Luck on the Wing: Thirteen Stories of a Sky Spy

by Elmer Haslett

“Greenhorn” took it all in and said he understood fully. After quite a little delay in getting a serviceable airplane we finally made a stab at getting off. I told Greenhorn to take me to a little town called Avocourt, which was in No-Man’s-Land, and I carefully pointed it out to him on the map. Of course, Avocourt had been destroyed by shell fire and nothing remained but the ruins of the town, but they were plainly discernible from the air. I tested out my wireless and everything was O. K., so I motioned for him to head on up to the lines. I paid very little attention to the ground, intending to sort of take it easy until we got to Avocourt, thus getting a general idea of the lay of the country over which we were flying. I instructed him to let me know by shaking the plane when he came to Avocourt. He seemed to be flying along in good shape so I didn’t concern myself with our location until he finally shook the plane. He pointed down to an extremely large city and motioned his lips “Avocourt.” I looked down below me and recognized very well the historic city of Verdun, as I had flown over this sector one time with the French in the early days. I shook my head and pointed toward Avocourt. “Greenhorn” had missed Avocourt only by about fifteen kilometers. However, the kid was insistent and nodded his head in affirmation of his own decision and he pointed to his map again and pointed down and said “Avocourt.” I swelled out my chest and pointed to myself to impress upon him the lesson that I was running the plane as per our previous conversation and that he was to go in the direction pointed without further argument. He hastily acquiesced and turned the plane in that direction, and from that time on I used the cords attached to his arms to guide him. When we got over Avocourt I attracted his attention, pointed down and said “Avocourt.” He gazed down at the shattered ruins of what was once a town, but said nothing. However, his eyes and face expressed very well the fact that he would never have recognized Avocourt from her photograph. I couldn’t blame him, for from the air a ruined town is highly deceptive and unless one had flown over that sector he could not realize that the effect of artillery destruction could be so complete. In a moment he gave some sort of a shrug of his shoulders to indicate that he was entirely lost, so I signaled to him and gave him his directions. Then, taking my map, I pointed north and said “Montfaucon,” which is easily distinguished from the air for miles, being situated on the crest of a very high hill. “Greenhorn” immediately headed toward Montfaucon, thinking that perhaps I had pointed toward that town with the intention of going there. I did not have this in mind, but since one place was just about as good as another until we found a target I let him go.

Tanks going into action, and the tracks left by them

Just over Montfaucon we were opened up on by the German anti-aircraft artillery. I heard a heavy thud under our tail and at once the plane began to side-slip and quiver. The “Greenhorn” was badly frightened and began looking in every direction. Then his eyes fell on me and I have never seen the equal of the expression on his face when he saw me laughing. He did not realize the significance until I pointed to the anti-aircraft bursts, which were fully three hundred yards behind us. I assured him that everything was O. K. and he had done well. That put him a little more at ease. After a while I spied a splendid target, so I started him back toward the line so that we could call our batteries. We then played over our own lines for about an hour, as we were having a great deal of trouble in getting any batteries to answer, since they had all started to move up farther to support the fast advancing doughboys. I didn’t know whether “Greenhorn” appreciated that ride or not, but believe me, that sight was beautiful. The heretofore impassable region known as No-Man’s-Land was now converted to Every-Man’s-Land, for the whole shell riddled section was simply covered with the advancing American doughboys—in trenches, shell holes, everywhere. The mighty tanks were slowly plugging and lumbering along over the shell holes and we could easily see our most advanced lines, the troops deploying, the German machine gun crews at their nests vainly attempting to hold back the advancing infantry, and farther back we could see the retreating Germans, their supply trains, artillery and convoys. I marked down the location of our advance units, as this was important information, and told “Greenhorn” to fly north. As we circled over Montfaucon to the west we drew a very heavy machine gun fire from the Bois de Beuges, which had put several holes in the plane, and since “Greenhorn” was getting more and more unsteady in his flying I thought it well for our own safety and comfort to get a little better altitude, so I motioned up and “Greenhorn” started a steep climb right off the bat. Of course, I did not intend for him to make such a steep climb, and as we started our ascent the machine practically stood still in the air in a stall. This gave the German machine gunners a chance to concentrate on us, and believe me, they certainly made the best of their opportunity. Fortunately, beginner’s luck was with the boy and we got out of it after he finally heeded my frantic effort to get him to fly ahead for speed and not for altitude. I looked the plane over carefully when we were without the range of the German machine guns. Other than a few holes in the wings and the body of the plane I could find nothing wrong with it; at least, all the flying wires and struts were still good and the engine apparently was running perfectly. Upon getting more altitude, however, the “Greenhorn” started in the direction of home without any orders from me at all.

