I am writing this in Paris where I came to rest after seeing the boys
straighten out the last wrinkle in the old Marne salient. It’s almost
like a tight-rope now—a bee line from Rheims right through the woods
north of Campiegne.
The doctors sent me back because of my cough; the after effect, they
say, of being gassed. I am told that if this troublesome cough does not
presently subside it will be desirable for me to seek another
climate—the mountains of Switzerland, for instance. I am hoping that
this will not be necessary and meanwhile I shall continue my tale of Tom
Slade. For I have dug up one or two more things for you out of his
checkered career.
Each morning I come out and sit on the Boulevard, and do my writing in
the intervals of watching the sights. The benches are filled with
crippled soldiers and there is a little French girl who comes along
nearly every day and gives us each a flower. Nannette, her name is, and
she is the only one left of a family of nine who were kidnapped and
butchered by the Germans in Senlis. She wears wooden shoes and I listen
for their clatter each morning. Directly across from my favorite seat is
the wreck of a house which was bombed, and the soldiers are always
picking up odds and ends to take home. It brings back fond memories of
Archibald Archer.
Well, when I left the hospital at Epernay I had two things, and one was
this cough. The other was the name of Lieutenant Tanner, of the flying
field near Troyes. It seemed that here was the likeliest means of
finding out something of Slade’s subsequent career, so I visited the
place on a pass and talked with the lieutenant. I found him agreeable
enough but rather brief. I suspect that he does not greatly admire us
“knights of the fountain pen.” He told me, among other things, that
Slade’s landing had been “amateurish” but quite remarkable. He said that
Slade took a “low angle grade” or something of that sort, for to tell
you the truth, I don’t know what he was talking about.
They were putting the men through their training in pretty rapid order
then in anticipation of the final scene, and physical fitness and
natural aptitude and daring once established, the rest was easy. Slade
received a rather perfunctory training at this place, made an altogether
successful brevet flight (his real test was the flight I’ve told you
of), and was transferred to the airdrome near Chalons on the Marne,
where he was kept at the noncombatant work of aerial messenger. If he
had any interesting experiences in this branch of the service I have not
been able to learn them, but of the remarkable incident which resulted
in his being taken to the hospital at Epernay I have authentic
information, and of this I shall now tell you.
I have been at some pains to learn the full story of this singular
business and my information is derived from several sources. I will
mention these now so that the story, as I tell it, may not be cumbered
with continual reference to my authorities.
First, there is Captain Whitloss of the airdrome near Chalons, who was
Slade’s superior and whom I cannot sufficiently thank for his
hospitality and courtesy to a mere fountain-pen warrior! Next, there is
an old Frenchman of the name of Godefroi Grigou and his daughter,
Jeanne, aged seventeen, who at the time this thing happened lived in the
village of Talois, some fifteen miles beyond the German line as it ran
then. In the spreading of the advance which began with General Foch’s
counter offensive on the Marne, this village was brought within the
allied lines and I have visited it (or what there is left of it) and
talked with old Godefroi and his daughter.
The girl speaks English with a pretty, broken accent, having learned it,
so she told me; from an American who was in the German service. I think
he must have been a German-American, for he spoke German also. The only
name they knew him by was Captain Toby. He was in the German aerial
observation corps, and was for some time prior to the events which I am
going to record, domiciled in the simple home of these poor people, who
were forced to share their meagre fare with him and pay him homage. I
have never seen this creature, but I understand that he has many black
marks against his name, and that it will fare ill with him if he ever
falls into allied hands.
I think there were never two happier people than old Godefroi and his
young daughter since their delivery from German arrogance and
oppression. Their poor little thatched cottage is now ten miles within
General Foch’s iron line, and here I spent one of the pleasantest
afternoons I have known since I came to France.
From these three persons, then, I learned the substance of the story
which I am about to tell and which I shall call The Episode of the Other
Gun. Even the conversations are substantially authentic and if I have
filled up the gaps here and there with a little of the story-teller’s
material, I think I can assure you that I have held a tight rein upon my
imagination, and have not introduced any matter save what is obviously
suggested by the facts.
One afternoon, as Slade alighted after a flight to Neufchateau he was
instructed to report to the captain’s headquarters where he found two
officers connected with the secret information service. Having made
certain that he was the right Thomas Slade, they asked him whether he
had heard of the great advantage to the allies which had accrued from a
study of the roller map of the Hun plane in which he had escaped.
“I never heard anything more about it,” said Slade.
They told him that matters of the greatest importance had been revealed
by this map, such as the location of airdromes and ammunition dumps,
official headquarters, etc., and, most important of all, the positions,
or rather the neighborhood, of two isolated pieces of mammoth artillery
which had been pounding away at Chalons near by. One of these, they
said, had been located near Tagnoni and put out of business. The other
was still active and creating frightful havoc in Chalons and neighboring
places. Its locality was marked by a cross upon the German airman’s map
and a reproduction of this section of the map was shown to Slade. It
showed Talois in the hilly country about twelve or fifteen miles behind
the enemy lines.
“It has been decided,” said one of the officers, “to send a flier to
this place in the plane which you brought from Azoudange, to reconnoiter
and report, if possible, the precise location of this piece. Specific
instructions are ready and if you care to volunteer for this service
your offer will be considered. You speak German, I believe?”
“Kind of,” said Slade.
“You were in the German camp how long?”
“About a month.”
“You come of German people?”
