Luck on the Wing: Thirteen Stories of a Sky Spy

by Elmer Haslett

This was an unexpected pleasure, so, with all pomp and dignity, I seated myself in the rear of a huge Cadillac, with “Official” painted all over the sides of it. It was my first ride in the select government transportation—I had previously drawn trucks. Then we whisked along the ten miles to Gondrecourt. The surprise was a happy one, because the three girls were peaches, and, an aviator being a scarce article in those days (and I wore my leather coat to let them know that I was one), I was received most cordially.

We had just started back to the camp, and I was Hero Number One of Heroes All, when they all harped as of one accord, demanding if I would not take them up in an airplane. This is a feminine plea which never seems to become old, because every girl you see nowadays still asks the same question. But I maintained silence on the subject of taking them up. So, they talked about aces, seemingly positive that I was one of those things—what a wonderful flyer I must be—and a lot of other bunk, until I began to feel exalted as if I were of the royalty, for it seemed that I was being worshipped.

I interrupted their wild rambling to ask if they objected to my smoking. Of course, being a hero aviator, there was no chance for objection. So, as I unbuttoned my leather coat, threw back the left lapel, and pulled out a stogie from my pocket, the eyes of one cute little frizzle-haired girl fell upon my aviation insignia, which, of course, consisted of only one wing. Wild eyed and with marked disdain, she exclaimed sneeringly to the others, “Oh, he’s only an observer! A half aviator!”

Actually I had not claimed otherwise, but, as long as I live, I shall never forget the sting of those words, and especially the biting insinuation on the word “only.” To their minds I was a branded hypocrite. Talk about the poor man standing before the criminal judge and being sentenced to the impossible “99 years” in the penitentiary; well, take it from me, this was worse, for my foolish pride had been embellished to an acute cockishness by this preliminary adoration, but my soaring little airplane of selfish egoism took a decided nose-dive—it smashed my whole day’s happiness.

The other girls, and in fact this little frizzle-topped girl, too, realized immediately the impropriety of the remark, and tried in the most sincere way to temper the sting and alleviate my apparent embarrassment. The only hollow remark I could offer, in my futile attempt at indifferent repartee, was to the effect that pilots would be aces always, and observers, being the lowest card of the deck, must be deuces. They laughed—I don’t know why—perhaps to jolly me along. I intended to say something else, but they took advantage of the necessity of my taking a breath—by laughing—so I dropped the “deuce” gag, but, as the conversation went on, the more chagrined I became.

When we finally got to camp, I turned over the precious cargo to the camp adjutant, and then struck out for a long hike by my lonesome to walk it off.

But, like an “ignorant idealist,” heeding the call of the fair sex, I went to the entertainment that afternoon, and, as I left the hut with several other observers, we met the entertainers who were now walking along in company with the commanding officer. Of course, we all saluted, the commanding officer sloppily returned it, and the party passed on. Then this same little frizzle-top, red-headed girl, as if by afterthought, recognized me, turned around, and begrudgingly nodded as if meeting a disgraced member of the family. She disdainfully called the attention of the commanding officer and the other girls to my humble presence by saying, “He is the observer that came out with us in the car—you know the ‘deuce,’” and, I might add, she laughed lightly and shrugged her shoulders. I’ll tell the world it hurt my pride, and I was off with all of womankind for the time being. I had labored under the impression that an observer was some big gun in aviation. Believe me, she took it out of me.

In fact, these two incidents with this young lady revealed to me for the first time the real insignificance of my position as an aërial observer. A thousand times afterwards, when I still wore an observer’s insignia, people would look at it and, for some psychological reason or other, they always seemed to say either by sound or facial expression, “only an observer.” Even to-day, as throughout the war, the same haunting epithet follows the observer. In fact, in the American Expeditionary Force, we had an unofficial rating of military personnel which classified the various grades as follows: general officers, field officers, captains, lieutenants, pilots, sergeants, corporals, privates, cadets, German prisoners and last aërial observers. And no matter which way one considered it, the aërial observer was the lowest form of human existence. For a long time he was not even eligible for promotion or command. Indeed, in the game of war, he was the deuce—the lowest card of the deck—and the first to be discarded.

So far as official recognition is concerned the observer is gradually coming into his own. After comparing the fatalities in the various branches of aviation, it is agreed as one of the lessons of the war that the observer has had a hard deal as have also observation pilots and bombardment pilots. In recognition of this principle, the Director of Air Service in a letter of January 5th, 1920, in declining to sanction the word “ace,” wrote as follows: “The United States Air Service does not use the title ‘Ace’ in referring to those who are credited officially with five or more victories over enemy aircraft. It is not the policy of the Air Service to glorify one particular branch of aeronautics, aviation or aero-station at the expense of another.... The work of observation and bombardment is considered equally as hazardous as that of pursuit, but due to the fact that the observation and bombardment pilots are not called upon merely to destroy enemy aircraft, it should not be allowed to aid in establishing a popular comparison of results merely by relatives victories.” I notice that the Director, in spite of the nice things he said about the observation and bombardment branches of the service, has expressly referred to “pilots,” which of course makes me peevish. But so it is. The Director undoubtedly intended to include observers; indeed, the observer is the man who does the shooting from observation and bombardment planes—but it is the same old story—the observer is so insignificant that he was just naturally overlooked. Indeed, an observer is only a quasi-aviator, as a friend with a legal mind once said—and after he used that word “only,” I hated him.

And in public appreciation, they consider the observer as the deuce—the card without value—with no definite status, just an inexplicable freak habitating around aviation. The common acceptation of an aërial observer is a mild, passive, sort of a guy, who wears nose glasses, is mathematically inclined, and who, in battle, is privileged to run from the enemy, being, as it were, tamed and “too proud to fight.”