Luck on the Wing: Thirteen Stories of a Sky Spy

by Elmer Haslett

When we got over our battery I began to call them on the radio and they put out their panels. We picked out the target which we had agreed upon and sent the signal to fire. I had promised to adjust two batteries. The plan was to finish the adjustment of the first battery and then begin the second. So, after an hour and a half I completed the first adjustment after about fifteen salvos, which, I admit, was rather rotten work, then I started on the second.

The name of my second target was “Travail Blanc” which consisted of a section of the trench which was especially heavily fortified with machine guns, having a sweep on our lines in the ravine beneath. I had just given them their first signal to fire, and of course, these batteries not having had a great deal of experience in adjusting artillery fire by airplane, were very, very slow in firing. Ordinarily the observer can time the firing, as a prompt battery fires immediately upon getting the signal from the airplane, and the observer can see the burst almost immediately thereafter. It is extremely important to get the first salvo bursts, for from this the observer knows approximately where to look for the next. So, having pressed the key, I was oblivious to all else in the world except the area immediately surrounding Travail Blanc. I must have eyed it for fully thirty seconds, which is an unusually long time to watch one particular spot on the earth, for with the speed of a modern German airplane against my antique A.R., in thirty seconds the Hun could get in a very advantageous place from out of a cloud or the sun. I was still straining my eyes on Travail Blanc when I heard the rat-a-tat-tat of something. It was the first time I had heard machine guns firing in the air while in the air myself, so I felt that we had probably lost altitude and that they were firing at us from the ground. I knew that I could not remedy the situation now, so I again turned my eyes toward Travail Blanc, when I saw the four bursts of the salvo strike about two hundred yards from the target. I had just started to reach for my key to send the correction to the battery when again I heard the long, continuous rata-tat-tat of a machine gun getting louder and louder. I leaned over the fuselage to take a look at the ground beneath me. I thought we should be high enough so that they could not possibly be firing at me and I could not figure what it was. I wondered where Schnurr and Thompson, my protectors, were, so I began to scan the air directly above me. As I threw my head backwards a streak of fire crossed my face barely missing me. I realized that “White Work” (Travail Blanc) was all wrong; my immediate target was “Dirty Work,” for instead of seeing my protecting plane above me there was bearing down upon us, with a speed that was indescribable, and spitting a thousand balls of deadly fire at me every minute, a German Albatros Scout Fighter, and directly behind it were two others of the same type. The Hun was already not over a hundred feet from me and was coming on every iota of a second with the speed of lightning and with a deadly accuracy of fire that seemed to preclude any defense.

I had been caught napping and it was now only a question of which one of the thousands of bullets that were flashing all around me that would get me first. He was so close that had it been necessary for me to move my machine gun one particle of an inch he would have finished with me before I could have fired a single shot. The Hun very well knew that he had caught me unawares and that I could not possibly do anything to defend myself. Like a flash my finger flew to the trigger of my machine gun, which was resting in its ordinary position on the tourrelle. I did not move it an inch for fortune had pointed it directly in line with the oncoming German. Already the bullets began singing from my gun and by the grace of good fortune they were going directly into him. On he came and it seemed that a collision was unavoidable, then with the speed of lightning he dived under me. West saw this dive and sharply banked the plane to keep me in a firing position and as the boche began to zoom to a position under my tail I again let him have it. I was surprised at the apparent accuracy of my guns. The Hun made a loop and dived toward home. I knew he was disabled and could not come back. There were still two other enemy planes coming on, but strange things happen in the air, for the other two did not fire a single shot, but turned and flew toward a light fringe of clouds high above us. I have never, however, been able to account for their failure to attack simultaneously with the attack of the first. For once I was close enough to a Hun to see not only the Iron Maltese Cross but also the fatal cross that stared me squarely in the face. It is not a pleasant feeling. The first plane got to Germany all right, but I am quite sure he was forced to land before he reached his airdrome. I have a hunch, too, that he took his machine guns out on a cement sidewalk and broke them to pieces, for if ever an aviator had the death grip on his adversary they all had it on me. In a moment I saw Schnurr and Thompson, who were flying quite low. It seems that they were attacked first, which accounts for the first gun shots I heard, and the Hun, having gotten on their tail first, they were forced to dive. In a few minutes the two Huns in the cloud were joined by a third, but fortunately the sun was on our side, so the only thing to do was to watch that cloud. Regardless of these Huns, Schnurr and Thompson began climbing and soon reached their position directly behind us.

