Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

Gen. William Mitchell, Commander-in-Chief of the American Air Forces at the Front

LUCK ON THE WING
Thirteen Stories of a Sky Spy

BY

ELMER HASLETT

Major, Air Service, U. S. Army. Distinguished Service Cross. Croix de Guerre Française. Recipient of two special citations by General Pershing for conspicuous bravery and exceptionally meritorious service. Operations Officer U. S. Air Service, First Army Corps at Château-Thierry and of First Army Observation Wing at St. Mihiel and the Argonne.

NEW YORK

E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY

681 FIFTH AVENUE

Copyright, 1920.

By E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY

All Rights Reserved

Printed in the United States of America

TO MY MOTHER

SOME WORDS IN EXPLANATION

If any one should be interested enough to inquire as to the reason for my becoming a sky spy, an aërial observer, a deuce, or whatever one chooses to call it, I should certainly speak the truth and affirm that it was not the result of calm, cool and deliberate thought. I have always had a holy horror of airplanes and to this day I cannot say that I exactly enjoy riding in them. My sole reason for flying now is that I am still in the Air Service and there is not an excuse in the world for a young man being an air officer if he does not spend a part of his time in that element. Every boy in his own heart wants to be a soldier whether his mother raises him that way or not: as a boy and as a man I wanted to be an infantryman. Upon being commissioned in Infantry following the First Officers’ Training Camp, I was about to have a lifetime’s ambition gratified by being placed in charge of a company at Camp Lewis, Washington, when along with two hundred other new officers I was ordered to Fort Sill, Oklahoma, for assignment with the Missouri and Kansas troops. I had been enthusiastic over the infantry, I liked it fine, and most of all I wanted to train my company and lead them into action. Arriving at Fort Sill, we found that the troops had not arrived and would not come for at least a month. Meanwhile we stagnated and lost our pep. The papers were full of the pressing need of help at the battle front and still all around I could see nothing but destructive delay. It was the old call of the individual—for though my heart was set upon the ideal of training my own men for the supreme test yet I could not stand the delay. I was determined to get to the Front and with that as my paramount ideal, I would take the first opportunity that would lead to its realization.

The chance came one morning early in September, 1917, when one of my friends, Lieut. Armin Herold, caught me going out of the mess hall late (as usual) for breakfast and excitedly told me that the Division Adjutant had just tacked a little notice on the door at Headquarters, in response to an urgent request from General Pershing, that ten officers who ranked as First or Second Lieutenants would be detailed at once for training as airplane observers, and would be sent to France immediately upon completion of their training. Volunteers were requested. That part about “training as airplane observers” was Greek to me—I did not know that such things existed—but at the word “France” I pricked up my ears like a fire horse at the sound of a bell. My decision was formed then and there. I was going to be an aërial observer, whatever that was, and nothing was going to keep me from taking that chance, my first opportunity, to go to France.

I almost lost my breakfast at the thought of having to ride in an airplane, but that promise to send me to France at once was an anesthetic to my better judgment, and I right away made my first flight, au pied, covering that ten acres of plowed ground over to the Division Headquarters in ten flat. I rushed in and made application.

The Divisional Signal Officer was a Major who felt that aërial observation was an extremely technical branch. He did not know a terrible lot about it, and told me that he had placed the bulletin on the board only a few minutes before and was surprised that I had responded so quickly. He asked me a lot of trick questions as to my technical training, and now, since I have made a fair record as an aërial observer, I don’t mind making the confession that I, along with other conspirators desiring early action, made several “for the period of the emergency” statements. The Major wanted to know if I knew anything about civil engineering. I told him I did, but, as a matter of fact, I hardly knew the difference between a compass and a level. He asked me if I got sick in an airplane. I flinched a little, but told him “No,” the presumption of innocence being in my favor. He then asked me if I had ever ridden in one. I laughed so heartily at this joke that he was convinced that I had. The truth of the matter was that previous to that time if anyone had ever got me in an airplane they would certainly have had to hog-tie me and drag me to the ordeal. He then wanted to know what experience I had with mechanical engines. I told him that my experience was quite varied and that I considered myself an expert on mechanical engines, having had a course in mechanical engineering. This was all true, yet I do not, to this day, know the principles surrounding the operations of an engine, and if anything ever should go wrong, the motor would rust from age before I could fix it.

My application was hasty and unpremeditated and I did not actually realize what I had done until I got outside—then, just as after the unpremeditated murder, the murderer will turn from the body and cry, “What have I done?”—so I turned from that house with exactly the same thought, and as I walked back to my barracks I kept repeating to myself, “What have I done!” “What have I done!” The big question then was to find out the nature of the new job for which I had volunteered. The first question I asked of the two hundred officers when I returned to the barracks was: “What is an airplane observer?” No one present could enlighten me.

I had volunteered for so many things in this man’s army which had never panned out either for me or for any one else, that I was naturally apprehensive as to the result. Having in mind such dire consequences should the thing turn out, and yet hopeful of a more pleasant outcome, I alternately anticipated and naturally brooded a great deal over the thing.

The next morning I learned that the telegram had actually been sent to the War Department at Washington and that my name had been first on the list. The package of fate was not only sealed, but clearly addressed, and I was the consignee.

In a remarkably short time the orders came from Washington and ten of us were loaded in a Government truck and transported to Post Field. Of those ten Lieutenants it is interesting to note that seven got to the Front, and from those seven one can pick five of America’s greatest sky spies. Every one of the seven was decorated or promoted in the field. They were Captain Len Hammond, of San Francisco; Captain Phil Henderson, of Chehallis, Oregon; Captain Steve Barrows, of Berkeley, California; Captain How Douglas, of Covina, California; First Lieut. Armin Herold of Redlands, California, and First Lieutenant “Red” Gunderson, of Spokane, Washington. These were the first officers detailed in the United States to “Aërial Observation.”

The Observation School at Fort Sill was just being started and was yet unorganized, so after a very extensive course covering four weeks of about one hour a day, in which we learned practically nothing of real help, we were ordered to France for duty.

After an unusually short stay in the S.O.S., or Zone of the Rear, we get to the Zone of Advance at a place named Amanty, where we were stationed at an observer’s school, and, after a very incomplete course there, we were distributed among French squadrons operating over the Front, in order that we might get some actual experience, since the Americans had no squadrons yet ready for the Front.

But a word as to the reason for this book. Here is how it happened. We were at this school at Amanty, hoping each day for orders to move us on up to the real front. It was in February, 1918, and one day, by a great streak of good fortune, Major Schwab, the school adjutant, picked on me as I was passing the headquarters. “Hey, what’s your name!” he said, to which I replied, with a “wish-to-make-good” salute.

“Here!” he continued, in a most matter-of-fact way, “you are excused from classes this morning. Take the commanding officer’s car, go down to Gondrecourt, and pick up three Y.M.C.A. girls who are going to give an entertainment out here this afternoon. Report them to me.”

This was an unexpected pleasure, so, with all pomp and dignity, I seated myself in the rear of a huge Cadillac, with “Official” painted all over the sides of it. It was my first ride in the select government transportation—I had previously drawn trucks. Then we whisked along the ten miles to Gondrecourt. The surprise was a happy one, because the three girls were peaches, and, an aviator being a scarce article in those days (and I wore my leather coat to let them know that I was one), I was received most cordially.

We had just started back to the camp, and I was Hero Number One of Heroes All, when they all harped as of one accord, demanding if I would not take them up in an airplane. This is a feminine plea which never seems to become old, because every girl you see nowadays still asks the same question. But I maintained silence on the subject of taking them up. So, they talked about aces, seemingly positive that I was one of those things—what a wonderful flyer I must be—and a lot of other bunk, until I began to feel exalted as if I were of the royalty, for it seemed that I was being worshipped.

I interrupted their wild rambling to ask if they objected to my smoking. Of course, being a hero aviator, there was no chance for objection. So, as I unbuttoned my leather coat, threw back the left lapel, and pulled out a stogie from my pocket, the eyes of one cute little frizzle-haired girl fell upon my aviation insignia, which, of course, consisted of only one wing. Wild eyed and with marked disdain, she exclaimed sneeringly to the others, “Oh, he’s only an observer! A half aviator!”

Actually I had not claimed otherwise, but, as long as I live, I shall never forget the sting of those words, and especially the biting insinuation on the word “only.” To their minds I was a branded hypocrite. Talk about the poor man standing before the criminal judge and being sentenced to the impossible “99 years” in the penitentiary; well, take it from me, this was worse, for my foolish pride had been embellished to an acute cockishness by this preliminary adoration, but my soaring little airplane of selfish egoism took a decided nose-dive—it smashed my whole day’s happiness.

The other girls, and in fact this little frizzle-topped girl, too, realized immediately the impropriety of the remark, and tried in the most sincere way to temper the sting and alleviate my apparent embarrassment. The only hollow remark I could offer, in my futile attempt at indifferent repartee, was to the effect that pilots would be aces always, and observers, being the lowest card of the deck, must be deuces. They laughed—I don’t know why—perhaps to jolly me along. I intended to say something else, but they took advantage of the necessity of my taking a breath—by laughing—so I dropped the “deuce” gag, but, as the conversation went on, the more chagrined I became.

When we finally got to camp, I turned over the precious cargo to the camp adjutant, and then struck out for a long hike by my lonesome to walk it off.

But, like an “ignorant idealist,” heeding the call of the fair sex, I went to the entertainment that afternoon, and, as I left the hut with several other observers, we met the entertainers who were now walking along in company with the commanding officer. Of course, we all saluted, the commanding officer sloppily returned it, and the party passed on. Then this same little frizzle-top, red-headed girl, as if by afterthought, recognized me, turned around, and begrudgingly nodded as if meeting a disgraced member of the family. She disdainfully called the attention of the commanding officer and the other girls to my humble presence by saying, “He is the observer that came out with us in the car—you know the ‘deuce,’” and, I might add, she laughed lightly and shrugged her shoulders. I’ll tell the world it hurt my pride, and I was off with all of womankind for the time being. I had labored under the impression that an observer was some big gun in aviation. Believe me, she took it out of me.

In fact, these two incidents with this young lady revealed to me for the first time the real insignificance of my position as an aërial observer. A thousand times afterwards, when I still wore an observer’s insignia, people would look at it and, for some psychological reason or other, they always seemed to say either by sound or facial expression, “only an observer.” Even to-day, as throughout the war, the same haunting epithet follows the observer. In fact, in the American Expeditionary Force, we had an unofficial rating of military personnel which classified the various grades as follows: general officers, field officers, captains, lieutenants, pilots, sergeants, corporals, privates, cadets, German prisoners and last aërial observers. And no matter which way one considered it, the aërial observer was the lowest form of human existence. For a long time he was not even eligible for promotion or command. Indeed, in the game of war, he was the deuce—the lowest card of the deck—and the first to be discarded.