“No, I don’t,” said Slade, “but if I did it wouldn’t be my fault.”
The officer looked at him with a sort of careful scrutiny from which I
infer (and so does Captain Whitloss) that they thought he had somewhat
the appearance of a German and were glad of it. They explained that
individuals were not detailed for such hazardous expeditions except upon
their volunteering; that they gave him this opportunity because he had
brought the Hun plane into allied territory, because he had been among
Germans during his captivity, and because he spoke German. They said
nothing about his personal bravery, for they do not do this in the army.
“Do I just have to say I volunteer?” said Slade.
“If you wish to go.”
“Then I say it.”
“Very well; your instructions will be delivered to you by Captain
Whitloss tomorrow and you will be held at the field until then.”
Slade saluted and left the room. Throughout the balance of that day he
showed not the slightest ruffle in his stolid demeanor and in the
morning he wandered about the field watching the practice of his
comrades. Once only did he speak to anyone and that was to ask Captain
Whitloss if this errand was in the nature of a spy’s work.
“That’s how they’ll treat you if they find you out,” said the captain.
“I don’t mean over there,” said Slade. “I’m not thinking about that; but
over here.”
“Well, not exactly,” said the captain, which seemed to satisfy him.
In the early afternoon the Hun plane, which must have recalled vivid
memories to Slade, circled over the field and made a landing. Its pilot,
one of the aviators from the neighborhood of Troyes, brought Slade’s
instructions, which I have been permitted to see. I think I may
reproduce them here, particularly as the episode is now a thing of the
past and moreover you will not see this until I return to America.
The messenger will commit these instructions to memory and, having
repeated them accurately to his commanding officer, will sign and return
them to such officer. He will then hold himself in readiness for further
orders.
Upon receiving these he shall, at a time to be designated, fly to
Suippes where materials and final orders will be given him.
Upon his final orders for departure he shall proceed as follows: Fly
directly northward from Suippes, under safe conduct, and cross the lines
at St Estey. From this point he shall follow the line of the road which
runs directly northward to Vouziers. Both road and town, it is believed,
are sufficiently indicated in low flight. From Vouziers he shall follow
the line of road running eastward into the hills. Village of Talois is
first village eastward on this road. Continuing directly eastward over
wooded hill he shall locate whitewashed, thatched-roof cottage on road
at edge of woods and make landing in field adjacent. Inquire at cottage
for M. Grigou and present credentials. If hospitality is refused he
shall return forthwith to Suippes. Otherwise, he shall remain and spend
following day in exploration of east slope of wooded hill west of
cottage. Spend day following in exploration of west slope. Spend second
day following in such further explorations as previous explorations
indicate. If gun is located, he shall note its position with regard to
slope, neighboring contours and such landmarks and geographic facts as
may reduce the area of its approximate position from Allied lines. On
the night of third day he shall positively return to base at Chalons.
Subjoined to this order was a list of items which might be more or less
helpful in locating his destination, and so forth.
Notwithstanding the very explicit character of these instructions, it is
plain that they left much to the flier’s judgment and resource. I
suspect that Slade’s superiors were in possession of secret information
which they did not think it necessary to give the volunteer, but which
might have afforded him some reassurance in so hazardous a trip. For one
thing, I understand it was known at the time that the news of the
ridiculous loss of the Hun machine had been suppressed within the enemy
lines. Whether this was the work of the authorities of the prison camp
in collusion with the German flier, I do not know, but enemy prisoners
(even officers) taken by the French and Americans professed complete
ignorance of this inglorious loss of one of their machines. Perhaps it
was this that determined the use of the Hun plane in this delicate
business.
Captain Whitloss says that Slade repeated his instructions word for word
in a “kind of dull, monotonous tone” correcting himself even in the most
trifling details, then signed the formidable documents in a scrawling
hand. I saw this signature. It was written in a firm, but very careless,
hand and read simply Tom Slade. After that he played checkers until
three in the afternoon when, upon verbal orders, he left the airdrome.
(Orders regarding time of departure are seldom known in advance.)
Alighting in Suippes, he was outfitted with the shabby garment of a
German flier—remnant, I suppose, of some hapless enemy captive. He
showed no surprise to find here that his “credentials” consisted merely
of a tarnished brass button.
“Will I give him this?” was all he said.
Suippes is (or was) just a couple of miles behind the line and here
Slade remained through the early part of the evening, pitching ball
until it was too dark and then watching the boys playing cards in the
Y. M. C. A. hut. A little after ten o’clock he was ordered out upon his
perilous errand.
Of the flight itself I know nothing, for I never saw Slade, and he was
never thereafter able to make a satisfactory report. But the proof of
the pudding is in the eating.
The night was crisp and clear with a strong breeze blowing out of the
north, and the sky thick with stars. It was the same night that Aiken
fell to his death from a height of nearly 3,000 feet and the descent of
his machine, I am told, was plainly seen. So the conditions attending
Slade’s departure were propitious for his purpose. Indeed, if they had
not been so his start would have been deferred, I suppose. At 10.25 he
was reported passing over St. Estey, flying low, his propeller making
that distinctive intermittent whir which is characteristic of German
aircraft. St. Estey is right in the “front of the front,” just within
the first line trenches. It is told that a group of German prisoners
there at the time rejoiced that one of their fliers was getting back
home safely and that one of them raised his hand toward the plane and
called, “Prosit!”
So Tom Slade went forth upon his dangerous business with the best of
good wishes on the part of his enemies!