Luck on the Wing: Thirteen Stories of a Sky Spy

by Elmer Haslett

Fully decided to make myself at home I went out to the hangars and to my surprise, I saw the same kind of old airplanes we had used in the observation school in France. They were an obsolete type of French service plane, known as “A.R.’s”—Avion Renault—which in English meant “Renault Airplane.” The accepted meaning to the Americans, however, was “Antique Rattletrap.” The only good feature about the A.R. was the dependable motor, but they were very slow and did not fly well. They might in those days pass for a second class training plane, but to have them on the line, functioning as service planes, was a great surprise to me. The life of the airman depends very largely on the bus he drives. We all wanted Spads, Salmsons or Breguets, and, of course, any prospect of an American plane in those days was a myth, so there was noticeably keen disappointment when we found that we must fly over the front in those old, discarded and obsolete A.R.’s. However, they were all we had and so far as I was concerned, I knew that my stay in the squadron was largely by sufferance and I could not afford to kick lest I be also kicked out, so I immediately decided to think a lot, but say nothing.

Those first few missions over the lines were tame enough. Happily enough I got in as substitute on the first mission of the squadron over the lines. The only diversion was the anti-aircraft artillery fire, or the “Archies,” and there was nothing tame about that. However, there was more activity in sight for in a few days Brereton announced that he wanted his squadron to be a specialized one and that he desired the names of a few observers who would volunteer to specialize in “Infantry contact patrol.” “Infantry contact patrol” to my mind meant nothing, so from force of habit I volunteered. The only other observers who volunteered were Lieutenant Emerson, a fine, young fellow who was killed a couple of days later, and Captain “Deacon” Saunders, our Chief Observer.

Though I was not previously known in the squadron I somehow became prominent right off, and with it went the title of “Hardboiled.” So, when several of my newly formed acquaintances solemnly asked me how long I expected to live doing “Infantry Contact Patrols,” I hied me forth to the Operations Room and asked the Chief Observer what it was all about. I was handed a pamphlet written by Colonel William Mitchell, who was Chief of Air Service at the Front. It started out with these words, “Infantry Liaison, or Infantry Contact Patrol is the most hazardous, but most important of all missions.” My eyes began to bat like a heavyweight’s before he falls for the count, and as I read on I came rapidly to the conclusion that the volunteer system was absolutely all wrong and the next time any of these nice, uncertain jobs were offered I’d take my place in the draft.

I found that Infantry Contact Patrol indicated the airplane that gains contact with the infantry in battle, which is done by flying extremely low over the troops, finding the advanced lines, transmitting signals, calling for reinforcements, ammunition or the like, attacking machine guns or anything else which is holding up the advance of the infantry; further, that the great drawback to this kind of work is that the infantry airplane is constantly under fire from enemy machine guns and enemy pursuit planes, which, of course, concentrate to hinder this all important work. I decided that with my huge body in a slow A.R. plane my life on this work would be measured in minutes. It was a real scare.

An operation room of an American Squadron at the Front, showing battle maps, war plans and photographs

There was no backing down since I had already volunteered, so I began to study the bulletins, with the greatest care. No attacks, however, took place in this quiet sector so I hit upon the brilliant idea of trying out this new work in practice on the Germans, then I would be properly experienced should there ever actually be an attack. The trenches in the Toul Sector were well marked, especially around Layeyville and Richecourt. So I studied those trenches from maps, photographs and from the air, until I knew them perfectly.

One evening I had as my pilot, Lieutenant Jack Kennedy, who was one of our flight commanders, and who was in for anything new and exciting, so, we fixed it up that we would try out a practice infantry contact on the Germans. When we finished our usual evening reconnaissance of the sector, we played around looking for a good situation that might be assumed. When we got just above Richecourt, which was the beginning of the German lines, I discerned quite clearly, about ten, big, fat Heinies slowly wobbling down a communication trench. It apparently was a relief going into place. The trench was unusually long and was not intersected by any other trenches for some length.

“Those Germans are bringing up ammunition reinforcements for the battle,” I assumed. “They must be stopped!” The ammunition was soup.

I called Kennedy, pointed them out to him, and told him my assumption. Without waiting for a signal, he dived like the winged messenger of fate. Kennedy had been trained with the English Pursuit Pilots and he was handling that big, slow, lumbering A.R. like a little fighting scout. We came out of that dive with a quivering groan, and Kennedy, at about one hundred meters altitude, began to circle over that communicating trench, waiting for me to halt the procession. He was too fast for me, but when I finally got my heart gauged down a bit, and my Adam’s apple released from its strangle hold on my windpipe, I began to make my final estimate of the situation. The Heinies had stopped and were eyeing us like country boys at their first circus. It was easy. All I had to do was to pull the triggers, for my guns were directly on them and the enemy reinforcements would never reach its intended destination. They could not scatter—they were rats in my trap. Then an intensely human appeal struck me—poor, belated, unfortunate Heinies—they were not my personal enemies, and if I pulled the triggers it would be little short of murder. To balance this was another series of thought—they were enemies of my country—of the United States—and, if I allowed them to live, would probably kill many of our own brave doughboys; perhaps they belonged to machine gun squads; perhaps it was they who had killed my pals, Angel and Emerson, a few days before. Such were my thoughts when suddenly, Spiff! Spang! and two bullets went between me and the gasoline tank, tearing a hole in the top plate. Spiff!!! Another went through the fuselage, smashing into bits, my hard-rubber wireless reel. It was no time to indulge in psychological deductions—I realized that I was being fired at from the ground, and like my lumbering old A.R., I was about to pass from obsolescence to obsolete. The application of proper psychology indicated that since I was being fired at, the war between the United States and Germany had not ended and below me was the enemy. I was conscious of something within calling me to “Do my duty!” I did. The bullets began to sing at the rate of six hundred per minute, and my tracer bullets did not betray me. They were finding their mark. Measured by the standard that an Ace is one who gets five or more Boche, I became an Ace in a day—and also the first American Ace. However, strangely enough, when my friends to-day ask me, “How many boche did you get?” I can truthfully say, “Between seventy-five and a hundred,” but when they say, “How many boche planes did you shoot down?” I have to renig for I am not an Ace.