So far as official recognition is concerned the observer is gradually coming into his own. After comparing the fatalities in the various branches of aviation, it is agreed as one of the lessons of the war that the observer has had a hard deal as have also observation pilots and bombardment pilots. In recognition of this principle, the Director of Air Service in a letter of January 5th, 1920, in declining to sanction the word “ace,” wrote as follows: “The United States Air Service does not use the title ‘Ace’ in referring to those who are credited officially with five or more victories over enemy aircraft. It is not the policy of the Air Service to glorify one particular branch of aeronautics, aviation or aero-station at the expense of another.... The work of observation and bombardment is considered equally as hazardous as that of pursuit, but due to the fact that the observation and bombardment pilots are not called upon merely to destroy enemy aircraft, it should not be allowed to aid in establishing a popular comparison of results merely by relatives victories.” I notice that the Director, in spite of the nice things he said about the observation and bombardment branches of the service, has expressly referred to “pilots,” which of course makes me peevish. But so it is. The Director undoubtedly intended to include observers; indeed, the observer is the man who does the shooting from observation and bombardment planes—but it is the same old story—the observer is so insignificant that he was just naturally overlooked. Indeed, an observer is only a quasi-aviator, as a friend with a legal mind once said—and after he used that word “only,” I hated him.

And in public appreciation, they consider the observer as the deuce—the card without value—with no definite status, just an inexplicable freak habitating around aviation. The common acceptation of an aërial observer is a mild, passive, sort of a guy, who wears nose glasses, is mathematically inclined, and who, in battle, is privileged to run from the enemy, being, as it were, tamed and “too proud to fight.”

Thus, to present to the public a more consistent version of the real life of the observer at the Front in his various rôles, and hoping in a way to dispel this very unfortunate public misunderstanding, this book of my own modest experiences as an observer is presented for consideration under the title “Luck on the Wing.”

Elmer Haslett,

Major, Air Service

United States Army

Washington, February, 1920.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

INTRODUCTION

Major Elmer Haslett has made a valuable addition to the literature of the World’s War in writing the volume to which these lines must serve as introduction.

“Luck on the Wing” has two distinct sources of value: first it presents a clear, graphic picture of the life led by our fighting airmen during the three great actions in which American soldiers played so important a part—Château-Thierry, St. Mihiel, and the Argonne—and best of all the picture is a truthful one: and, second, it, all the more forcibly because often quite unconsciously, brings out clearly the lack of understanding of the functions of Air Service, a lack which in the final analysis was responsible for the greater part of whatever of dissatisfaction and disappointment with this branch of the Military Service there existed in the American Expeditionary Forces in France.

Since the Armistice there have been published a great number of books on the War, the majority of which have been the work of actual participants—of officers and enlisted men. But so far as the Air Service of the United States is concerned Major Haslett has, in my opinion, in the relation in simple narrative form of some of the adventures he himself met with Overseas provided not only the most interesting story but one of the very few which the future historian will find of considerable value when he sets himself to the task of compiling Air Service History.

“Luck on the Wing” is the story of an American observer. The claims to fame of the fighting pilot were early recognized in the World War. The Ace soon became a public favorite. The War Correspondents were quick indeed to realize the news potentialities inherent to the “Knight of the Air” and their dispatches made the world familiar with his extraordinary and ordinary adventures. The peoples of the World followed with the zest that the American baseball fanatic follows the baseball victories, the scores of the World’s great Aces. But to the observer fame came in rather homeopathic doses, if it came at all. And most observers are willing to take oath it came not at all.

That there were exceptions to this rule, that the very important work of the observer was not entirely lacking of official and public recognition, is a source of personal gratification to me because as Commander of the American Air Forces at the Front I personally knew and fully appreciated the great value of the work done by this class of Air Service officers. Major Haslett is deservedly one of the exceptions. The variety of his war service qualifies him better perhaps than any other American Air Service Observer to write of Air Observation: the efficiency of his work is attested sufficiently by the fact that he was rapidly promoted from Lieutenant to Captain and from Captain to Major. His personal daring and courage, and the extent of both, need no testimony and indeed could have none more eloquent than the citations he received and the decorations awarded him.

To say that this officer or that officer was the “greatest” fighting pilot or the “greatest” observer in the American Air Service overseas would, assuming that it were possible, and many hold that it is impossible, assuredly be improper; but of Major Haslett it may be said with entire propriety that the value of his services was certainly not exceeded by the services rendered by any other observation officer in the American Air Service. And it must always in after life be a source of great pride and satisfaction to this officer to know that he successfully executed every mission upon which he was sent up to the day that he was shot down far behind the enemy lines in the Argonne after an unequal but protracted combat with superior enemy forces.

Few men even in the Air Service had so many and so astounding adventures as befell the author of “Luck on the Wing,” and of these, fewer still lived to tell the story. In simple but vivid language Major Haslett tells in this book of many of his astonishing experiences. Life at the Front with him was just one adventure after another—from his first trip over the lines when he sat in the observer’s seat in a French plane perfectly at ease and in blissful ignorance of a French battery’s desperate efforts to signal him that there was a squadron of seven German Fokkers over him. Through this first adventure his amazing luck carried him safe (or was it a Divine Providence moving as ever inscrutably?). And this same amazing luck carried him safely through an even more remarkable adventure. While under heavy ground fire on an artillery mission he was thrown out of his “ship” but caught the muzzle of his machine gun as he went over, and in some way managed to pull himself back into the airplane—and then completed his mission. But on September 30, 1918, even Major Haslett’s luck deserted him and he was shot down and captured. The rest of the war he spent mainly in unsuccessful efforts to escape from German prisons.

“Luck on the Wing” tells of these adventures—and others.

It is appropriate in concluding this brief introduction to tell of some of the work of Major Haslett overseas which he himself cannot well mention. Much of this officer’s service at the Front was spent as Operations Officer. As such his duties did not require him to execute missions over the lines himself. Major Haslett insisted always on doing not only the full share of such perilous work as would fall to an officer not in an executive position, but more. His argument to his commanding officer was that only by experience over the lines could an operations officer thoroughly master his work—a theory that he went far toward proving.

Whenever ultra-dangerous work presented itself this officer was quick to volunteer. Major Haslett was more than an observer, he was a student of air operations. He was among the first of the American officers to prove that low flying over German trenches was not only possible but was a method of effective attack for airplanes. At the time that he was shot down he was engaged in working out the problems of adjustment of artillery fire on moving targets by airplanes—a question of prime importance in warfare of movement.

This officer during the course of his service at the Front not only contributed exceptionally distinguished personal services over the lines and as an operations officer but he also contributed ideas and suggestions of considerable value in the development of Air tactics and Air strategy, and as I have mentioned before he had the proud record of successfully executing every mission which he undertook during his entire service at the Front with the single exception of the mission he was on when he was shot down by superior enemy forces.

With entire frankness Major Haslett has told the story of how he succeeded in getting an assignment as an observer and in later getting duty with Colonel Brereton’s squadron at the Front. And by his own account he has shown with equal frankness that he had no hesitation in overcoming obstacles to this accomplishment by any means that came to hand. Perhaps some of the fastidious may find something to criticize in this. But Major Haslett’s all-impelling motive was to serve his country by meeting his country’s enemies on the battlefield. And it was this same all-impelling motive which gave inspiration to the personnel of the American Air Service, which brought to the Air Service proud achievement and dauntless courage in action. Service against the enemy is a good soldier’s ambition. This motive carried Major Haslett to the very front rank of all American observers, and gave him the adventure of which he tells in “Luck on the Wing.”

William Mitchell,

Brigadier-General United States Army.

Washington,

Feb. 24, 1920.

LUCK ON THE WING

I
BEGINNER’S LUCK

We had been up with the French Squadron for about three weeks and it had rained every day or something else had happened to prevent flying. We had a wonderful social time, but our flying had been so postponed that I actually began to think that the French did not want us to fly, probably lacking confidence in our ability, so, one day I walked up to the Captain and by means of his imperfect English and my perfectly inelegant French we managed to perfect some close, cordial and personal liaison. I told him that we appreciated the long, drawn-out dinners and the very excellent quality and quantity of the red wine and the white wine, but that actually we came up to take our first trips over the line and learn a little about observation. He shrugged his shoulders and said that he felt quite sure that we would be there for three or four months and that there was absolutely no hurry. I told him he did not know the American Army, for while I would admit that we had not shown much speed up to the present time in getting squadrons on the Front, or in the manufacture of our ten thousand airplanes a month, or our five thousand Liberty Motors, at the same time, somewhere, someplace, somehow, someday, we were going to make a start and that I was quite positive that we were not going to have any observers unless the French got busy and trained some for us, and that in my mind we would be leaving mighty soon and it might look sort of suspicious on paper if we had been with the squadron a month and had never taken a trip over the lines.

This sort of impressed the Captain and dear, old fellow that he was, he immediately ordered “Mon Lieutenant Dillard,” who was his Operations Officer, to arrange for me to accompany the next mission over the lines, as a protection. This was scheduled for the next day. A French Lieutenant by the name of Jones was to do an adjustment of a battery of 155’s, and I was to accompany him in another plane to protect him from any attack by German airplanes.

That night we played Bridge until midnight, whereupon we all shook hands, as is the French custom, and departed for our various billets. My Bridge had been rotten—my mind was on a different kind of bridge: How was I to bridge that next day—What did it hold? The night was chilly as the devil and as I picked my way in the darkness I could hear very plainly the rumble of guns and could see the artillery flashes very clearly, although the front was twenty kilometers away. I began to think about my first trip over the lines that was soon to come. I was mentally lower than a snake. I hadn’t prayed for some time and I was just wondering whether or not I would pray that night. My solemn idea of prayer was that it was an emergency measure. I was always reverently thankful to the Maker for His blessings, but He knew that for He must have known my mind. I believed that God helped him who helped himself, but when the question was too big for man to control, then it was the time to invoke the help of the Supreme Being. I was inclined to think this case was only a duty of war in which man should help himself. So, I had decided that I would go ahead and handle it as a man to man proposition, reserving invocation for a more serious situation, but as I was getting pretty close to my billet I heard a sudden noise that gave me a real thrill—a big cat jumped out of a box and ran directly in front of me. It was too dark, of course, to tell the color of that cat, but the condition of my mind convinced me that it could be no other color than black and that it was an omen that bad luck was sure to come my way. When that cat ran in front of me my Man theory was gone, absolutely; I knew quite well that I was going to pray.

