Luck on the Wing: Thirteen Stories of a Sky Spy

by Elmer Haslett

When we got to Villingen, we received a fresh supply of rumors as to just when we were going to be released. With all this anticipation, the days were unusually long, for every day was filled with added promises which the Germans never fulfilled. So, after we had been there a few days, I began to think we never were going to get out if we waited for the help of the Germans. So, I decided to have my own “coming out.”

I tried to escape for three nights straight, even getting so far as to breaking the lock on an abandoned gate and cutting the barbed wire enclosing the windows, but something always went wrong. Every time we had to run on account of being discovered by the guards. The fourth day, an American Artillery colonel, who was the senior officer of the prisoners, called a meeting and stated that the Germans had turned the government of the prisoners over to him, and, as commanding officer, he forbade any more attempts to escape. I thought then and I think now that the Colonel was entirely without his rights. The armistice did not affect our status of prisoners, for there was still a state of war, and, as long as there is a state of war, to my mind there is a corresponding duty on the part of all prisoners to return to their own forces; and no superior officer, regardless of rank, has the right to excuse the failure of any prisoner to perform this duty, and certainly not to forbid even attempting the performance. This Colonel stated that, as commanding officer, he had given the parole of all the prisoners. This was again absolutely the assumption of rights not his own. This assumption of our personal privileges as men and soldiers was the only thing that kept several of us from again trying to escape, for a man’s word of honor is too serious a thing to permit juggling with, even when given away without his consent.

Finally, the orders came to leave, and one bright morning they assembled us, the Air Service officers being last—probably because that was where we stood in the estimation of the American Artillery colonel. The German officer in charge of the camp came out and made a speech about the great friendship of the German and American people, in which he said that the Allies and Germans were both victorious—Germany’s victory being in that she had found a new Republic. But it was not a time for speechmaking—it was a time for action for us, and, like a bunch of race horses, we pawed the earth to get a head start for that train.

To our surprise, they had first-class coaches to carry us out of Germany, although they had taken us in and moved us around in everything from cattle cars to third and fourth class coaches.

We got to Constanz, on the border of Switzerland, and, of course, expected to change trains and go right ahead. To our disappointment, we found that the Americans had not made any preparations to carry us through Switzerland, and we had to wait at Constanz a couple of days until the Americans showed some speed. Believe me, I damned America right, left, laterally, and longitudinally for their lack of preparation. I afterwards was very sorry and found that it was not the fault of the Americans at all. But I was mighty peeved to be forced to eat “Bully Beef” in Germany on Thanksgiving.

I think it was about five o’clock, on the morning of the thirtieth of November, that we crossed the border, and believe me I never want to hear such pandemonium again as those two hundred American prisoners gave as we were pulled out of Germany, and were actually again in the hands of friends. We had shaken hands with our hostess at the “coming out,” for I didn’t see a single house along our railroad all through Switzerland from five in the morning until midnight that did not have the American flag waving. Everywhere were men, women and children madly waving handkerchiefs and flags as that train went by.

I felt as if I were in heaven. It was wonderful of Switzerland, but, of course, it was the fact that we represented the Great America which caused the demonstration as they had a sincere respect for our friendship.

At Berne, the ladies of the American Red Cross met us and served us hot roast chicken. Take it from me, it was good. Everyone had a ravenous appetite. When we were filled to the brim, the boys got together and appointed me yell leader, and we gave fifteen “raws” for the Red Cross, the Y. M. C. A., the Salvation Army, Switzerland, Berne, the Allies, and the U.S.A. The natives thought perhaps that we were lunatics, but those who understood America knew it was the only immediately available way we had of expressing our appreciation. So we repeated our performance at Lucerne, and at Lausanne, and at Geneva.

Hours meant nothing to the austere Swiss on that night, for when we pulled into Geneva at 11 P. M., there was the same tremendous crowd, with American flags, good cheer, and things to eat. All the way along, even from the first, it was the same. At one little town where we stopped for the engine to get water, there was only one little store near the railroad, but the Swiss man who ran it gave us every bit of wine he had in there, which was about thirty bottles, and then began to feed us cookies. He could speak nothing but German, which was “Alles for den Amerikaner,” meaning “Everything for the Americans.” And he seemed pleased to have the opportunity to do it. In that part of Switzerland, they speak German, but, of course, around Lausanne and Geneva, French is the common tongue.

But it was a real “coming out.” In fact, it was Cæsar’s Triumphal March, Woodrow Wilson’s entrance into Paris, and Pershing on Fifth Avenue, all combined, for we were the King Bees when it came to Swiss chocolate, and they certainly handed it out. I became so ill that I could barely navigate, but it all seemed so much like a dream that I continued to consume chocolate whether I wanted to or not for fear the dream would end.