At this answer I suddenly became a tactician and strategist. I hit Brereton with the suggestion that if we could find a pilot and an observer who were overloaded with “guts” and properly “hardboiled” and who did not care much for their lives, they might be able to get in fine by going very low and thus get the information. My idea was that if we went in with twenty-five planes this would be such a force that the Germans would be able to concentrate practically their entire Richtofen circus against us before we would have had time to make the large circuit assigned and get out, while if one plane went in, extremely low, several favorable suppositions might be possible; namely, the German Chasse Patrols, high in the heavens above, seeing a plane so far behind the line, would not think that it could possibly be other than a friendly plane; and being by itself, the anti-aircraft and the command reporting it would not call out so much pursuit as they otherwise would; and, furthermore, being alone the pursuit planes would not have so much chance of finding it. I agreed with Brereton that it was practically hopeless, but at the same time it was a long chance and as it was in the middle of the day, if this mission failed we could have another mission of the twenty-five planes required, in readiness to take off to perform the mission in compliance with the original plan. This large formation could leave as soon as definite news was obtained that the first plane had been shot down, or that it had failed to return after a reasonable time. Brereton laughed sarcastically and said, “That idea is just about as feasible as a single aviator trying to fly to Berlin, picking out the Kaiser from the rest of the squareheads and hitting him with a bomb.”
I accused him of being arbitrary for not giving valid reasons against the plan whereupon he sprang to his feet and puckering up in his singular way, exclaimed, “I am running this Air Service, Lieutenant, and I don’t need any suggestions from First Lieutenants.”
Tired and exhausted from lack of sleep, a court martial didn’t matter any more to me than five cents does to a millionaire, and Brereton, who had suffered the same loss of sleep and, of course, more serious irritation on account of his responsibility, did not care any more for a poor Lieutenant than an elephant does for a fly. The dog’s hair had been rubbed the wrong way for I reared up on my hind legs and began to paw air and it looked like the Corps Air Service was to have a slight disruption. I was so sore that I almost bawled. I hotly informed Brereton that if I was to hold the job of Operations Officer I intended to express my opinion, and if it wasn’t approved, he had a right to say so in a military manner, and in no other.
Then came my downfall. I raved on, “I’m getting good and tired of this proposition of being stuck up on one of these bullet-proof jobs when all my buddies are flying two and three times a day and getting killed,” and after a moment of silence, I continued, “I came over to be a fighter and I want to go to the Squadron and take my chances with the rest of them.”
Brereton was worn out and was in no mood to be irritated. “Well,” he sharply and decisively replied, “if you want to go down to the Squadron, go ahead, no one’s holding you.”
This made me more peevish than ever, for I had in some way or other acquired the idea that the Corps Air Service could not possibly exist without me. My pride was bruised forever. With even more irony he went on as if to leave no opportunity for a repetition of such bluffing on my part, “If you’re so hardboiled and brave, why don’t you tackle the mission you just outlined. Go ahead and win yourself the Croix de Bois (Cross of Wood).”
I was serious about the proposition; I was pretty sure of getting killed, but after that last sneering remark my decision was formed. Momentarily, I hated Lewis Hyde Brereton more than I ever hated any one in my life, but I knew his weakness, so, I was determined that we should die together.
“Well, why don’t you go on?” he hotly demanded.
It was up to me; I did not have the composure of a jack-rabbit, and I began to paw air again, pound the table and turn red, and said, “Well, Major L. H. Brereton, I’ll go, you know that, and I’ll get the information, but I can’t pilot a plane. I am the observer. If you will order,” and I accentuated “order,” “a pilot for me, there will be no further delay.”
I knew he would do it. He only needed to be brought to the psychological moment. I knew his big nature would not permit him to order any one on such a mission. Changing from his irritant, harsh and denouncing manner, his face registered the greatest possible human kindness and the merry twinkle in his eye told the world we were friends again.