I lay abed for fully three hours, going over in detail every piece of the machine gun, what I was to do in case of a jam of the machine gun, and what I was to do in case of stoppage of the gun. I was trying to picture in my mind silhouettes of the different German airplanes that had been on the wall at school, and which I, to my regret, had not studied. Then I remembered reading stories of how poor boys were shot down, and most of them on their first flight, and I thought of airplane accidents and I thought of my girl. In fact, I had such a variety of thoughts that when I finally dozed off, that quasi sleep was a nightmare, and when from nervous and physical exhaustion about three-thirty o’clock in the morning I reached the point where I was really sleeping, I was suddenly shaken, and, of course, I jumped as if branded by a hot poker. It was my French orderly telling me it was time to get up to make my flight. I first realized the truth of that little saying, “There is always somebody taking the joy out of life.” He was crying, “Mon lieutenant! Mon lieutenant! Il est temps de se lever,” which is French for “It is time to get up.” I had a notion to direct him to present my compliments to the Captain and to tell him that I was indisposed that morning but I couldn’t speak French well enough to express myself, so, there was only one thing to do and that was to make a stab at it. I dressed and took my nice, new flying clothes which I received at Paris, and hobbled the kilometre and a half out to the field. The crews were already there and also the other flying personnel. Of course, I put on a sickly smile as if to help things along, but honestly there wasn’t much warmth in my hand-shake. The Frenchmen were all excited, standing around a telephone in the hangar and I found out from one of them who spoke English, that they were trying to get the balloon to find out about the visibility. This pleased me for my feet were already chilling and I was as strong as horseradish for each moment’s delay. In a few moments the Lieutenant put the receiver on the telephone and with some sort of an ejaculation I saw the face of Lieutenant Jones, who was to do the adjustment, assume a very dejected attitude, for while these Frenchmen are the strongest people in the world for lying abed in the morning, yet they certainly hate to have their trouble in rising come to naught by reason of impossibility to perform the mission assigned and in this case I found that the visibility was “mauvais,” or “no good.” So, we just hung around.

In a few moments one of the enlisted men came up to me and saluted me smartly, and mumbled a lot of stuff about “voulez vous” something, “voulez vous” being all I could understand, so I beckoned one of the Lieutenants who spoke a little English and he asked me if I wanted a “Raelt Saeul” or “ordinary open sight.” I had never had a course in aerial gunnery and I did not know the difference; in fact, my experience in machine guns consisted of two lectures by a guy who didn’t know much about it, at Fort Sill, the dismantling of one gun and about an hour and six minutes in an open firing butt at Amanty, France. I was afraid “Raelt Saeul” would be something technical, in which case I would certainly demonstrate my ignorance, and to my dazed mind “open sight” certainly sounded frank and on-the-square, so, of course, I just shrugged my shoulders and pointed as if I were perfectly familiar with both but under the circumstances I would take the “open sight.” They were both quite surprised and tried to open the discussion upon the relative merits of each, but I passed this up and made it emphatic that “open sight” it would be. I found afterwards that the “Raelt Saeul” was a great deal more accurate. So, they put the machine guns on the plane with “open sight.” I wanted in the worst way to get around and monkey with those machine guns, but I knew if I did I would certainly shoot some one up or kill myself, so I laid off. It was a terrible predicament; I knew I had no business going up and my conscience began to hurt me for the sake of the Frenchmen I was supposed to be protecting. Incidentally I must admit, in capital letters, that I had my own personal safety somewhat in mind. But it was too late—I had to go through with it. It was the proposition now of luck, and lots of it. We kept on with preparations; it was still foggy.

At nine o’clock we went in an automobile and got our breakfast, which for the Frenchmen always consisted of hot chocolate and a piece of bread, but for me it usually consisted of ham and eggs, and potatoes, and jelly, and bread, and butter and coffee, and as it usually consisted of that—as this was probably my last breakfast it certainly would not consist of less this time. So, I hied me forth after having my “chocolate” with the Frenchmen, and gave my landlady her usual two francs, in return for which I had the repast above accurately described.

We went back to the flying field and waited until about eleven o’clock. I had made up my mind that I was going through with it and the nervousness was beginning to wear off. About noon it got real cloudy and at twelve twenty-six and a half the first drop of rain fell. Believe me, the exhaust action of my sigh of relief was not unlike one of these carnival, rubber balloons when it is dropped in hot water. They, of course, called it a day, came in and had “déjeuner” and gathered around the Bridge tables, while Dillard played some very classical airs upon the automatic piano which this squadron carried with it.

In the middle of the afternoon the shower completely ceased, while Sol came out in all his magnificent glory; magnificent I say, to the farmer who wants to till the soil, to the sweethearts who want to go on a picnic, and to the washerwoman who wants to dry her clothes, but for me, it was just like an April shower on a new silk hat—I lost all my gloss—for in a few moments “mon capitaine” came in and announced that he felt we could get the planes off the ground. We called up the battery and they were ready so we climbed into the automobile and went out to the field again. The mechanics rolled those two dilapidated Sopwith planes out of the hangars and gave those rotary engines a turn and they began to burr. That whirr and burr felt to me just like the whirr and burr of the dentist’s burr that gets in the middle of a wisdom tooth and hits the nerve.

The other two American student observers were out on the field. Phil Henderson, who always was the head of his class and very mechanical by nature, gave me a few added remarks about some technical points of the machine gun, how to do in case of a jam, etc., while Hopkins, the other American, jollied me along. It was the first time I had ever had a ride in a Sopwith. I do not know whether it was from the fact that I was not used to climbing into the Sopwith or that I did not know what I was doing, but anyhow I stepped on that one particular part of the fuselage which is supposed to withstand only wind pressure and as a consequence my one hundred and eighty-two pounds made a nice hole in the canvas. Of course the Frenchmen had complex fits but the pilot merely shrugged his shoulders as if to say that it wouldn’t impair the flying qualities of the boat. I honestly felt that the tearing of the canvas was an omen that I ought not to go. But already the other plane was taxiing out to take off, and it was like a drowning man grasping for the last straw. They came up to see if I was fixed all right. I was fixed, and in more ways than one. I was holding on to the fuselage for all I was worth. Fortunately they noticed that I was not strapped in and so they proceeded to strap me.

They said something about the “mitrailleuse” but the “mitrailleuse” did not worry me—I said it was all right. I did not know what they were talking about, although I afterwards learned that they meant machine guns, but what they wanted me to do was to shoot a couple of bursts into the ground to see if the guns were working. I tried to twist the tourelle (the revolving base upon which the machine gun turns) around to shoot in the proper direction, but it would not budge. The Corporal came around and pressed a little lever which released the mechanism and, of course, the tourelle turned just as easy as a roulette wheel. Then they told me by means of sign language to point it at the ground and pull the trigger. I did, but I almost broke the forefingers of both hands trying to pull the trigger. The pilot was getting nervous; I think he clearly saw that I was probably like the American airplanes that they had heard and read so much about—I was not coming across. The Corporal came around to determine the trouble. I shrugged my shoulders, French fashion, as if to say “ça ne marche pas,” that is, “it doesn’t work,” but lovely as that gun lad was he did not give away my ignorance but simply said “Vous avez oublié”—“you have forgotten something,” and he proceeded to pull down the little latch on both guns which unlocks the entire mechanism. Then he stepped out of my way and I pointed the guns. Having, as I said before, almost broken both my forefingers trying to pull the trigger, I pulled in the same manner, force and fashion, and before I could get my fingers off of the triggers I had almost shot both of the magazines full. I thought those guns never were going to stop firing. The Frenchmen surely oil their guns and have a similar high strung technique in pulling the trigger that our high-grade artists on the piano have with staccato notes. I could see by the expression on the faces around me that they were indeed surprised at American methods but anyway the guns worked, so I said “tres bien,” and my pilot taxied the plane out, gave it the gun, and took off.

This plane did not have telephones; if it did they would have been useless, because I did not Speak French understandably, and the pilot did not know a word of English, and we had not agreed upon any signs.

The other plane had gained considerable altitude and after about fifteen minutes I was able to orient myself by means of my map and to know that the aerodrome was directly beneath me. We had gotten about three hundred meters above and two hundred meters behind the first plane. In a few moments the first plane headed due north and we followed. Over to my right I saw very plainly Souilly, which was later destined to play such an important part in the history of the American Army, being the Headquarters of our First Army in the Argonne drive. In a few moments more I saw below me the shell-torn country and the two peaks known as “Hill 304” and “Dead Man Hill”—to the French they are known as “Trois Cent Quatre” and “Mort Homme”—which were so prominent in the fighting around Verdun.

Only a few days before I had visited these same places on the ground and I had seen the myriads of human bones in that mighty cemetery which, though originally properly interred, were being continually brought to the surface by the constant and incessant artillery fire. I thought at the time how terrible it must be to live day and night in the trenches of that graveyard, knowing not but that in the next instant you, yourself, might be the one destined to replace the remains which, from four years of exposure, were crumbling into the dust. On that visit the thing that impressed me was the minuteness of the individual, for both German and French, though the deadliest of enemies in life, found a common resting place, side by side, in the same yard of earth for which they had given their lives to gain.

While on the ground I had seen an airplane high in the heavens and I thought how much more wonderful it was to fight in that broad, open expanse of atmosphere where the extent of one’s endeavor is not limited by a section of a trench, but only by the blue heaven, the reliability of the motor and the accuracy of the machine gun. It is strange how one’s outlook can change. Man is the slave of temperament and romantic dissatisfaction. Excite him and he pleads for quiet, give him solitude and it becomes unbearably monotonous. I was enwrapped by environment. When in the trenches of that bleached boneyard the monotony and horror were agony to me—so many bones and those huge trench rats—I wanted in the worst way to get out of those trenches and back to the airdrome, to take my chances mid those silver-winged birds that floated so gracefully above. But, when I actually got over this same graveyard at six thousand feet altitude that same picture again entered my mind. I knew I would soon be crossing the lines. I began to think of the terrible fall of six thousand feet before hitting that cemetery, and then I thought what I would look like after I did hit. In fact, cold shudders crept through me like a continued electric shock. For once I was downright scared and if I could have changed places with the stalwart guardians of those trenches in the rat-ridden graveyard beneath I would have run for the opportunity. I would, at least, have something solid to stand upon.

