I immediately dispatched another plane to call the same battery and to keep on calling them until they answered. Then I got into the car and drove up to the battalion concerned. I paid my respects to the Major commanding the battalion and told him the trouble—that we had called and had received no response. He was sort of peeved at the whole world so he said he was getting disgustingly tired of these airplanes hollering about the Artillery’s wireless; that his wireless was all right and it was the inefficient airplanes; that his wireless men were on duty and had been from daybreak until night. I told him I would like to go over, if I might, and look over his wireless station. He became very indignant and said, “Lieutenant, that is quite an unnecessary request. I know the efficient condition of my units and I know my wireless is listening now and I know that they have been listening in all day.”
I was beginning to become accustomed to these rebuffs by this time so I smoothed it over the best I could and finally he agreed to take the time to walk over to the wireless station with me. The plane I had dispatched ahead was circling above and I knew he was calling. We went to the wireless station, which was a sort of improvised one down in a dug-out. The place was deserted and there was not a person in sight. The Major was sore, but apologetic. He remembered that Battery C was supposed to furnish the detail and that they were supposed to be on the job permanently. So we went over and found the Captain of Battery C and the Battalion Signal Officer, a Second Lieutenant, who were busily engaged in a poker game. The Major, in a terrible voice, demanded, “Where in ’ell are those radio operators?” The poor Lieutenant meekly gave the only answer he could think of. “Why, Major,” he said, “they are right over there at the station; they have been there all day.”
The Major calmly asked, “Lieutenant, have you inspected the radio unit to-day?”
Whereupon the Lieutenant solemnly said, “No, Sir, I have not inspected it, but I am positive that the operators are right on the job,” and he described definitely the place from which we had just come.
We asked him the name of his radio operators. They were all privates. With the Captain and the Radio Officer we went over to the radio station. It was still deserted. The Major began to tell the Lieutenant in language that will not permit of repetition just what he thought of him. The Lieutenant was speechless, and out of sympathy for him I made the suggestion that there was an airplane above which was probably calling them now and that it might be a good idea if we could get some one there at the station to listen in. The Radio Officer grasped the opportunity, jumped down and put the clickers to his ears, and the first thing he said was, “Q-P-R, Q-P-R—that’s our call!” I felt like a million dollars, for this time the Artillery was forced to concede that it was not the fault of the airplane. With the assistance of the Major and the Captain we manipulated the panels while the wireless officer took the calls and the lad in the airplane did the adjustment. Then we went back to find out where the radio operators were; that is, the three privates.
The Captain dispatched an orderly to find the first sergeant. In about five minutes the sergeant was located and made his appearance. He was an old non-commissioned officer and was seasoned by experience in many climes and in dealing with many classes of men. He was rather heavy, and had not shaved for several days, which fact, in addition to his heavy, disheveled mustache, gave him the appearance of a hardboiled bulldog.
“Sergeant,” began the Captain, “do you know where the radio operators are?”
“Yes, sir,” grumbled the top soak, affirmatively nodding his head with self-satisfaction that he quite well knew where they were.
“Well,” went on the Captain, “I want to see them at once. If you will show me their quarters it will save time.”
“They ain’t in their quarters,” came the reply. “They’re in the kitchen.”