He was genuinely peeved and after telephoning the location of the line to appease the growing anxiety of the French, we got into Brereton’s car to go to Divisional Headquarters to find out what was the matter with the Infantry.
We arrived at Bacarrat, went to the Division Headquarters, and the Signal Officer, in reply to our inquiry, told us quite unconcernedly, that the Division had panels all right, but this had been their first occasion to use them and they had not been issued for the doughboys would get them soiled, or might use them for handkerchiefs or the like. Brereton, of course, was in a rage and we demanded to see the Commanding General of Infantry. On duty at the Infantry Post of Command was a Lieutenant Colonel in the National Army, who had probably held some big job in civilian life, but who was certainly not born a soldier. He said that the General had been awake all night and had just gotten to sleep after the morning raid and so he did not care to awaken him under any circumstances. Brereton began to cuss in great style and said he’d be blamed if he’d send his aviators out any more to be killed unless he got some coöperation from the Infantry and it was a terrible note when the Chief of a Service could not see the General when an all-important matter was pending and that if this Brigade wanted the Air Service to work with them they had better show some willingness to help. He then demanded that the panels be issued at once. The Lieutenant Colonel began to show a little concern, and although he was looking right straight at our wings, he asked, “Are you aviators?” Brereton said, “Yes, of course. What did you think we were?” The old boy then showed some speed; he got hold of the telephone and after saying “Sir” many times in order to appease the wrath of the General who had been so rudely awakened and so as not to increase his disfavor, proceeded to tell him that the Airplane Major was here, and wanted to talk to him. Brereton was forced to laugh at this new title and for some time afterwards we all called him the “Airplane Major.” The General of course realized the gravity of the situation and was also mighty peeved about the failure to provide the troops with panels. The mission ended with the agreement that the panels would be issued immediately and the General expressed his sincere regret at the loss of our aviators, and, I believe, became converted to the fact that the Air Service was also a factor to be considered in winning a war.
On our way back to the airdrome we stopped at Artillery Headquarters and they wanted us to go up that afternoon and do an artillery adjustment, as a couple of batteries were sorely in need of more accurate regulation in View of further raids by the Germans. When the Artillery Colonel asked who would do the work Brereton looked at me and I looked at Brereton, and I knew it was settled. “Why, Lieutenant Haslett here has been worked pretty hard and I wanted him to rest up, but I guess he can do this one and then take a rest.” The Artillery Colonel was surprised, but I was more surprised at what he said—“So you are Haslett! Well, well, I’m glad to know you. Colonel Sherburne of the 26th Division Artillery told one of our Majors about a big mission you pulled off for him in the Toul Sector. We sure will be glad to have you work with us.” This was the first recognition of this kind that I had ever gotten and coming from Sherburne it was like a million dollars to me, for he was one of the greatest men with whom I had ever worked. Of course, after that compliment I was delighted and I certainly would not have let any one else do the adjustment at all. I felt like a hero with three wings. I was determined to do the best adjustment I had ever done in my life.
When we got to Bacarrat on the way to the airdrome, an orderly handed Brereton a message which dampened my spirit and determination completely. It read that Captain Hinds—Pop Hinds—the old man who that morning had told me about his premonition that it was an off-day and that I ought not go for I would not come back—was himself killed while taking off from the airdrome, his plane having gone into a tailspin. His observer, another “H”—Henderson, the Operations Officer, was seriously injured. This news hurt me more than any I had ever received. Pop was about forty-six years old and had gone into the flying game simply from the desire to help along American Aviation, having had some little amateur training before the War. We had tried our best to get him back from the front because we realized that the old fellow didn’t have much of a show against the Hun and under actual fighting conditions, but Pop would not go back. He was always the first to volunteer for any mission. A braver man I have never seen. He was a real daddy to us all and his great human understanding and sympathy caused us to pay him a marked deference and respect. He often won a lot of money from the officers playing poker, but in his characteristic unselfishness, he spent it all for candy, cigars, cigarettes and tobacco for the enlisted men and mechanics. He was their idol and there was little, if anything, that they would not do for him.
Henderson was one of my best friends and happily though he was not killed, it had a peculiar significance to me that one hundred per cent of the day’s casualties were “H’s.” It looked like an off-day for the “H’s” without a doubt. There were only three of us left—one was the Ordnance Officer, Hall by name, who was not a flyer; Harwood, who was busy as could be on some assignments; and myself.
The only “H” left was to do an artillery adjustment that afternoon. I thought it might be a good idea to put off that adjustment until the next day, but I could not get up the courage to tell Brereton my honest convictions.
When we got to the airdrome every one was feeling mighty low, because these were our first casualties, outside of the loss of Angel and Emerson in the Toul Sector. The bunch all felt that though the sun was still shining and it was a good day for flying that there were better days ahead. Even the squadron surgeon sent out the recommendation that the flying be suspended for the day. I felt quite relieved for I could not conceive of any one going against the recommendation of the “Medico.” But this did not appeal to Brereton. In his characteristic manner he loudly and emphatically announced that he was not going to let a little thing like that stop the War; if a squadron went to the Front they must expect some casualties and that flying would go right on. I did not eat any dinner; I did not care for it; for, as usual, I did not agree with Brereton. I honestly felt that flying ought to be suspended in deference to old “Pop” Hinds if for no other reason at all.
I really dreaded that flight and even the praise of that Artillery Colonel meant nothing in my life. No one came out to see us off. It was the wrong atmosphere. There was gloom in the sky, gloom on the ground, and gloom within our own beings. In fact, the whole world looked like a dark cloud. The ordinarily jovial mechanics were all acting like a bunch of pall bearers.
Brereton gave me a pilot by the name of West, which to my mind seemed particularly pertinent for I sure felt as though I were going in that direction.
For protection they sent a plane piloted by Schnurr with whom I had previously had a narrow escape and as his observer they sent Thompson against whom I had no complaint at all, for Thompson on his first flight over the lines with the French, shot down an enemy plane. His presence, of course, was no meager consolation, for while I did not want any drawing cards along, I felt that if the Germans were going to attack it would be a good thing to have some one along who could do the fighting, because my experience in actual fighting up to this time put me in about the same class that the St. Louis Nationals generally have in the Baseball Club standing. I was at the bottom of the list. In fact, Thompson was the only one in the squadron who had so far had a fight and that was while he was with the French.