We were going straight toward the lines and directly in front of Hill 304 and “Mort Homme.” They stood out extremely clear and plain. The perpetual shell fire had left its mark for while the surrounding country was green with vegetation, yet these two hills bulged forth, bald and barren. Hill 304, or “Trois cent quatre” was the worse. It had nothing growing on it at all. In fact, it was so bad that one of the polite, French jokes on a bald-headed man was to call him “Trois cent quatre.” After flying parallel to the line for a few minutes we turned back toward our own lines. I determined that the French observer had found his target and would soon be calling his battery.

This trip was a complete surprise because I understood from my meager instructions that even when crossing the line the enemy anti-aircraft artillery, commonly called “the archies,” would certainly open fire, but everything was calm and peaceful—except my mind. I looked at my map to find where the panels were displayed. Panels are large, horizontal strips of cloth which are placed on the ground in various symbols near the battery and are used as a means of communication between the battery and the airplane. The airplane communicates with the battery largely by means of the radio telegraphy, but as it was not practicable to receive the radio signals in the plane from the ground, we used these panels. Among the signals formed by these white panels, which are quite clearly discernible from the air, are those meaning that the “Battery is ready to fire,” “Battery has fired,” “Fire by Salvo,” “Change target,” and many, many others including the signal “There is an Enemy Plane near you,” which is the most dreaded panel that can be displayed. I might incidentally mention that there is another panel which means “There is no further need of you; you can go home.” Now this may not have a great deal of significance to the average layman, but I’ll say that when the sky spy has been tossed about for a couple of hours on the archie billows he joins the union which says that “go home, you’re fired” is the greatest little panel of the whole panel alphabet. So, in a few minutes I picked up the location of the panels and I had a little chart on my map board showing the meaning of these many panels. I had had some instructions upon them while at Observation School, but I had depended on crossing the bridge only upon arrival thereat, so I did not pay a great deal of attention to them. The descriptive chart on my map board interpreted the panels in French so I was not sure that the chart would do me any good after all for my knowledge of technical or any other kind of French was less than meager. I saw the panel “Battery is ready,” and then the plane headed toward the lines and in a moment the panel changed to “Battery has fired,” so I looked over in Hunland but I could not find where the shells had hit. In my mind they were hitting everywhere so how could I pick out the particular ones that Jones was directing. In a moment I again saw “Battery is ready,” and again I looked directly toward the supposed target. Suddenly I saw four shells strike real close by and my vigilance was rewarded for I was to witness an actual adjustment of artillery fire against a real enemy. Then I took a genuine interest in the adjustment and paid very close attention to every detail. In fact, I was so attentive that I was oblivious to the fact that my mission was to protect the leading plane.

Delving into this new game I indulged in certain psychological conclusions which took my mind off of the thing that had been troubling me; namely, the unpeaceful condition of my mind. This was most interesting. They had fired about six or seven salvos and were coming very near to the target, which was a cross-road. I thought it must be a wonderful observer to guide the battery with such unfailing accuracy and I looked forward to the time when I too might be a genuine sky spy and with American batteries seek out the enemy and destroy him, for after all was not the position of the aerial observer one of the most dangerous of the army, the spy—for his greatest mission was to find out the intentions of the enemy and if he succeeded in bringing back the information without being seen all would be well, and if he was seen it meant he had to fight for his life. Like the spy he, too, lived within the lines of the enemy.

This was the gist of my thoughts when I suddenly looked down at the panels and saw a huge “Y” displayed. I did not pay much attention to the “Y” but I saw Jones’ plane taking a steep spiral toward the earth. I did not call the attention of my pilot to it because I thought “Y” was something usual, meaning, perhaps, that the signals were not understood so Jones was going down low to get closer to the battery in order that his wireless could be heard, but Jones kept going right on down near the battery and finally kept circling around close by at about three hundred feet altitude. I looked around and did not pay any great heed; I thought Jones would soon climb up again. In a few moments I saw the battery take in their “Y” and put it out again; take it in and put it out, as if to attract my attention. Then I saw them running back and forth with individual panels in different directions, which had a sort of cinema effect. Then they brought out double panels and made a great, huge “Y.” Then I thought “Y” must mean something if they were making all that fuss about it, so I thought “Y”—“Y”—“Y”—“Y.” It was a memory test for me. I felt I should remember some of those panels and here was the chance to think clear and quick. I went through the various fake memory courses I had taken and tried in every way to determine the meaning of “Y,” so after trying to figure it out by the law of association, the law of likeness of sound, the law of impress and five other such hopeless laws I began to regret that I had paid so much for that memory course. Then I casually took out my map chart to find out what “Y” meant. As I ran slowly down the list of signals I came to “Y” and looking across it I saw “Attention! Ennemi avion pres de vous,” which in English means “Look out! Enemy plane close to you.” I thought I did not know French but I certainly acquired it with the speed of lightning. I dropped my map board like a shot, jumped up in my cockpit, grabbed my machine guns, released the tourelle, and whether I knew anything about that tourelle or not, it followed me as I spun around three times in a complete circle of three hundred and sixty degrees with the speed of a ballet dancer—I was bent on getting anything near me. I stopped—looked frantically at the pilot, expecting to find him dead. He had turned around to find out what the rumpus was about. I did nothing but to give him a sickly smile for I had nothing else to give. They had a signal commonly used among observers to describe a cross with the forefinger and point when the observer saw a German plane, but this was among the thousand things I had not learned about aerial observation. So, he went on, straight flying, just aimlessly drifting on.

I gradually calmed myself and looked into the sky above me and I saw seven airplanes which were hidden from the view of the pilot on account of the position of the wing above him. I was quite sure from the lectures I had had in America from instructors who had never been at the Front, that one could easily distinguish an enemy airplane by the huge black cross that is painted all over it, and so I skimmed my eyes over them trying to discern the cross. I could not, and yet the airplanes stayed about six hundred meters above me and kept on circling around. I decided that I was being duped and that there was some under my tail, so I hung my anatomy over the fuselage and after a hasty examination I was convinced that the only airplanes in that sky, except our own, were the seven above me, and Jones, who was down by the battery still circling around. I looked down at the panels and they were still frantically waving that “Y” and peering at the planes above me I saw that they were still circling around. I did not know what to do. In fact, I did not do anything for fully thirty seconds, except to watch those planes, but they did not make any sudden maneuvers or show any inclination to attack. I looked down again and they were still putting out that big “Y” and my pilot was just floating along as if nothing had ever happened; in fact he had never seen the panels and was not paying any attention, having undoubtedly an abundance of confidence in the ability of the American observer, and as I could not disappoint him in his splendid judgment as to my ability I just used my perfectly splendid logic and decided that if they were German planes they certainly would have attacked me before this time, and since they had not attacked, they could be no other than French; and the solution was that the battery had probably received notice from the Squadron Commander that there was a green observer up and so they were undoubtedly flashing this “Y” trying to play a joke on me, believing that I would run home, and thinking, perhaps, that I had not seen Jones go down in his rapid spiral. So, I decided to show them that they could not fox me and I just stayed up there, floating around. After I had stayed up there for about fifteen minutes Jones pulled out for home, and when I saw him shoot off in that direction I decided that perhaps the signal had been changed and “Y” meant that “there is no further need for you,” and that they were just trying to attract my attention so that we would start home. I decided I would not show any more ignorance than I had and would say nothing of the incident.

So we went home and I felt pretty good that I was in sight of the airdrome again and still alive and that nothing unusual had happened after all. Jones got there about five minutes ahead of me. Meanwhile the battery had called up the Squadron and told them that the observer in that second plane was either the bravest man they had ever seen or the biggest idiot, that he had stayed up there daring seven Germans to attack him single handed, while they had toiled feverishly for fifteen minutes with “Y’s” and double “Y’s” trying to give him warning and that his utter disregard of their signals had so unnerved the crew that fifty per cent. would be sick for a week. So, of course, the entire flying personnel, including Adjutants, Sergeants, Corporals, Lieutenants and Aspirants (Cadets) were there, as well as the Capitaine, to meet and greet us. Jones, of course, had gotten out and also told them about our narrow escape from the seven Huns and you can imagine the excitement and ejaculating of a bunch of Frenchmen when anything so preposterous as this should happen, especially with a new American who as yet was untried in valor on the battlefields of France.

They were thoroughly convinced that I was an unusually hardboiled soldier and that I had just dared the Germans to come down, and knew all the time that they were Germans and that I was really seeking a fight with the seven. Imagine the reception—they all ran up to the plane, double time, including the rather heavy Captain, waving their hands and shouting, but their remarks were so jumbled that I could not grasp the entire meaning. They all came up and shook my hand and patted me on the back and said “Bravo!” “Tres Fort!” and “Vive l’Americain!” and a lot of other stuff. I was not much excited about it because I thought perhaps that was customary as it was my first trip. Then, just as suddenly as if they were waiting to hear a pin drop, everything became quiet, and they demanded my story. Strangely enough I was perfectly convinced that we had done nothing wrong, so I asked one of the Lieutenants who spoke a little English to tell me what it was all about. He threw his head back in great surprise and demanded in low tones, “Did you not see those seven planes above you?” I quietly answered, “Certainly, I saw those seven planes,” for I did. Then he continued in the same low voice, “And did you not see the battery putting out the ‘Y’ with the panels?” I said, “Certainly!” Everybody and everything was as quiet as death, and then the light began to come to me just as the sun’s rays so suddenly and rapidly dispel a fog, and I knew exactly what the next question was going to be. He said, “Those were German planes, didn’t you know it?” At those words I almost faded away but this was the real time for a little “emergency” drama, so I assumed the rôle of a modern Daniel emerging from the Den and shrugging my shoulders with a very much emphasized forward motion of the chest, I bellowed, “Sure, I knew they were Germans all the time. I didn’t run (emphasizing “I”) because I wanted to say I had shot down some Boche on my first trip over the lines.” Their fond expectations of the bravery of the Americans and incidentally my prowess were met. They were proud of their new ally. Then came many cries of “Bravo! Bravo!” and indiscreet whispers of “Croix de Guerre,” and we all went home, with the American Sky Spy about the most popular fellow he has ever been.

