Luck on the Wing: Thirteen Stories of a Sky Spy

by Elmer Haslett

Attracting the pilot’s attention, I motioned him to turn around and although he gave me a look that indicated he had some doubt as to my mental balance, he followed the instructions. It was just a hunch at most. Instead of calling the particular batteries designated to fire on fugitive targets I calmly proceeded to call each and all of the twenty-four batteries assigned to the Division. In about five minutes, to my extreme delight, I picked up a new panel from a battery. Consulting my chart I found its call. I immediately wired them a message and instantly they put out the panel “I got you” or “Understood.” Communication was established. The inspiration was a success.

Over to my right, my eye caught another panel of another battery. Consulting my chart again I found that they were both Heavy Artillery—just what I wanted! The only fault with this method was that with so much wireless being flashed through the air it would very likely interfere with any other plane doing similar work in that sector. I knew of no other aerial adjustments going on just then, so, the chance was worth it.

Having gotten the two batteries ready to work I wired to every other battery I had called, sending them the code message, “I have no further need for you,” this, in order that they would not, by any chance, hold up their firing on account of my previous message. “Well,” I thought, “the nice thing about Eileen is that she is not only beautiful and can sing, but she is sane—she has a good bean.” Even before I had done the work, which I felt sure I would be able to accomplish, I was formulating dreams of the way she would receive me when I told her of the great success of her inspiration.

I did not register these two batteries on the road fork, itself, for should the first few shells fall near the road fork it would give a preliminary warning and the Germans would, undoubtedly, stop their traffic and scatter. A few shells, even if they did happen to hit, would not serve the end I had in mind. I was thinking of something bigger—a few pot shots on the road would do more harm than good. So, selecting a point about a quarter of a mile, directly to the right of the road fork, I reported the location to the battery. Of course, consulting their maps, they could not find a legitimate reason for my desire to fire on this particular point; that is, from its natural location, but fortunately they did not question my decision and presently gave me the signal “O.K.” I immediately wired them to fire. On account of the hasty advances it had been necessary for these batteries to make, their firing data was considerably off, so, it took me almost an hour to get the two of them accurately placed on my temporary target. This accomplished, I began to again pay attention to the road fork. Our firing had not interrupted the traffic. Coming from the south about a quarter of a mile down, there seemed to be approaching quite a composite transport made up of wagons drawn by about four horses each, and coming from the north, approaching the same road fork, were a body of men and some horses. The men were not mounted, except in a few instances, and I should say there were almost a hundred men and about forty horses. To the best of my calculations, the head of the column coming from the south would pass this body of men with their horses at the road fork within a few minutes. With the road fork filled with passing troops and horses it would be all the more advantageous as a target.

The mathematical calculations and mechanical adjustments necessary for the batteries to correct a difference of a quarter of a mile in deflection, are considerable, I had been told, so, it was necessary that they know their new target immediately in order that they might fire immediately at my command. I wired them to change their target three hundred meters to the left and then I specified the exact point by giving the coördinate location and last I told them to be prepared to go into a “zone fire” at signal. “Zone fire” is the deadliest of all destructive fire. It consists of firing the guns as rapidly as possible into an area, or zone, immediately adjacent to the target specified. The object of zone fire is that by the scattering of shells the target will certainly be hit by at least a few of the shells and if the target is large, as was the case here, the results would be disastrous.

To impress upon the batteries the urgency of speeding up their corrections I continually wired them in code, “Is battery ready?” “Is battery ready?” They put out the panels “Wait a few minutes,” but I continued to wire, “Is battery ready?” We had no code for “Hurry up;” I wished many times we had, for the columns were fast approaching each other. In a few minutes it would be too late to get both columns. I realized those battery commanders had just cause to make use of an extended stream of profane language when I gave them that large correction of three hundred meters or a quarter of a mile after adjusting them to such a fine point, for, undoubtedly, they could not see the necessity for it. Fortunately they both had confidence and stayed with me. Just as the heads of the two columns began to pass each other, which was just a little north of the cross roads, the first battery put out a panel, “Battery is ready.”

The airplane signal to fire was three long wireless emissions so it was only necessary now to press the key three times and the show would be on. I called the battery rapidly, but before I gave the fatal signal I thought of the warden of the penitentiary about to press the fatal buzzer that sends the doomed soul to his death. The simile naturally struck me for I had a hundred men and more horses directly in my trap. There was no way for them to escape. The deadly zone fire, with the speed of lightning, would soon crush them. I could imagine our men at their guns in the improvised battery pits, ready for the minutes of strenuous work before them, waiting for the radio buzzer to speak and command. As I looked down I could see the troops and transports were already passing each other—the road fork was filled—it was now time to act. I felt as if I simply could not bring myself to the point of pressing the key. The men and the crushing out of their lives, the blighting of the hopes of many fond sweethearts, the wrecking of many homes and the grief of many mothers were strangely enough only passing thoughts, for it had to be done—“C’est la Guerre”—they were the enemies of my country. But there was another side of the story, the horses—for if there is any one thing in my life I have always loved it is a horse. Since I was a lad I have always picked up with the worst old skate in the town just out of sympathy, and to see a man abusing a horse would draw me into a fist fight quicker than anything else. The poor horses—dumb and senseless—they were not my enemies, except from a cold-blooded standpoint regarding them as war material of the enemy.

Looking back I found that the other battery had put out their panel “Battery is ready.” It sternly called me back to my duty and the task before me for it was not the time to indulge in sentimental reveries—I must act! I hastily called the second battery and again repeated my call to the first, then directing my pilot to head toward home I took one last look at the slowly moving, unsuspecting columns—then, setting my face homeward, I firmly pressed the key—one, two, three times.

There was no doubt in my mind but that we should call it a day, so, we were homeward bound with that intention. From a strictly military standpoint we were proud enough of our performance and as we winged our way along I took things easy but kept casually looking about the sky to see that we were not taken unawares by any stray patrols. Looking ahead I saw the friendly captive balloons lolling along peaceably enough and my mind was centered pretty largely upon the seemingly monotonous existence of the men in the balloons who had to stay in one position for hour after hour, but I shuddered as I thought of being forced to jump from one of those bags in case of attack. After all, I was glad I was in an airplane instead of a balloon.

For quite a while it seemed that we were lower than the balloons, then suddenly the balloons seemed to be considerably below us. My impression was that we were gaining altitude, but upon consulting my altimeter I found that we were flying at a constant height. One thing was certain, the balloons were getting lower; they no longer lolled, but everything seemed taut. For some reason they were frantically being hauled down. I readily ascertained the reason,—four German Fokkers coming head-on from Hunland with the undeniable intention of either burning the balloons or burning me. I hesitated a moment; the Huns kept straight on and I heaved a big sigh of relief. They were not going to burn me; at least, not for the present. The balloons seemed to be going down mighty slow, and the planes were coming fast. If the Huns could be stopped for only a half-minute the balloons would be safe. Here we were in a very happy position to divert the attack should we care to and also in a very unhappy position if we did not care to, for while it was not our duty to attack, yet indeed, in this case, it was our privilege. My mind was not made up what to do. If we turned to the right we would be directly in their path and above them. From instinct I shook the plane and motioned toward the four Fokkers and before I knew it, the pilot, thinking I intended to attack, started directly toward them.