Suddenly I heard a faint, indistinct put-put-put and I began scouring the sky for the place from whence came the familiar and unmistakable sound. Away over to the right, north of Montfaucon, I saw a genuine scrap going on. There must have been fifteen planes and soon the faint put-put became a continuous rattle like the roll of an over-tight snare drum. I could very easily tell by their maneuvering that it was a dog fight and if we could only get over there in time we would undoubtedly get into it. Maybe some of our boys needed help and sometimes the arrival of one additional plane can turn the balance of power in a scrap. So I shook the plane and called to him to head over that way as fast as he could. I expected some slight coercion would be necessary, but to my surprise “Greenhorn” immediately headed toward the show. As we were speeding along like the assisting ambulance I decided to try out my guns to make sure they were in trim condition for a combat, so I pulled the triggers on both machine guns for a short burst, not thinking to warn the already irritated “Greenhorn.” Instantaneous with the first report the plane began to go into a wild spiral. I dropped the guns and turned around to see “Greenhorn” twisting in every conceivable direction and manipulating the joy stick right to left, forward to rear, with the same cadence that the jazz orchestra leader handles his baton—while I was thrown around in the cockpit like the contents of a shaking highball. I had a similar trick played on me myself one time while flying with Brereton at San Mihiel. Brereton and I were alone on a mission photographing a difficult area behind the lines. Brereton, who was always a cautious flyer, ordinarily had a small mirror attached just above the edge of his cockpit in which my every movement was reflected. Thus he could tell when I was looking the sky over for enemy planes or watching the artillery or down in the pit operating the camera. I used to stay down in the cockpit too long at one stretch to suit him. His idea was that the observer should spend most of the time searching the sky in order that the Hun could not pull a surprise attack. In this he was right, but it was extremely difficult to do this and at the same time do the mission well. Brereton had previously been accustomed to getting me out of the cockpit by shaking the plane, which merely consisted of gently vibrating the control lever from right to left. This day I was trying to get some very good photographs and I admit in so attempting I was staying down in the cockpit too long. Brereton shook the machine several times, but I didn’t come out because I wanted to finish my set of pictures, taking my chances on an attack in the meantime. Brereton was unusually irritable so he decided that I did not have the right way of doing things. He immediately turned loose his machine guns for a continuous burst of about twenty-five rounds, which sounded to me like two hundred and twenty-five. Believe me, I came out of that cockpit. I grabbed my machine guns and swung the tourrelle upon which the guns were mounted full around several times, up and down, under my tail; in fact, in every conceivable direction, for I was absolutely convinced that we were in a real scrap. Finally I got a glimpse of Brereton’s beaming countenance. He was in a perfect uproar of laughter. The incident had its intended effect, for always afterward when Brereton would shake the plane, no matter how slightly, I would come out of the cockpit right off, just as the ground squirrel comes out of his hole when you give him sufficient water, but with an uncomparable difference in rapidity.

So when I fired my guns poor “Greenhorn” was pitifully fussed. I could see he was losing his nerve, but I pointed in the direction of the fight and, obedient to my instructions, he headed the plane that way. It would never have done to have withdrawn after getting this far, for in so doing he would never again have been worth anything in the air.

We were still quite a distance from the show. I was looking over the top wing to get a line on the fight. They were still at it and it was just getting good. It seemed to be the ordinary aerial dog fight in which one allied plane is on the tail of the enemy plane and two of the enemy planes are on the allies’ tails, and three of the allies on the tails of the two enemies, and so on—all going round and round, exactly like a dog chasing its own tail. Suddenly one of the planes dropped from the combat and, making a steep dive, it burst into flames and fell toward earth. I shook the plane violently and, pointing toward the falling plane, I joyously cried to the “Greenhorn,” “Boche! Boche!” He was not so enthusiastic as might have been expected and I had no more than gotten the words out of my mouth when another plane started falling—also out of control. At this point “Greenhorn” again suddenly headed his plane toward home. In a rage I shook the plane violently and with fury in my face I again pointed toward the fight. He shook his head. I became more infuriated and again pointed toward the fight, but the “Greenhorn” just as furiously shook his head and determinedly kept on going toward home.

This would never do—I would feel like a coward the rest of my life, so I reached over the cockpit and grabbed him by the shoulders and very affirmatively pointed toward the fight. He motioned for me to put on my speaking tube, and amid the pounding of the motor, in his high, squeaky, girlish voice I could hear him uttering something about “Motor bad. Mechanical trouble.” It did not sound that way to me, so I doubtfully shook my head. He vigorously affirmed his statement, showing surprise that I should doubt his word or question his decision on mechanical matters. For the purpose of camouflage the plane kept rocking from side to side and the motor would become very strong and then suddenly die away. It was my belief that it was being controlled from the throttle. There was nothing I could do. I was not only disgusted with the “Greenhorn,” but I was thoroughly ashamed of myself. I felt like a sneaking coward.

As we crossed the lines our anti-aircraft artillery suddenly began to fire violently and rapidly into the heavens. Then I picked up a lone enemy plane swiftly diving out of the clouds in order to attack our balloons. Here was our opportunity—I knew for a fact that a plane attacking balloons has not much chance to see any other plane approaching, so I shouted at the top of my voice, “See that plane there,” and I pointed to it. “That is a Boche that’s going to attack this first balloon. Then it’s going over and attack the next one to the left. We won’t have time to get him before he gets them both, but we will get him after he leaves the second balloon, for he won’t see us. We’ll get him sure. Here’s our one chance to redeem ourselves. Nurse your motor along for we are on our own side of the lines anyway.” The man at the controls hesitated a moment and then started in the proper direction with full motor. I realized the danger of getting into a scrap with a plane that has for its object the burning of balloons, for they use nothing but incendiary bullets, and while I had no serious fear of being killed by a clean bullet, the idea of burning in midair was quite repulsive. Then, too, there was a green pilot, but I actually craved in the worst way a chance to redeem our plane from its disgraceful conduct in the dog fight—here was the chance.

The balloon crews already were on the job and were frantically attempting to haul the balloons down to safety. No other planes were in sight. We were the only hope of saving the day. In a few moments I saw the observer of the first balloon jump with his parachute, saw the Boche empty his fire into the huge bag and then saw the balloon burst into flames. I do not know why it was, but for some reason at that particular minute our engine began to die and grow strong, then die again. I appeared not to notice the motor and excitedly pointed the “Greenhorn” to the direction in which we could meet the Boche most advantageously. His face registered a doubtful hope that he might be able to comply with my urgent request and then, as if his conclusion was drawn after a consultation with his better judgment, his expression changed to one of disappointed regret, for he again pointed to the motor and began to utter “Mechanical trouble.”