Luck on the Wing: Thirteen Stories of a Sky Spy

by Elmer Haslett

Now there is a vast difference between maneuvering for the purpose of diverting and maneuvering for the purpose of attack, for had it been one or two planes I would not have hesitated to attack under the circumstances, but I want to say that I’ll wait a long, long time before attacking four fast enemy Fokkers of my own accord under any circumstances.

It is surprising how rapidly two planes, when approaching each other from opposite directions, can come together, for before I had time to actually realize what was happening we were in the midst of a one-sided running fight in which we were doing the running and in which the Germans were peppering lead into us from all sides.

We had accomplished our mission for when the German planes attacked us, it guaranteed that they would not be able to attack the balloons, which would have plenty of time to be hauled down to a position of safety at their beds. While the diverting was successful, the diversion of diverting was not, for we still had to get ourselves out of the mess.

We were going in some direction, but which direction it was I didn’t know and did not care. Right after us were these four Fokkers. This was the first opportunity I had ever had to make a comparison of the Salmson plane in a running fight. It was wonderful, for while the Germans were a little faster, it was hardly noticeable. The horrible truth of our predicament did not dawn upon me until, by some hunch, I looked at the ground during the fight and saw already considerably behind us, the village of Montfaucon, which is so clearly and unmistakably discernible from the air. I realized we had been completely outmaneuvered, for we were headed straight and going farther and farther into Germany. No wonder the Boche had not closed in on us. They were simply leading us to our slaughter on their own ground, or even worse, if we did survive we would be prisoners of war, a thought I had always dreaded much more than death, for once in flying over Pagny-sur-Meuse in the Saint Mihiel fight, I saw the thousands of Huns we had captured packed in bull pens like so many cattle. From this I preferred death to prison. Dropping my machine guns for the moment I violently pulled the cords that were tied to the pilot’s arms and emphatically motioned him to turn completely around. He seemed to think that we were headed toward home and was extremely obstinate. The situation was serious; it was no time for discussion. I was sure of my direction. Reaching over the cockpit I frantically struck him on the shoulder and demanded that he turn around.

Pagny-sur-Meuse, showing prisoners captured by the Americans at St. Mihiel

We turned and as we did the Germans realized that we had found ourselves and the battle royal ensued. The leader came first and behind him the three others in good formation, throwing two singing streams of fire from each plane, for in attacking balloons they used incendiary bullets. The leader, to my mind, was the only one that seemed to have had experience—he was, indeed, good—but the rest of them I thought were boobs—they did not seem to have the least bit of initiative, always waiting for the leader and doing exactly whatever he did first. Then they tried a formation I had never seen before. Climbing about two hundred feet above and on all sides of us, they kept making a series of short dives, each plane firing about twenty-five rounds at each dive. The object of this was undoubtedly to get our morale and if possible force us down without taking a chance on coming close where machine gun fire could become effective. This was to our advantage for we were making time toward home and I only had one full magazine of ammunition left and it was all in my right gun.

Upon seeing that we were not falling for their cunning ruse the leader became unusually bully and came directly upon us. I let him have it for a burst of about forty rounds which I knew went into his plane and at the end of which he had gone under my tail in a dive. It looked as if I had gotten him. With typical precision the other three came on. I deliberately aimed my gun upon the nearest, greatly encouraged in the belief that I had gotten the leader. Their bullets of fire were going into my plane, but with a most deliberate aim I again pulled the trigger. It would not fire. At most I had only sixty rounds left, but even in sixty rounds there was hope. The gun was jammed and I could not get the magazine off to put it on the other gun. I was desperate. How close the three came I do not know, but seeing my predicament they realized my helplessness and pounced upon me like a toy target. Frantically I worked at the gun, my hands bruised and bleeding, hopelessly trying to unlock the jam for a last chance with life. If I only had something to fit in the cocking piece to give me enough leverage to clear that jam. In my mad desperation and hopelessness I looked around for something to hurl—anything to get them away. There was nothing to be done—it was all up with us. By chance I glanced into the bottom of the cockpit and on the floor my eyes caught sight of a Very pistol which had been left in the plane by the observer on the previous mission whose duty it had been to find the front line of our advanced troops.

A Very pistol is a gun resembling an ordinary pistol, except that it has a wide barrel. It is used to eject brilliant fire rockets as a signal from the airplane to the infantry. These signals vary with the number of stars fired. For instance, a rocket of six stars means “Where are you? Show your panels,” whereupon the Infantry displays its white panels of cloth, while three rockets indicates “Understood” upon which the Infantry takes in its panels of white cloth.

I grabbed this Very pistol in a wild effort to throw it as a last means of defense, but the three had already passed under my tail, while to my disappointing surprise, I discovered that I had not gotten the leader as I had thought—he was coming up under my tail, already firing. The others seemed to be getting their formation behind him. As the leader came up under me in a final blow of death, I madly drew the pistol back in a position to hurl it at him when the sudden idea struck me that if it were loaded I would have a chance to set him afire. The cartridge was intact—it was ready to be fired. Amidst his volley of fire, I reached far over the cockpit and as the leader passed beneath me, I fired. The charge missed him completely, but directly behind him burst the signal—six flaming stars which brilliantly floated slowly on toward earth. My last chance had failed.