Luck on the Wing: Thirteen Stories of a Sky Spy

by Elmer Haslett

The next night they brought in a French pilot, who was supposed to have been shot down the night before on a bombing raid. We suspected right off that he was a German spy trying to gain our confidence, for the first thing he did was to tell us in French how much he hated the Germans and to give us addresses of people who could help us to escape when we got to Karlsruhe, which, he said, was the place they sent all prisoners. He said he could speak but little English and knew no German at all.

After venturing a lot of information about the number of his squadron and its location he asked me the number of my squadron. I told him the number of my squadron was “2106” but that I had forgotten the name of the airdrome, as we had only flown up there. Then he began to suggest some of our prominent airdromes to assist my memory. I did not bite at his bait, but rapidly changed the subject. Then he began to play solitaire with our cards, at the same time paying very keen attention to our conversation.

I decided to justify my suspicion that he was a German spy, so I made the suggestion that since I was a prisoner it might help to know more German, so as Davis had studied it more recently than I, I asked him to give me a German lesson, as I especially wanted to learn some words that might come in handy. So as I would ask Davis for the German words for a number of ordinary objects he would give me the word and his pronunciation of it. We worked hard for fully half an hour. The Frenchman had said nothing, and as I noticed he was not paying very close attention I indicated to Davis not to tell me the next word. Davis did well, and I repeated, “Dog—dog—dog,” several times. Davis said he did not know, and then the Frenchman, seeing us both puzzled, spoke up and said, “Dog. Qu’est que ce ‘Dog’?” which in French means “What do you mean ‘Dog’?” I told him in French that I wanted the word for dog in German, and just as natural as could be he instantaneously replied, “Der Hund.” He had fallen into our trap and we knew quite well then that he was a German. It was too apparent for argument. After that Davis and I said absolutely nothing. In fact, we had nothing to do with him whatsoever and later that night the Sergeant of the Guard came in and told him that he had been ordered to proceed to Karlsruhe, but that the orders for us to be moved had not come. We afterwards found that this same gag of French friendship had been pulled on several other prisoners, some of whom were, unfortunately, unsuspecting.

In a couple of days we were taken over to Montmedy, or rather we walked over, for after having once gotten our supposed information there was no reason to be courteous enough to furnish us transportation. At Montmedy we were to take the train for the big prisoners’ concentration camp at Karlsruhe. Before we left we were given our traveling rations, which consisted of some boiled meat and bread, and this was supposed to last two days.

On the trip and at the station at Montmedy I noticed that the morale of the German Army must have failed a good deal, for the discipline was not what I had always supposed it to be. The proud Prussian officers carried their own trunks while the enlisted men stood around, and I actually saw a crowd of enlisted men push aside an officer who was trying to get into the train ahead of them. I realized then that the statement of the German Intelligence Officer that it was a proposition of not more than three months was actually more accurate than I had been inclined to allow myself to believe.

There was one real character on the train—a hardboiled Feldwebel, which was the German name for Sergeant-Major, and corresponding pretty largely to our First Sergeant of the line. He was in charge of our party.

Feldwebels are actually the backbone of the German Army. They are well trained and highly efficient. This man had many decorations and physically was a superman. He tried his best to be affable, and though he did not speak good English he tried hard enough and we tried our best to supplement his deficiencies with our rather scant knowledge of German. With great pride he told us of all the battles he had been in since the beginning of the war, and I must say he would be entitled to many bronze stars on his service ribbon.

Finally the conversation drifted to the relative fighting qualities of each Army. He said he was quite sure that the American doughboy was the nerviest fighter on the front, although he was seriously handicapped by lack of experience. He, himself, had specialized in bayonet fighting and proudly stated that he was one of the best bayonet fighters in the whole German Army, to which fact all the others agreed. He said that with his blade he had whipped four Russians single handed; that unassisted he had cleaned up on four Italians, and he pointed to a coveted ribbon as a recognition of his feat; that at Arras he had gotten the better of three Englishmen, and he pointed to still another ribbon; and that at Verdun, in the early days, he had even bested three Frenchmen in a deadly bayonet combat; and he had individual bayonet victories galore; “but,” he said, throwing up his hands and laughing good naturedly, “an American gave me this—a negro,” and he showed me a bronze button that he wore for having been wounded in defense of the Fatherland. He opened his blouse and shirt collar and showed us a long scar along his neck and shoulder.

I had heard conflicting stories as to the fighting qualities of the American negro, so I asked him to explain how it happened. He said it was during a raid near Verdun; the negroes were, undoubtedly, in training with the French Foreign Legion in that sector. It started with a regular bayonet fight in which he quickly knocked the bayonet and rifle from the negro’s hands, but as the Feldwebel was just about to give the final fatal stab the negro pulled out the proverbial razor from somewhere. The scar was the final result. He dramatically summed it up by telling us that he would willingly fight the Russians, the Italians, the Englishmen and the Frenchmen at unequal odds, at any time or place, but he was absolutely through with all Americans because they were crazy; they didn’t care whether they got killed or not.

“The colored troops, as a whole, are poor fighters,” he said, in words to that effect, “but the American negro is the exception—he fights, and fights dirty.”