That night we had a real banquet at which I bought the champagne and the red wine. While we were celebrating I was going over the whole matter and long before I went home that night I realized that it was more than luck and a “handful of Marines” that had saved me from those seven Huns. It was manifest destiny, for I found that the reason those German planes did not attack when they had me cold was that one of the aerial tactics in vogue at that time, was to send one plane low as I was, with a strong pursuit patrol high in the clouds above so that when the enemy attacked the lower plane the pursuit planes high above could dive on the enemy, thus having the great advantages of position, speed and surprise. The seven Huns thought I was a dupe—I was, but not the kind they thought. Mine was a case of ultra-distilled beginner’s luck.

II
HARDBOILED

Every soldier from the General to a private sooner or later gets his reputation. It comes through observation of a man’s action and attitude by his fellow soldiers. Those who early in the game get a favorable reputation are indeed fortunate while those who get in bad, so to speak, are generally strictly out of luck for reputations are like postage stamps—when once stuck on they are hard to take off.

There was one reputation which many sought but which represented to me exactly what a real man’s nature ought not contain—this was the common prefix to one’s name of “hardboiled.” The accepted meaning of this word varied with localities, but I did not like it even in its most liberal and favorable interpretation.

In every locality except the front, the common acceptance of the term “hardboiled” indicated one who in any position of authority was a pinheaded, tyrannical crab, who was so engrossed in himself and his big stick position that he was entirely oblivious to the feelings and rights of those he commanded. In other words, one who neither sought counsel nor permitted argument. At the front, however, common usage had changed the meaning of this famous term. There it ordinarily referred to the soldier who had the maximum quantity of bravery and the minimum amount of common sense and who purposely flirted with death for the fun of it and who valued life somewhere between eight cents and two bits, war tax not included. I paraphrase Mr. Shakespeare in that some people are naturally hardboiled, others acquire it and still others have it thrust upon them. I must add another class which has grown quite common since the war is over; that is, assumed hardboiledness, and it is ordinarily recognized in the blowing of one’s own horn lest it be not blown for true enough the genuine hardboiled soldier in the fighting interpretation of that word, is strictly a man of action and not words.

It is, of course, safe now for the parlor sofa soldier to explain to his audience just how much help the rest of the Army gave him in winning the war. I sometimes pull this gag myself when there is a good chance to get away with it. For those who, during the war, were in the rear waiting for the chance to get to the front it was also healthy to emphatically emphasize just what wonders they would accomplish when fortune favored them by sending them to the lines. There it was entirely a matter of environment for there was no likelihood of those perfectly harmless bluffs being called since there was no possible opportunity at hand to demonstrate the modest announcements of their prowess. But take it from me as the greatest lesson I ever learned, it is the most ill-advised speech possible when one arrives at the front and begins to scatter broadcast promiscuous remarks either about one’s own particular courage or any one else’s lack of it, for, believe me, you will no more than get the words into sound than they will be called and called strong. At the front they have the peculiar faculty of making immediately available full opportunity for demonstrating daring, bravery, or any other manly virtue that the newcomer claims as a part of his makeup.

The now famous 12th Aero Squadron formed, with the 1st Aero Squadron, the first American Observation Group at the front. It was located near a little village called Ourches, about fifteen kilometres northwest of Toul. Upon completion of my training with the French, during which time I had just the one trip over the lines, I was assigned to the 12th Aero Squadron. My time over the lines amounted to only fifty-five minutes. The only thing I knew about sky-spying was what I had read in my books and what I had picked up in our embryonic course of instruction at the schools. Just as soon as I had gotten to the squadron I began to hear wild rumors of how the Commanding Officer was going to send back to the rear all those observers who did not have sufficient experience over the lines and that he expected them all to have had, at least, ten trips over the lines. I immediately realized that I had no chance whatsoever with that standard, so my only hope was that the Commanding Officer would be a nice man and that I could talk him into making an exception in my case. I found out that the squadron was commanded by a young Regular Army officer by the name of Major Lewis Hyde Brereton. No one I could ask seemed to know a lot about him, for the squadron was just being organized and would not operate over the front lines for a couple of days, at least. So I had no dope on the manner of man I was to approach and who fortune had destined should become the leading and controlling influence of my life at the front.

Captain “Deacon” Saunders, who has since been killed, had been one of my instructors at school and he had been designated by Brereton as Chief Observer. “Deac” was a wonder. It was his duty to round up the wild observers and present them to the Commanding Officer, who cross-questioned them as to their experience and the like. So, “Deac” grabbed me eventually during the morning of the second day and took me over to meet His Royal Majesty, the Commanding Officer of an actual American Squadron at the front. He was quartered in a wooden hut commonly known as an “Adrian Barrack.”

Saunders gave a sharp military knock of three raps and I, of course, expected to hear a nice, soft, cultured voice say, “Won’t you come in?” What I heard, however, was considerably different. “Who in the hell’s there?” The voice was sharp and impatient, and it suddenly made me feel “less than the dust beneath thy chariot wheel.”

Captain Saunders spoke up, “Sir, I have a new observer reporting and would like to present him to you.”

“What’s his name?” gruffed the irate voice.

“Lieutenant Haslett, Sir,” replied Captain Saunders.

“Who in the devil asked for him?” came from the inside.

“Sir,” said my godfather, “he was included in the list sent down by Headquarters.”

“Well! Is he there now?” said the power within.

“Yes, sir, right with me now,” was the reply, and I began to pull down my blouse and otherwise mill around in preparation for my entrance, for this last question was encouraging.

“Well,” came the growl, after a discomforting hesitation, “I don’t want to see him. I’m writing a letter to my wife and I can’t be bothered.”

I felt about as welcome as a skunk in a public park. In all my military experience I cannot remember anything that really hurt me so much. I wanted like a starving man wants food, to be a plain buck private in the Infantry, for this was the most inconsiderate sort of a bruise; it hurt me more, of course, because I was an officer and was wearing my pride on my coat sleeve. The only thing that bolstered me up was the fact that I had finally gotten to the American front and I was willing to sacrifice practically anything to stay there, but I certainly realized that the man who put the “boiled” in “hardboiled” was no other than Major Lewis H. Brereton.

At noon I saw Brereton for the first time. Some one was kind enough to point him out to me, and I remember thinking at the time, “How can a pleasant-faced youngster like that be so hardboiled?”

That afternoon, around three o’clock, “Deac” Saunders said we would again attempt to get an audience, and just as he introduced me, for some reason, Saunders was called away, and I had no friend to sponsor my cause before a hard judge. Brereton had just finished his after-dinner nap and was in the act of dressing in flying clothes to take a little flight around the field, so being in a hurry, he began throwing out snappy questions at me, as if trying to establish a record in getting rid of me. He lost no time in continuing his dressing, and did not even ask me to sit down or to allow me to relax from my painfully rigid position of Attention.

“What’s your name?” he commanded.

“Lieutenant Haslett, Sir.”

“I’ve got eyes,” he snapped. “I can see your rank all right. How does it happen you are Infantry?”

“I volunteered, Sir, for Aviation and was detailed.”

“Volunteered or was ordered to volunteer?” he queried. This hurt for it had been strongly rumored that in the selection of aerial observers, many line commanders had gotten rid of their undesirables by sending them to aviation—as observers.

“Volunteered, Sir!” I replied, bluffed and bewildered.

His attitude showed plainly that I did not strike him at all well. I was still standing at attention, when he sharply commanded “Sit down!” Believe me, I did.

“How many hours over the lines?” he fired next.

Hours! That word removed the floodgate and the last ounce of my composure ebbed away. My time over the lines was measured in minutes and here was a man talking in terms of hours, already. This was the one thing I must avoid, so I sought to evade the question.

“I have had eight hours in the air, Sir.” But I did not lay any stress on “in the air.”

“I don’t care how many hours you’ve had in the air. I asked you how many hours you have had over the lines. That’s what counts with me,” he said emphatically.

There was no escape. If I lied he could look up the record, so, I decided to tell the truth from necessity for this was not the place or time for “period of the emergency” statements.

“Fifty-five minutes, Sir,” I confessed.

“I thought so,” and he nodded his head in proud self-approval just as does the cross-examining prosecutor when he finally forces an admission from the man at bay. “How many adjustments over the lines?”

“None, Sir.”

“None!” he said with a noticeable inflection. “How many in the air at school?”

“None, Sir,” I said meekly enough.

“None!” he exclaimed emphatically. “How many on paper?”

“One, Sir,” I said, hesitatingly, for my energy was getting low.

“Well,” he snapped, as if glad to dispose of me on my own lack of merit. “You don’t know a damn thing about observation. How in the hell did you get to the front, anyway? I might use you as a mess officer, but if you ever intend to fly over the front you’ve got to go back and learn something about your job. This is a service squadron, operating over the front. Whoever ordered you to Toul intended to send you to Tours, so I’ll call up and get orders for you to go back to the rear.”

Tours, by the way, was the great aviation primary school of the American Forces—while Toul in those early days signified the front.

My pride fell like a demonstration of Newton’s law of gravity. This hardboiled man could not be approached by man or beast; and it seemed the only thing I could do was to say “Yes, sir” and beat it. I had visions of returning to the rear for further instruction, yet here I was at the front—I had finally realized my ambition and yet was on the verge of having it strangled by this man’s inconsideration. I could not endure the thought—my attitude changed in a moment—I determined to assume hardboiledness, for after I had gotten that close to the front I certainly was not going back without putting up some sort of a fight. Besides, I had a few days before written my folks and my friends that I was actually at the front, and what kind of a legitimate reason could I give in my next letter when I would have to tell them I was no longer at the front. The only legitimate excuse a soldier has for leaving the front after being fortunate enough to get there, is an incapacitating wound, and while Brereton had dealt me several wounds which were sure enough incapacitating, yet they were not the kind that would put pretty little gold wound stripes on my arm. Sure enough—I was down and about to take the count.

There is always a way to get out of the most entangling net. Sometimes it narrows down to only one way and if the captive fails to choose that one particular hazard out of a thousand plausible ones, he is out of luck. So it was, there was only one way to extricate myself from the web that Brereton had spun so quickly around my whole ambition. Very, very fortunately I had picked the winner. It was a long chance, but I was Houdini this time. This hardboiled monster had to be met with his own style. So, with an assumed rôle of the hardboiled, man-eating cannibal, I right away cut out that “sir” stuff, took out my pipe and calmly started to fill it with “Bull Durham” tobacco, which was the only brand our little canteen had in stock, and we were really mighty happy to get even that.

Brereton plainly saw that my temper had gotten out of bounds and that I was preparing to come back at his apparently final decision either with tears or blasphemy or both. But just as the matador seeks to infuriate the bull by waving a red flag before slaughtering him, so Brereton seeing me about to fill my pipe with this well-advertised and justly celebrated brand of tobacco, ventured forth.