I wanted to go home in the worst way but the first law we had learned was that the presence of enemy planes is no excuse in observation for failure to perform the mission assigned. For once in my career I had completely lost my courage and pointed toward home. The starch had been taken out of me completely and it was quite immaterial to me what any one wanted to think about our quitting. I felt that enough was enough and I had more than enough. As we passed over our battery, however, my mind turned to that new Division which had just come in that morning and who were doing their first service in the lines; in fact, it was the first time one of our National Army divisions had been placed in the line. They had been gassed on their first day. What would they think?

This thought of what those lads in the trenches, who, of course, had seen the entire fight, would say when they saw an American aviator quit, changed my whole attitude and, to be frank, saved me from becoming a downright coward. I knew that nothing helped the morale of the doughboys more than to see American nerve displayed in the air and, on the other hand, nothing pulled them down more than to see the lack of it. So, I shook the plane and motioned West to turn around. I threw my switch in, clutched the key and with an unsteady hand proceeded to send the correction of the first salvo which I had seen, but which I almost had not lived to report.

I afterwards learned that the boys at the radio receiving set at the Artillery checked each other up on the receipt of this message, so dubious were they that it had been sent from our plane. In a few minutes the battery put out the signal “Received and battery is ready.” I then told West to fly in the direction of the line and the three Huns, although I knew quite well if we flew that way we were going to be attacked, but it would be a sportier combat, at least, for I had been caught asleep for the first and only time. I gave the wireless signal to the battery to fire, but I confess I was not looking at the “White Work” target, I was keeping an eye on the three Boche in the sky, looking for more dirty work. The Huns made no sign whatever to attack—they simply kept circling above us in that slender line of clouds.

This was the worst adjustment I have ever been guilty of performing. I simply could not watch the target. We went ahead for an hour and fifteen minutes and during that time we fired a total of seventeen salvos, of which I saw but seven, for my mind was not on the work—I was busy with the cloud. At the end of the seventeen salvos, the Huns came out of the sky and started in our direction, then playfully changed their course and flew back into Hunland. I watched them until they were completely out of sight for I knew they would have to go home some time. Actually I was never so relieved in my life, not for the reason that we were safe from further interruption, but from the fact that we had buffaloed them and were the winners of the day’s combat against great odds.

But I was certain that it was only a question of time before they would have to leave that cloud for a chasse (pursuit) plane does not carry the same large amount of gasoline as an observation plane, and can not stay in the air as long in a single flight. I was delighted and beaming all over, and especially happy to think, or rather imagine, what was taking place in the trenches below us—those hardboiled doughboys were, perhaps, congratulating themselves that they too were Americans.

Our gas was running extremely low and it was getting late in the evening, but with two additional salvos, when my mind was free from “enemy planes,” we succeeded in putting the battery directly on the target. We then signaled for destruction fire and signaled we were going home. Right above the airdrome the motor stopped and we had to glide in. We had used our last drop of gasoline.

As the airdrome was only twelve kilometers from the line every one had seen the fight and had seen us stick it out. It was really a joyous time and we all got a real welcome. Even Brereton came across. It was the first and only time in my life I ever heard him compliment any one or anything. What he praised, however, was not “us” but the plane, in that the Antique Rattletrap was not such a bad old bus after all. Then every one got around the plane to count the holes made by the enemy airplane. I did not wait to see how it came out for I wanted to get to my bunk and collect myself. I was told later, however, that twenty-one holes were counted—then the mechanics got tired and quit.