questioned disinterestedly.
“Rickenbacker, your greatest flyer—Squadron 94,” he added in surprise at
my ignorance, and corresponding pride at his own intelligence.
“New one on me—never heard of it,” I replied.
“Never heard of the 94th?” he ejaculated, even more surprised. “Well,
the 94th is your best chasse squadron and,” he continued, by way of
demonstrating his superior knowledge, “the 12th is your best observation
squadron, the 96th is your best bombing squadron and the 91st is your
best surveillance squadron. As a matter of fact, by following the
movements of these four organizations we pretty well know where your
main body of aviation is concentrated.”
A hasty reflection taught me that the old boy had the situation pretty
well sized up, for, indeed, he had accurately named our most famous
squadrons in their particular work.
However, I still professed ignorance.
“So you don’t know Rickenbacker?” he proceeded. “I can also tell you
something about him.” Whereupon he enlightened me by the statement that
Eddie was a German, born in Germany and educated while a boy in German
schools—all of which he pointed out as the reasons for Rickenbacker’s
superior skill and efficiency. But the Fatherland was completely off
with “Rick” in spite of their proud—but, by the way, unfounded—claim of
nationality. The Intelligence Officer told me that they considered him
an absolute traitor to the Fatherland.
Another potent reason, he explained, was that they emphatically believed
that Rickenbacker’s tactics of burning balloons at night was inhuman,
since the poor balloon observers did not even have a chance to get away
with their lives. It was at this time that Lieutenant Frank Luke was at
the height of his marvelous success of burning German balloons at night,
but they had blamed it all on “Rick.” In fact, it could easily be
gathered from what he said that Luke had the German balloonists’ goat so
well haltered that many of them refused to go up for night observation,
and naturally the command was worried.
As I told Rickenbacker afterward, there certainly would have been a
crowd around the fire if he had been shot down in Germany, for he was
the one man for whom they were all looking, for more reasons than one.
After again emphatically denouncing “Rick” for his “inhuman tactics” he
changed the conversation and asked me how many Americans we had in
France.
“That is a matter we do not care to discuss,” I said in a manner
indicating that while we knew positively the exact number we wished to
sidetrack the issue.
He momentarily permitted it.
“Your losses by our submarines must have been appalling,” he said, not
forcing the subject.
I told him that our losses by their submarines had not been nearly so
great as their losses by their own submarines. This was Greek to him, so
he asked me what I meant, and I explained to him that while their
submarines were causing us some damage all right, and a lot of worry,
yet they were also responsible for our being in France and that if the
American Army had not already caused them all the losses and all the
worry they could possibly withstand that it soon would. He was very
anxious to impress upon us that he believed that the policy of Von
Tirpitz was all wrong and he admitted that Germany realized that she
could not win with America in the war. “To Germany,” he said, “it is now
a proposition of defense.”
Then Davis calmly proceeded to tell him that if Germany ever wanted to
save herself she had better throw up her hands quick, because in 1920
the Allies were certainly going to give her a walloping blow from
Switzerland to the sea.
“Ah,” he said, “1920 is a long way off. How many Americans will you have
here in 1920?”
I looked at Davis, hesitated a second as if calculating, then said,
“Let’s see—we have three million five hundred thousand here now; we
ought to have seven million by that time.” Then I assumed a
sheepish-looking attitude, as if I had said something which should have
been kept secret. He looked at me a moment in amazement, then laughingly
said:
“You are joking. You have not three million five hundred thousand here
now.”
I nodded my head affirmatively, while Davis chirped up, “That’s right.”
“In France?” he gasped.
“Yes, in France,” I repeated.
“Oh, no. It is not possible. How do you know?” he exclaimed.
With a perfectly straight face I told him that the only way I knew was
that every man who came across was given a number as he sailed, and that
I had been in France only two weeks, and that my number was 3,246,807,
and I was quite sure that the difference had been made up. If he had
asked me to repeat those figures I couldn’t have done it to save my
life. He looked thoughtfully at the floor, which gave Davis and me the
opportunity to smile and wink at our little joke.