“Lieutenant,” he said, clearing his throat by way of emphasis, “I take it that you are about to use some Bull.”

He said this quite seriously, without even a follow-up laugh to dull the cutting bluntness of it. It apparently was his day, for like the infuriated bull, I was seeing red already. I made the final run to gore him or be stabbed myself by his waiting poniard of arrogance.

“You can call it Bull, if you like,” I fairly cried, “but, pardon my frankness, the fact that you classify what I have to say even before you have heard it shows your premature judgment, just as you prematurely judged my ability or lack of ability as an observer before even giving me an opportunity to demonstrate it. Of course, I don’t know whether you have ever been over the lines or not, but if you have, you will concur with me that the greatest thing an observer needs is ‘guts.’ I don’t say I’m a world’s beater in experience, but one thing I have and which can be demonstrated nowhere else but over the lines,” and here I threw out my chest, “and that is ‘guts’ or politely ‘intestines.’ Now, if that asset means anything to you, you will give me a chance to stay with the 12th. All I want is an opportunity to render good service, and to show the stuff I am made of. Now if you don’t want to give me a chance I can do nothing further except to tell you that I will get the chance elsewhere and that I know more about observation than most of your observers ever will know.”

Major Brereton was dumbfounded. When he recovered he gave a real, ringing, golden, genuine laugh, came across and said, “Damn it all, my boy, maybe you’re right. I haven’t been over the lines myself yet.”

I knew quite well he hadn’t. If it had been otherwise I would have mended my speech considerably.

“But, old man,” he said, “I was only thinking for your own good. Hell, if you want to be a damn fool and go on over the lines, knowing as little as you do, it’s not my worry. Go ahead!”

I thanked him and told him that I had to start some time and I would be all ready to go over at my first opportunity.

Fully decided to make myself at home I went out to the hangars and to my surprise, I saw the same kind of old airplanes we had used in the observation school in France. They were an obsolete type of French service plane, known as “A.R.’s”—Avion Renault—which in English meant “Renault Airplane.” The accepted meaning to the Americans, however, was “Antique Rattletrap.” The only good feature about the A.R. was the dependable motor, but they were very slow and did not fly well. They might in those days pass for a second class training plane, but to have them on the line, functioning as service planes, was a great surprise to me. The life of the airman depends very largely on the bus he drives. We all wanted Spads, Salmsons or Breguets, and, of course, any prospect of an American plane in those days was a myth, so there was noticeably keen disappointment when we found that we must fly over the front in those old, discarded and obsolete A.R.’s. However, they were all we had and so far as I was concerned, I knew that my stay in the squadron was largely by sufferance and I could not afford to kick lest I be also kicked out, so I immediately decided to think a lot, but say nothing.

Those first few missions over the lines were tame enough. Happily enough I got in as substitute on the first mission of the squadron over the lines. The only diversion was the anti-aircraft artillery fire, or the “Archies,” and there was nothing tame about that. However, there was more activity in sight for in a few days Brereton announced that he wanted his squadron to be a specialized one and that he desired the names of a few observers who would volunteer to specialize in “Infantry contact patrol.” “Infantry contact patrol” to my mind meant nothing, so from force of habit I volunteered. The only other observers who volunteered were Lieutenant Emerson, a fine, young fellow who was killed a couple of days later, and Captain “Deacon” Saunders, our Chief Observer.

Though I was not previously known in the squadron I somehow became prominent right off, and with it went the title of “Hardboiled.” So, when several of my newly formed acquaintances solemnly asked me how long I expected to live doing “Infantry Contact Patrols,” I hied me forth to the Operations Room and asked the Chief Observer what it was all about. I was handed a pamphlet written by Colonel William Mitchell, who was Chief of Air Service at the Front. It started out with these words, “Infantry Liaison, or Infantry Contact Patrol is the most hazardous, but most important of all missions.” My eyes began to bat like a heavyweight’s before he falls for the count, and as I read on I came rapidly to the conclusion that the volunteer system was absolutely all wrong and the next time any of these nice, uncertain jobs were offered I’d take my place in the draft.

I found that Infantry Contact Patrol indicated the airplane that gains contact with the infantry in battle, which is done by flying extremely low over the troops, finding the advanced lines, transmitting signals, calling for reinforcements, ammunition or the like, attacking machine guns or anything else which is holding up the advance of the infantry; further, that the great drawback to this kind of work is that the infantry airplane is constantly under fire from enemy machine guns and enemy pursuit planes, which, of course, concentrate to hinder this all important work. I decided that with my huge body in a slow A.R. plane my life on this work would be measured in minutes. It was a real scare.

An operation room of an American Squadron at the Front, showing battle maps, war plans and photographs

There was no backing down since I had already volunteered, so I began to study the bulletins, with the greatest care. No attacks, however, took place in this quiet sector so I hit upon the brilliant idea of trying out this new work in practice on the Germans, then I would be properly experienced should there ever actually be an attack. The trenches in the Toul Sector were well marked, especially around Layeyville and Richecourt. So I studied those trenches from maps, photographs and from the air, until I knew them perfectly.

One evening I had as my pilot, Lieutenant Jack Kennedy, who was one of our flight commanders, and who was in for anything new and exciting, so, we fixed it up that we would try out a practice infantry contact on the Germans. When we finished our usual evening reconnaissance of the sector, we played around looking for a good situation that might be assumed. When we got just above Richecourt, which was the beginning of the German lines, I discerned quite clearly, about ten, big, fat Heinies slowly wobbling down a communication trench. It apparently was a relief going into place. The trench was unusually long and was not intersected by any other trenches for some length.

“Those Germans are bringing up ammunition reinforcements for the battle,” I assumed. “They must be stopped!” The ammunition was soup.

I called Kennedy, pointed them out to him, and told him my assumption. Without waiting for a signal, he dived like the winged messenger of fate. Kennedy had been trained with the English Pursuit Pilots and he was handling that big, slow, lumbering A.R. like a little fighting scout. We came out of that dive with a quivering groan, and Kennedy, at about one hundred meters altitude, began to circle over that communicating trench, waiting for me to halt the procession. He was too fast for me, but when I finally got my heart gauged down a bit, and my Adam’s apple released from its strangle hold on my windpipe, I began to make my final estimate of the situation. The Heinies had stopped and were eyeing us like country boys at their first circus. It was easy. All I had to do was to pull the triggers, for my guns were directly on them and the enemy reinforcements would never reach its intended destination. They could not scatter—they were rats in my trap. Then an intensely human appeal struck me—poor, belated, unfortunate Heinies—they were not my personal enemies, and if I pulled the triggers it would be little short of murder. To balance this was another series of thought—they were enemies of my country—of the United States—and, if I allowed them to live, would probably kill many of our own brave doughboys; perhaps they belonged to machine gun squads; perhaps it was they who had killed my pals, Angel and Emerson, a few days before. Such were my thoughts when suddenly, Spiff! Spang! and two bullets went between me and the gasoline tank, tearing a hole in the top plate. Spiff!!! Another went through the fuselage, smashing into bits, my hard-rubber wireless reel. It was no time to indulge in psychological deductions—I realized that I was being fired at from the ground, and like my lumbering old A.R., I was about to pass from obsolescence to obsolete. The application of proper psychology indicated that since I was being fired at, the war between the United States and Germany had not ended and below me was the enemy. I was conscious of something within calling me to “Do my duty!” I did. The bullets began to sing at the rate of six hundred per minute, and my tracer bullets did not betray me. They were finding their mark. Measured by the standard that an Ace is one who gets five or more Boche, I became an Ace in a day—and also the first American Ace. However, strangely enough, when my friends to-day ask me, “How many boche did you get?” I can truthfully say, “Between seventy-five and a hundred,” but when they say, “How many boche planes did you shoot down?” I have to renig for I am not an Ace.

I was quite certain that my assumed reputation of “hardboiled” would be justified by this day’s performance. The mechanics took a just pride in the holes in our plane and patched them over, as was the custom, with miniature Iron Crosses, showing the date of the puncture. The next morning I noticed myself being pointed out by several officers of the squadron and this gave me the rather satisfactory feeling commonly described by the English as “cocky.”

Brereton had nothing whatever to say about the mission but Captain “Deac” Saunders said “Bully,” and called me “Hardboiled,” but my reputation lasted only two days, four hours and twenty minutes, for the Group Commander threw ice-cold water over everything by saying that he considered it very poor work, that it had no military value and that it only encouraged reprisals on the part of the Hun who would soon do the same thing. So, I was temporarily classed as bone-headed, and a “dud” and was in dutch all round. There was one little spark of encouragement in a remark that Brereton made, which got to me through the medium of a friend, and it took away the sting of the Group Commander’s criticism, for to me the only boss I had was Brereton, and what he said was law. The adverse remarks of the Group Commander hurt at the time, I admit, but when Brereton said he did not exactly agree with him that the mission had no military value, and also several months later, when this type of mission had so developed that we had special squadrons in the Saint Mihiel and Argonne offensives that did nothing but this particular type of work, I was happy indeed. Later, all types of planes were ordered to fire at troops on the ground when their assigned missions were completed, and the opportunity presented itself.

Shortly after this mission, Henderson, who was the Operations Officer under Captain Saunders, the Chief Observer, left for the aerial gunnery school in the south of France, with three other observers, to take a month’s course in firing and then return to the Front. This left the much coveted position of Operations Officer open and, of course, everyone was wondering to whom it would fall. It was the biggest job in the squadron next to the Commanding Officer and the Chief Observer, and since the Operations Officer dealt directly with the observers I was mighty anxious to find out who my new boss would be, so that I could make it a point to get along with him.

That night Saunders came around and called me out of a little game we were having—I thought perhaps I was scheduled to go on a special mission of some kind, but there was a surprise, undreamed of, awaiting me.

“Haslett,” he said, “Henderson is going to Caseaux to-morrow and I have recommended you to Brereton for appointment as Operations Officer. He kicks like the devil that you haven’t had much experience, but he likes that mission you got away with and thinks you are ‘hardboiled,’ so he may come across. He is going to decide before breakfast to-morrow.”

I could not believe what he had said and humbly asked him to repeat it all over from the beginning. I slept very little that night, for to me this was the biggest thing in the world, it would clearly indicate that I had made good and that my stay at the front was assured.

