“Lieutenant Haslett, Sir.”
“I’ve got eyes,” he snapped. “I can see your rank all right. How does it happen you are Infantry?”
“I volunteered, Sir, for Aviation and was detailed.”
“Volunteered or was ordered to volunteer?” he queried. This hurt for it had been strongly rumored that in the selection of aerial observers, many line commanders had gotten rid of their undesirables by sending them to aviation—as observers.
“Volunteered, Sir!” I replied, bluffed and bewildered.
His attitude showed plainly that I did not strike him at all well. I was still standing at attention, when he sharply commanded “Sit down!” Believe me, I did.
“How many hours over the lines?” he fired next.
Hours! That word removed the floodgate and the last ounce of my composure ebbed away. My time over the lines was measured in minutes and here was a man talking in terms of hours, already. This was the one thing I must avoid, so I sought to evade the question.
“I have had eight hours in the air, Sir.” But I did not lay any stress on “in the air.”
“I don’t care how many hours you’ve had in the air. I asked you how many hours you have had over the lines. That’s what counts with me,” he said emphatically.