“How long do you think the war will last?”
I bowed my head and rubbed along my temples as if in deep thought, then
suddenly looking up at him as if some muse had given me a correct
solution of the problem, I told him that while it was very hard to tell
accurately, most Americans felt that it would be not less than three
years and not over five. The officer threw back his hands in utter
horror like a spinster at her first view of a t. b. m. production.
“Three years more of this Hell?” he said. “Ugh! It will be not more than
three months.”
I agreed with him entirely, although I did not say so.
“Three months?” I said in surprise. “Do you think you will win this war
in three months?”
“No, Germany will not win the war,” he sighed in apparent regret, “but
we will quit, for we cannot win. We lost our last chance when he failed
to get to Paris in July.”
Seeing that we were evidently interested, he thought that it was the
proper time to get down to the real subject of “intelligence,” but we,
too, were prepared.
“Do your aviators know everything that is taking place?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Davis, “our aviators are very intelligent. The command
has great confidence in them”; “and,” I added, “in fact, aviators see a
copy of every Army order issued.”
“You knew, then,” he continued, “that you had attacked from Verdun to
Rheims and the French from Rheims to Soissons and the British from
Soissons to the sea.”
“Yes,” I said, “I know that the Allies have attacked all along.” And, as
a matter of fact, I did, but most of our flyers did not, and it was only
on account of the nature of my work that I knew this information. But I
also knew that for some time past Marshal Foch had been pulling a big,
strategic fake down in the Vosges mountains from Lunéville to the Swiss
border, a very quiet sector, by displaying an unusual amount of activity
in the parading of empty motor trucks back and forth to the front,
which, of course, could not have been unnoticed by the Germans and
necessarily caused them much concern. As a matter of fact, I knew that
those trucks were empty and were being paraded only to create the
impression that the Allies were getting ready to attack in that sector.
Intelligence reports that I had read previous to my capture stated that
the Germans were looking forward to this attack and that some of the
newspapers had even mentioned it. So, when he fired his next question I,
too, had my little pop-gun all ready, cleaned, oiled, primed, bored,
trigger pulled, cocked, aimed, set and loaded to the brim with T.N.T.,
triple forced dynamite, and I let him have it.
“Ah, if you are attacking all along here,” he said as he pointed to the
battle area on the map on the table, “you are pushing us north. Now, you
must attack from Verdun east or you are leaving your right flank
unprotected, so unless you do attack toward the east we will flank and
annihilate you.” Sweeping his hand over the big, broad map of France, he
assumed the air of a Napoleon.
I wasn’t worried about that flanking movement, for I was all fixed for
that; in fact, I was way ahead of him. I was doing my best to figure out
my location and the way to the lines so that if there was any chance of
my escaping I would know, at least, the general direction in which to
go.
“Oh,” I said, apparently without thought, “you haven’t the latest
reports, have you? Well, since it’s out I’ll tell you. Our latest
communiques this morning stated that we had attacked in the Vosges, had
surprised the Germans, and our troops will have taken Mulhausen by
to-morrow morning.”
I have never seen a man so happy as this Intelligence Officer—he was all
smiles. He had made certain a conjecture, for he had found out that we
were really going to attack in the Vosges, and he knew that it had not
yet taken place. I could see the gleam in his eyes as he visioned the
honor, prestige and the like he would reap as the reward for his
wonderful discovery. He apparently could not wait to get the news to
headquarters. Abruptly closing the conversation, he shook hands with us,
rang the bell and turned us over to a couple of officers who took us out
to the camp in our tin-wheeled bus, and in a few minutes we were again
in jail, where, relieved from the presence of German officers, we threw
off the cloak of dignified propriety and, giving vent to stored-up
jollity, we laughed heartily and long.