The announcement on the bulletin board the next morning was signed by Charley Wade, the best Squadron Adjutant I have ever seen, and stated that I had been detailed as Acting Operations Officer. I was the happiest lad in the world. I don’t believe any success I can ever achieve will make me as happy as I was when I read that order. The first thing I did was to consult Brereton and Saunders as to how they wanted it operated. Brereton gave me no dope whatever, except “to run it as I darn pleased and if it did not please him he would soon get some one who would.”

Thus I started. As new pilots reported I always took them over the lines for the initial trip. Saunders asked me to do this for he felt that I was either absolutely worthless or extraordinarily good. If I was worthless there would be no loss if the green pilot killed me, and if on my part, I succeeded in getting the pilot back safe, it would be wonderful training for the pilot. Some logic, I reasoned—thus my job of official breaker-in of new pilots. I say “breaker” for a new pilot coming to the front must be broken in just the same as a horse has to be broken for riding or driving. It is equally true in both cases that the first ride is the worst.

We had one boy who had been with us since the formation of the squadron, but who had been sick and was unable to fly. His name was Phil Schnurr, a young lieutenant from Detroit, Michigan. Phil did not get his first trip over the Front until some time around the first of June. Of course, I was the goat and took him across. It was not new for me as he was about the sixth I had broken in.

I emphasized to him that in my experience over the lines among other things I had found that the best way to get away from the “archies” was to dive when they got near you for the reason that it was much easier for the “archies” to correct deflection than it was for them to correct range. Whatever that means, it’s all right. Phil knew.

I decided that we would call on a battery and adjust the artillery on an enemy battery in a woods close by, which was causing our troops considerable trouble, so I explained to Phil just what we would do, going largely into detail.

The plane was a little shaky even at the take off, and I decided right away that Phil was not quite in the class with Rickenbacker, but I attributed the cause to his natural nervousness, which would soon wear off. After calling our battery by wireless for several minutes they finally put out their panels and we immediately went over to look for the hostile battery that had been reported the same day. I found it and we just started to cross the lines to go back into France when Fritz played one of his favorite tricks. The Germans allow the observation plane to cross the line and come in for not more than three or four kilometers, then when you turn to come out, having followed you all the time with their range finders, they suddenly open up with all their anti-aircraft artillery and generally catch you in their bracket at the first salvo. You are bracketed when they have fired the first shots—one above, one below and one on each side of you. It is not a pleasant position in which to be caught. But they did more than that to us—they not only bracketed us, but one shot got us right under the tail and when Phil heard that burst, known commonly as “Aviator’s Lullaby,” which is the most rasping and exasperating noise it is possible to imagine, he remembered my admonition to dive if they got close, so just as the tail went up from the force of the concussion of the shell directly below us, Phil pushed forward for all he was worth on the control stick. The sudden jarring of the plane from the explosion and the more abrupt dive, released the throttle, throwing the motor into full speed. And with one mighty jerk like the sudden release of a taut rubber band, all three forces working in the same direction, and aided by the flyer’s greatest enemy, Newton’s law of gravity, that A.R. omnibus started straight down in one terrible dive. Poor old Phil was thrown completely out of the pilot’s seat and was only saved from going headlong into the open air by his head striking the upper wing of the plane, which knocked him back into the seat, dazed and practically unconscious. The “hardboiled” observer in the back seat did not have a belt, for my famous A.R. plane was not equipped with them. I went completely out of the cockpit and in that brief second I had one of the rarest thoughts I have ever had—I was sure I was going to be killed and I regretted that it was in such a manner, for it was, indeed, unfortunate that I should be killed in an airplane accident when I might have died fighting in combat—there, at least, I would have had an equal chance with the enemy. As I shot out of that cockpit with the speed that a bullet leaves the barrel of a gun, my foot caught on the wire directly underneath the rim of the cockpit. With superhuman effort doubled by the intuitive hope of self-preservation, I grabbed the top gun which in those days was mounted on the top of the upper plane. Backward I fell. For a moment I was completely free of the airplane, in midair; as I fell my chin hit the outward pointing muzzle of the machine gun; I threw my arms forward and closed them in the grip of death. I had caught the barrels of my machine guns and the next thing I was conscious of was that I was hanging over the side of the fuselage, below the airplane, but clinging on to those machine guns for dear life. The old admonition “to stand by the guns, boys” was tame compared to me. My watchword was “hang on to the guns, boy.”

The plane had fallen about one thousand feet and was still going, but stunned as he was, Phil was doing his best to level her off. I was sure if he ever did level her off the strain would be so great that it would fold or strip the wings. I cannot account for the strength that came to me, but I do know that if I ever should get into a good fight, I only hope I may again be that superman, with the agility of the ape riding the flying horse at the three-ringed circus.

I scrambled up on those machine guns, grabbed the rim of the cockpit and the brace of the tourrelle and climbed in. My ears were splitting; I was certain that the top of my head had been shot away, for there was nothing there but a stinging, painful numbness. My heart was beating at the rate of nine hundred and ninety-nine round trips per second. I felt that my whole body was being flayed by sharp, burning, steel lashes. Then I suddenly grew as cold as ice and passed out. It was almost a literal case of a man being scared to death. When I saw the light again I was limp in the bottom of the fuselage. My first sensation was that we had crashed and I was alive in the wreckage, but the drone of the motor brought me to the realization that we were still flying. Evidently Phil had gotten control again, so I pulled myself up to my seat in the cockpit and got my bearings—we were headed toward home. Poor Phil had his eyes set straight ahead. At his right he had a mirror which reflected the movements of the observer, thus obviating the necessity of continually turning around. When Phil saw my reflection in that mirror, however, he whirled around at top speed to verify it. His countenance changed from being horrified to complete surprise and then to genuine delight. He had evidently looked around immediately upon gaining control, and not seeing me, had realized that I had been thrown from the plane. He was going back to the airdrome to tell the horrible tale.

I could read the look in his eyes, and I do not know what in the world possessed me to do it, but I gave a huge, roaring laugh that would have made the jovial laugh of the old southern mammy sound meager in comparison. Phil did not laugh, he only gave a sickly, sympathetic smile. The boy was thoroughly convinced that I had suddenly become insane—he had justification for his conviction for there was nothing in the world at which I could find a reason for laughing at that time—either in law, fiction, fact, heaven or earth.

I was still sort of dazed, but we were fast approaching our airdrome. The thing that preyed on my mind was that we had started out to do an aerial adjustment and had not finished it. What would Brereton say—and I was now Operations Officer—what would the Battery say? Could I ever get the results from observers when I did not bring home the bacon myself. There was only one thing to do—the adjustment started must be finished. I shook the plane and spoke to Phil through the old rubber tubes we had in those days. I told him what had happened, but that I was all right now. Then he told me what happened to him.

“How’s your head feeling now, Phil?” I asked.

“It’s cracked open,” he answered.

“Can you go ahead and finish this adjustment?” I demanded.

“Yes, I can,” he said, “but I’m not going to, I’m sick.”

“So am I, but you know that’s no excuse at all. Let’s try it,” I ventured.

He said nothing but turned his plane toward Germany and we were again speeding toward the lines.

The battery must have realized what had happened or almost happened, so when I began to wireless to them the location of the target, they were sportsmen just like all the rest of that 26th Division and they immediately put out the panel meaning “There is no further need of you, you can go home.”

This was commendable on their part and it sorely tempted me to take them up, but I quite well knew there was no excuse to make for going home now since we had both decided to finish it, so I immediately called back and asked “Is Battery Ready?” They, of course, put out the signal that it was. So I gave them the coördinates of the target and we started to work. We were both extremely nervous and weak and the anti-aircraft kept firing with unceasing violence. We stayed in the air for exactly an hour and fifty-five minutes and fired a total of fourteen salvos. But luck was the reward of our perseverance. On the fourteenth salvo we struck the huge ammunition dump next to the enemy battery and I have never in my experience seen such a huge and magnificent explosion. Our plane, five thousand feet above the explosion, even quivered at the concussion. We, of course, announced to the battery that they had hit the target and then started for home. The last wireless was unnecessary, however, for they had seen the explosion. It was visible for several miles around.

We were so confused and nervous that we fiddled around another half hour before we could find our airdrome. We finally landed and poor old Schnurr was a nervous wreck. Pride forbids me from accurately describing myself.

Schnurr confessed to me later that he barely knew how to fly, having had only a few hours in a plane, but that he was so anxious to get to the Front that he managed to slip by the “Powers that be” and finally got there. He begged me not to tell it for fear he would be sent back to the rear. Phil was an example of the high-spirited boys who first led the way for America’s aerial fleets. These high-hearted men were America’s first and greatest contribution.

However, for Schnurr’s own good I decided that he should have more training. I got Brereton off on the side and whispered some things in his ear. He was furious at the fact that a pilot had been slipped over on him who did not know everything about flying, and said that he would send Schnurr to the rear right away, but when I finished whispering these things in his ear he changed his mind, for I repeated to Brereton that in my opinion the greatest thing an aviator can have is nerve, or to again use the Army term, immodest as it is, “Guts;” ability is only secondary. Then I told him how Schnurr had gone on and finished the work and had blown up the ammunition.

Brereton agreed to keep Schnurr, and we gave him several hours solo flying under the instruction of more experienced pilots before again permitting him to go over the lines.

What happened to Schnurr? Well, he turned out to be, in my estimation, undoubtedly, the best observation pilot on the entire front, and he went through the hard fighting at Chateau Thierry, Saint Mihiel and the Argonne, and although he had some of the hardest and most discouraging missions ever given to a pilot, he was one man who could always be counted upon to deliver the goods if it was humanly possible. In fact, he became known as “Old Reliable,” for he never failed.

On the matter of promotions and decorations Phil Schnurr had the worst deal that was ever handed to any one. He started as a Second Lieutenant and ended that. He was never decorated although recommended to my knowledge, at least eight times. Something always went wrong. Where several proposals would go in, Schnurr’s would never go through. If any one in the American Army in this War should have his chest covered with medals and crosses from the Congressional Medal of Honor on down—it is Phil Schnurr.

From this mission, which is small compared to some of Phil’s later accomplishments, we were both cited by General Edwards, commanding the 26th Division, as follows:

HEADQUARTERS 26TH DIVISION AMERICAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE

France, September 17, 1918.

GENERAL ORDERS

No. 78

Extract

4. By his accurate registration of Battery F, 101st Field Artillery, on June 10, 1918, First Lieut. Elmer R. Haslett, 12th Aero Squadron, caused the destruction of a large quantity of enemy ammunition, his plane being pierced several times during this dangerous work. The Division Commander takes great pleasure in acknowledging the valuable aid of this officer and congratulates him on his skill and daring.

