German artillery firing on my Post of Command. Stop it!
General.”
Of course, we all had a real laugh at the situation; that is, Mathis and I, for we were the only ones there, Brereton being away on business and Harwood being up at the front on liaison. Of course, such a request was obviously impossible. An airplane can spot certain batteries when firing, but when there are fifteen hundred different guns firing continuously on fifteen hundred different objectives one can imagine what possibility an airplane would have of picking out the particular battery that was firing on this particular post of command. At the same time, as it was signed in code by a General, it was imperative that something be done because that unit had not been any too friendly toward the Air Service, and, of course, the wishes of a General must always have immediate attention.
I knew there was no answer that I could send back over the wire that would quiet the situation, so we simply acknowledged the receipt of the message. At the same time I knew there was no use to send a special airplane for this request because we already maintained a plane over the front every hour of the day, the one duty of which was to report by wireless the location of any enemy batteries seen firing. I was mighty busy on a multitude of other things, but still the General must be answered, so I finally decided the best thing to do was to go up to the Post of Command and explain the entire situation, telling why it could not be done. After an hour and a half rough riding we finally approached the Post of Command concerned. I left the car about a quarter of a mile away so as to not attract the attention of the German airplanes to the presence of a Command Post. All the way up I had been considering just what I would say, because, being a Lieutenant, I wouldn’t have much chance with a General, and yet I felt that since I had to do it I ought to have something worth saying. I had decided upon my whole speech—I would simply say that the mission was not only impossible but such a request was preposterous—an airplane was a great thing, but it had a limit of activity. At the same time I was in great fear of being laughed at and being balled out, because in a great many cases a Lieutenant speaking with a General, with the slight difference in rank, is at a disadvantage. I knew I had to make some sort of a stab so, though I was determined on my speech, I really felt very much like a bashful school boy. As to procedure I had it all fixed up that I would go in, click my heels together, salute smartly and explain to the General that I was the Operations Officer for the Corps Air Service, whereupon I thought he would certainly have some deference for me on account of the important position I was holding with such low rank. My greatest hope was that he would be reasonable and would take my statement regarding the situation as final and authoritative, without further argument. I concluded that the best way would be to impress him with the knowledge I had on the particular subject and not give him a chance to come back. To do this I must be absolutely firm and convincing in what I had to say, but at the same time, way down deep in my heart I felt it was a hopeless task, for these “higher ups” are inclined to consider nothing but results—and since we could not give him the results he wanted, he would conclude that the Air Service had failed, and as the line units had done on several other similar occasions, they would merely remark, “the same old story,” shrug their shoulders and pass it up. I, of course, expected to find the General down in his dug-out, being heavily shelled, but I was determined to show him that I was a real hero by walking right through the shell-fire and calmly explaining to him why we couldn’t help him. This last decision really required nerve on my part, for if there is any one thing I cannot stand, it is shell-fire on the ground. It did not worry me so much in the air, for there seemed to be such a good chance to dodge, but on the ground—well, I had been caught in it several times and, in each instance, I made the necessary distance to safety in considerable less than record time on the fastest tracks.
I picked up a stray doughboy to guide me to the Post of Command. To my absolute surprise I found that everything was apparently quiet. However, the surroundings bore the unmistakable evidence that the region had undergone a very heavy and prolonged bombardment. I could not understand this; in fact, I was certain that we had come to the wrong Post of Command.
“Orderly,” I said to a lad standing at the door, “is this the P. C. of General Blank?” using the proper code name.
“That’s right, Sir,” he smartly answered.
“When did the bombardment stop?” I demanded.
“About two o’clock, Sir,” he replied.
“May I see the General?” I asked.