Indeed, we felt sure by the very affable manner in which we had been
released that the duck had been royally fixed. I do not know how true it
is, but I afterwards heard that this Intelligence Officer was so
convinced and enthusiastic over his discovery that the General was also
convinced, and in turn reported it to the Gros Headquarters at Treves,
and that the Supreme Command issued preliminary orders to take two
Divisions away from the Argonne Reserve for duty in the Vosges. This may
or may not be so, though I am inclined to think it is not, but it does
not particularly matter. I do know, however, that afterward, for some
reason or other, when I was transported by rail through Germany I was
honored with extra guards, who had in their possession a descriptive
card which honored me to the extent of remarking that I was a very
dangerous character, clever liar, and was to be especially well watched.
X
BECOMING KULTURED
I was born in a small town, and I’m a small town guy. A small town
always gets the full advantage of propaganda, and as people in small
towns do not have a great variety of subjects to talk about when they
once get a good one it has a long season. The folks around the towns
where I had lived in the West and Middle West had been led to believe
that while the ideal environment for the ground work of stability of
character was to be found in the broad, open atmosphere of the country
west of the Mississippi, yet for further polish and refinement it was
necessary to seek the Eastern States, or better, to sojourn a while in
England or France. There was some discussion as to which was the better
of these two places. However, for the final graduation in culture, it
was an entirely different story—there were no two sides to the argument
at all that the post graduate course in refinement could be obtained but
at one place in the whole wide world. There was no alternative. It was
thoroughly agreed that if one aspired to become a finished product with
the proper veneer, that person must beat it to Germany and become
Kultured. Perhaps this feeling was the result of well-directed German
propaganda; at any rate, it was a firmly established belief where I
lived, at least.
This “Kultur” bunk had never interested me, for I always had felt that
the United States was good enough. A man who had good tips on the horse
races was a hundred times more interesting to me than a much vaunted
German Count who came from the wonderful country of Wagner, Goethe and
Schiller. At that, though, I had studied German a couple of years in
preparatory school, but I want to say here and now that the only reason
for my doing it was because the only other choice was Latin, which was
entirely beyond the possibilities of my mind. So when I finished the
laborious German course at school I promptly proceeded to forget it.
Now fortune had thrust upon me the opportunity for which many Americans
before the war had vainly wished—namely, a sojourn in Germany and a
course in Kultur, for, indeed, was I not being entertained as a guest of
the German Government—or was it the jest of the German Government?
Thus in spite of the fact that I never aspired to become Kultured, it
was certain that I was going to get it whether I wished it or not. It
was like the compulsory inoculations and vaccinations in the army—there
was no choice in the matter for the poor guy who’s getting it.
Perhaps the condition of my appetite had something to do with the
shaping of my observations as to the actual working of German Kultur,
for I was hungry when I was made prisoner and that empty feeling never
left me from the time I was shot down until several weeks after I was
released.
All during the first day of our imprisonment we had nothing to eat,
except the dainty “tea of bribery” at the session of the court of
inquiry in the afternoon, and the only effect of that tea was to whet
our already cutting appetites. So, having been returned from the session
of court, we sat down on a rude bench in our dingy abode at the Montmedy
prison camp to brood over our misfortune and to settle down for that
course in Kultur. We were thoroughly blue, for the only joys in life
during that day had been the facts that we had successfully lied to the
German Intelligence Officer and so far we had not divulged any military
information.
And here is a point that I noticed all through Germany from the officers
on down—with rare exceptions. A German will promise you anything in
order to appear affable and pleasant. It is commonly done, and they get
off with it for a certain time. From these continued observations of
unfulfilled promises I formed a definition of “Kultur.” In my mind it is
that superficial and subtle form of hypocrisy practised by the German
race and commonly accepted by them as justifiable and necessary in their
state of affairs, which permits of the affording of temporary
satisfaction in meeting the emergency in hand by giving indiscriminate
promises—which promises are never fulfilled nor intended to be fulfilled
at the time of making; and which further permits and justifies the
explanation of nonfulfillment of promises by the giving of more and
similar empty and insincere promises.
Our room was rather chilly, for in our absence the fire had gone out.
With the wood we had coerced from the sergeant the orderly finally came
in and built us a little fire. We used French economy, for we were quite
sure that it was going to be cold before the night was over, with the
limited covering they had given us.