Luck on the Wing: Thirteen Stories of a Sky Spy

by Elmer Haslett

Brereton did not arrive with the squadron. He had been ordered to General Headquarters for a conference of some importance, which occasioned him some delay. The morning he arrived, however, he brought Henderson, Herold and Hopkins along. They had been detached from us at Toul in order to take a Gunnery Course at Caseaux, in the south of France.

Henderson again took over his duties as Operations Officer. Brereton called me in his office and told me a big secret. He stated that there were big things ahead—that we were going to Chateau Thierry quite soon—that he would be Chief of the Air Service for the First Corps and that I would be made a Captain and the Operations Officer for the Corps. He asked me how many times I had been over the lines in the last month to which I answered that it was about thirty times. He said that was too much and that I needed a rest. He then told me I should not fly any more for a couple of weeks, so, I took him at his word and settled down for a rest, meanwhile forming plans for my new job. I strutted around the Squadron and gave as my reasons for retiring, that it was for my nerves and the doctor had so ordered. The boys all fell for this line and they were very thoughtful of me and asked me many times each day as to the condition of my nerves.

In a few days, the 42nd Division was ordered out of the line in order to prepare themselves for the affair which we afterwards learned was Chateau Thierry, and the 77th, which was the first National Army unit to go in the trenches, was ordered in the line. Their Artillery was not yet ready for work, so, some of the 42nd Artillery stayed over to support them. The first morning after the 77th took its place in the trenches the Germans pulled off a raid, the result of which put about six hundred of the 77th in the hospital from gas and wounds.

When the raid came off, the first reports we got were from the French at daybreak. They said that the boche had attacked along the entire divisional front from Domévre to Badonvillers, and that we should send out a plane at once and find the line in order that the General might know where to send reinforcements. It was Lieut. Hopkins’ turn on alert duty, so, he took off right after daylight in the execution of his first mission over the lines. Hopkins had lots of courage—he was a brave fellow—he got tangled up with the “archies” and a huge piece of shell tore away a part of his knee, but he stayed right up there trying to execute his mission until he realized he was losing consciousness from loss of blood. I knew nothing about the attack and was still in bed when they dragged old Hoppy in.

This looked like exciting business for us so when they dragged Hoppy in, I got up and began to pay attention. Meanwhile they had got the next man on the “H” list—Lieutenant Armin F. Herold—whom I knew quite well and he had already been sent out to get the line. I helped lift Hopkins into the ambulance to be taken to the hospital and then went over to get my breakfast. I was about half finished when some one rushed in and said that Herold was also coming in. Of course, we hurried out just as the plane taxied up to the hangar. The mechanics lifted Herold out of the plane with his right leg shattered at the ankle by machine gun bullets fired from the ground. He, of course, had been unable to get the line of our troops, but gamely stated he had gone the limit to find our troops having flown most of the time at about two hundred meters.

I saw Brereton looking around for a new crew to send out. I knew my name began with “H,” but I knew also that I had been put on the resting list, and furthermore was sick, according to the doctor, so my mind was perfectly at ease. There were others in our squadron whose names began with “H”—among them, Henderson, Harwood and Hinds, and we were not restricted to “H’s.” But Major Brereton was known to do funny things. I was starting into the mess shack to finish my breakfast when I heard that familiar voice and its equally familiar inflection demand with a tone of final decision, “Where’s Haslett?” I had a creepy feeling run all over my ribs for I knew it was an off-day. Brereton came into the mess hall after me. I certainly had not gone out to seek him. Then he showed the first and only sign of weakness I ever knew him to display—“Haslett,” he said, “do you want to go and finish this mission?” Always before he would have said “Haslett, go and do this mission.” I neither answered “Yes” or “No” for I could not honestly answer “Yes” and I dared not answer “No.” I simply started to get my flying clothes. Johnny Miller, who had been the pilot for Hopkins on the first attempt, and who afterwards was killed at Chateau Thierry, begged Brereton to be permitted to finish the job. Brereton agreed.

We got into an A.R. plane and I fairly filled the cockpit with signal rockets for the Infantry. I was determined that there should be no reason for the Infantry claiming that they did not see any rockets. Johnny gave her the gun, but as we left the ground the engine failed. We got the plane back to earth without a crash, although we were quite near to one, and that was a premonition for me. I had always figured that if anything mechanical failed, it was certainly, a sign that I had no business in the air that day. When that engine failed I told myself “Goodbye.” I felt my time had come.

We jumped out and got into another plane which was the one they had brought Herold back in. The cockpit was spattered from one end to the other with blood, but we did not have much choice in planes, so, we had to take what would run. The sight of that blood and honest-to-goodness, downright fear caused me to grow momentarily weak. I wanted to get out, take the count, and worse. As we were getting ready to take off one of my very dearest, old friends ran out to the plane, all excited, as if the spirit had suddenly moved him. It was Captain “Pop” Hinds, who was killed later that same day, in an airplane accident. “Haslett, God bless you, old boy,” he said, fairly weeping—“something tells me this is an off-day, and that you’re not going to come back. You’ve taken too many chances already. I don’t want you to go, old man.” Believe me, that took all the pep I ever had out of me. I leaned over the side of the fuselage and patting him on the back said, “Pop, don’t let it worry you. I’m the luckiest guy in the world—they can’t get me.” And in my soul I thought, “Well, those are my last words—they’re not half bad at that. How will they look on my tombstone?”

So, I gave Johnny the high sign and we took off. I could see Johnny was nervous because in taking off, the wing almost scraped the ground. Herold had told me where he thought he had seen a panel displayed by the Infantry, so I first looked that place over and then we flew along the Front at exactly five hundred meters above where the line was supposed to be. I began shooting off my fire rocket signals to the Infantry in order to get them to put out their white panels from which I could mark their location on my map, but regardless of the many rockets I fired they did not put out a single panel. We went down to four hundred meters, flew along the line for fully twenty-five minutes and fired rockets, rockets, rockets. Still there was no sign of a panel on the ground. Down to three hundred we went—no panels yet. I felt like going home because I thought three hundred meters was plenty low enough, especially on an off-day, but there was only one thing to do—that line had to be located somehow so, we went on down to one hundred. No wonder they got Herold, the machine gun fire was something terrible. I had already fired my last rocket and was never so disgusted in my life for there was no response. Finally with the naked eye we located our troops at less than one hundred meters. I hastily plotted their position. If ever a man feels he needs a friend it is when he is going through that awful machine gun fire at two hundred feet and trying to be composed enough to accurately mark on his map the location of things he is seeing on the ground. We developed some very fine observers like Wright, Baucom, Bradford, Powell and Fleeson, who got to be wonders at this work, which is, after all, the greatest work of aviation.

We had been up for about two hours, so, when we landed the whole bunch came rushing out to meet us, including Brereton. It was the only time I ever saw him run. I showed him the line and told him how we got it—the holes in the plane from machine gun bullets convinced him of the truth. I told him I would hazard my little reputation that the doughboys did not have any panels to put out, for if they had displayed them I would certainly have seen them.