C. R. Edwards,

Major General, Commanding.

After this mission Brereton, himself, classified both Schnurr and me as “sufficiently hardboiled.” The boys took up the refrain and thus, after assuming the attitude necessary, I finally acquired the title and had the emoluments and incidental responsibility thrust upon me.

III
MY FIRST SCRAP

The early days in the Toul Sector are remembered by the aviators in the observation end of the game as quiet ones. All the time I was there with the Americans I had never even seen a Boche plane. I understand they were around all right, but all of our young pursuit pilots of the 94th and 95th Squadrons were so determined, individually, to become the first American Ace that they scoured the sky from daylight to dusk, and to such a degree of success that the Boche thought it rather risky to even leave their own airdrome.

About the middle of June the Rainbow Division was down in the Bacarrat-Lunéville Sector and having been there some time without aviation, it was decreed that the 12th Aero Squadron, which had done most remarkable work in the Toul Sector, should proceed at once to a little place called Flin, near Bacarrat, to work with the 42nd Division—the Rainbow—in order that they might have more experience in aerial coöperation.

We still had our famous old A.R. training busses, although we had been again promised everything from Spads to Salmsons. So, with our eighteen pilots and eighteen observers and our eighteen A.R. busses we started for our new station, which was about one hundred and fifty kilometers distant.

We were supposed to begin work on the following day, just as in actual battle, for we were simulating a real, active battle move. Our trucks left in the afternoon about three o’clock and without mishap, should have arrived there about midnight. The planes were to wait until the next morning and fly down. The truck train got there all right, and got busy fixing up quarters and getting ready for immediate operations. We expected to see our famous eighteen planes arrive in a well organized, close formation at about eleven o’clock that morning, but at eleven they did not arrive and we heard nothing from them until about three o’clock, when one of our young pilots came from somewhere out of the sky and landed. We asked about the other seventeen, to which question he showed the greatest surprise, and explained that he had been detained by motor trouble and had been unable to get off with the main formation which had taken off four or five hours before him. Immediately Dame Rumor stepped forth, and the absence of the other planes was attributed to everything from being lost in Germany to being shot down by a German plane.

While we were discussing the matter some one noticed two planes very high in the air. We thought, of course, that they were our planes and were probably lost. Ideas were rampant as to how we were going to signal them to get them down, when suddenly we heard the splutter-splut-splut, intermittently, of machine guns way up in the sky. This was new to us. We thought, of course, that some one was merely trying out his guns. These ideas were soon dispelled for following this short, intermittent sound we heard one, steady, singing stream of sound—then we knew that an air fight was on. We did not have time to realize exactly what was happening for the steady stream of fire suddenly ceased and we saw one of the planes falling, out of control. It was swaying back and forth like a falling leaf, and filling the air with a miserable swish-swish sound. The horrible speed of the fall caused both wings to collapse and fold, and the compact mass soon came diving toward earth like a huge torpedo. It crashed with a terrible thud on the very edge of our own field. When the awful horror of the moment passed, we all started to run to see the Boche that had been shot down.

We dragged two crushed and lifeless bodies from the debris and in contrite and humble reverence to our hostile brothers of the air we removed our caps, while the Surgeon began to take off their flying garments in order to find their names. It is hard to imagine the ghastly horror of the shock we received, when, upon unfastening the collar of the outer-garment the green uniform of the German aviator was not revealed, but instead the Royal Seal of the Crown of England. Two brave, British lads had made the Supreme Sacrifice. It is a memory that will never be obliterated from my mind, and I can well remember how the sentiment of the crowd changed like a burning slap, from icy but human feeling to one of fiery hatred and cold-blooded revenge. High in the sky above the victor was winging his way back to the land of the Hun. Young Davidson was the only pilot we had there and we had only one A.R. on the field. It was the one in which Davy had just landed. We knew it would be foolhardy to send that Antique Rattletrap up against that Hun, but every man in the Squadron from the Chief Mechanic to the Major’s orderly and the second cook wanted to go with Davy to avenge our British brothers. Davy and his Observer, however, took off but only got several hundred feet when the motor stopped. We had no more gasoline, but the Hun was already too far toward home and our A.R. could never have climbed the altitude at which the Boche was flying, so we were obliged to give it up.

There was no loss of morale, however. Matters were too serious to even think of that. The thing that was worrying us was what had happened to our other seventeen planes. Had they all met the fate of the British Tommies? Had they too been caught unawares, for a lot of them had flown with mechanics at the observers’ guns. They had undoubtedly lost their formation and in straggling about it was quite easy to suppose that they, too, had become an easy prey for the Hun in the Sun. Believe me, we worried. Not very long afterwards a French soldier came along and handed us some messages which had been received at the French telegraph exchange in a nearby village. They were all from our aviators and the wires indicated that they were scattered all over that country from Nancy to Chaumont, and from Colombey-les-Belles to Lunéville. The whole bunch had gotten lost and in trying to pick their separate ways they had certainly made a mess of it. I expected to hear of some landing at Paris or Bordeaux, but while they did not do that, after we finally plotted their various locations on our map, take it from me, it was a study in polka-dots. One by one they drifted in and outside of one valuable plane that had to be salvaged, in a couple of days we were able to work.

Brereton did not arrive with the squadron. He had been ordered to General Headquarters for a conference of some importance, which occasioned him some delay. The morning he arrived, however, he brought Henderson, Herold and Hopkins along. They had been detached from us at Toul in order to take a Gunnery Course at Caseaux, in the south of France.

Henderson again took over his duties as Operations Officer. Brereton called me in his office and told me a big secret. He stated that there were big things ahead—that we were going to Chateau Thierry quite soon—that he would be Chief of the Air Service for the First Corps and that I would be made a Captain and the Operations Officer for the Corps. He asked me how many times I had been over the lines in the last month to which I answered that it was about thirty times. He said that was too much and that I needed a rest. He then told me I should not fly any more for a couple of weeks, so, I took him at his word and settled down for a rest, meanwhile forming plans for my new job. I strutted around the Squadron and gave as my reasons for retiring, that it was for my nerves and the doctor had so ordered. The boys all fell for this line and they were very thoughtful of me and asked me many times each day as to the condition of my nerves.

In a few days, the 42nd Division was ordered out of the line in order to prepare themselves for the affair which we afterwards learned was Chateau Thierry, and the 77th, which was the first National Army unit to go in the trenches, was ordered in the line. Their Artillery was not yet ready for work, so, some of the 42nd Artillery stayed over to support them. The first morning after the 77th took its place in the trenches the Germans pulled off a raid, the result of which put about six hundred of the 77th in the hospital from gas and wounds.

When the raid came off, the first reports we got were from the French at daybreak. They said that the boche had attacked along the entire divisional front from Domévre to Badonvillers, and that we should send out a plane at once and find the line in order that the General might know where to send reinforcements. It was Lieut. Hopkins’ turn on alert duty, so, he took off right after daylight in the execution of his first mission over the lines. Hopkins had lots of courage—he was a brave fellow—he got tangled up with the “archies” and a huge piece of shell tore away a part of his knee, but he stayed right up there trying to execute his mission until he realized he was losing consciousness from loss of blood. I knew nothing about the attack and was still in bed when they dragged old Hoppy in.

This looked like exciting business for us so when they dragged Hoppy in, I got up and began to pay attention. Meanwhile they had got the next man on the “H” list—Lieutenant Armin F. Herold—whom I knew quite well and he had already been sent out to get the line. I helped lift Hopkins into the ambulance to be taken to the hospital and then went over to get my breakfast. I was about half finished when some one rushed in and said that Herold was also coming in. Of course, we hurried out just as the plane taxied up to the hangar. The mechanics lifted Herold out of the plane with his right leg shattered at the ankle by machine gun bullets fired from the ground. He, of course, had been unable to get the line of our troops, but gamely stated he had gone the limit to find our troops having flown most of the time at about two hundred meters.

I saw Brereton looking around for a new crew to send out. I knew my name began with “H,” but I knew also that I had been put on the resting list, and furthermore was sick, according to the doctor, so my mind was perfectly at ease. There were others in our squadron whose names began with “H”—among them, Henderson, Harwood and Hinds, and we were not restricted to “H’s.” But Major Brereton was known to do funny things. I was starting into the mess shack to finish my breakfast when I heard that familiar voice and its equally familiar inflection demand with a tone of final decision, “Where’s Haslett?” I had a creepy feeling run all over my ribs for I knew it was an off-day. Brereton came into the mess hall after me. I certainly had not gone out to seek him. Then he showed the first and only sign of weakness I ever knew him to display—“Haslett,” he said, “do you want to go and finish this mission?” Always before he would have said “Haslett, go and do this mission.” I neither answered “Yes” or “No” for I could not honestly answer “Yes” and I dared not answer “No.” I simply started to get my flying clothes. Johnny Miller, who had been the pilot for Hopkins on the first attempt, and who afterwards was killed at Chateau Thierry, begged Brereton to be permitted to finish the job. Brereton agreed.

We got into an A.R. plane and I fairly filled the cockpit with signal rockets for the Infantry. I was determined that there should be no reason for the Infantry claiming that they did not see any rockets. Johnny gave her the gun, but as we left the ground the engine failed. We got the plane back to earth without a crash, although we were quite near to one, and that was a premonition for me. I had always figured that if anything mechanical failed, it was certainly, a sign that I had no business in the air that day. When that engine failed I told myself “Goodbye.” I felt my time had come.

We jumped out and got into another plane which was the one they had brought Herold back in. The cockpit was spattered from one end to the other with blood, but we did not have much choice in planes, so, we had to take what would run. The sight of that blood and honest-to-goodness, downright fear caused me to grow momentarily weak. I wanted to get out, take the count, and worse. As we were getting ready to take off one of my very dearest, old friends ran out to the plane, all excited, as if the spirit had suddenly moved him. It was Captain “Pop” Hinds, who was killed later that same day, in an airplane accident. “Haslett, God bless you, old boy,” he said, fairly weeping—“something tells me this is an off-day, and that you’re not going to come back. You’ve taken too many chances already. I don’t want you to go, old man.” Believe me, that took all the pep I ever had out of me. I leaned over the side of the fuselage and patting him on the back said, “Pop, don’t let it worry you. I’m the luckiest guy in the world—they can’t get me.” And in my soul I thought, “Well, those are my last words—they’re not half bad at that. How will they look on my tombstone?”

So, I gave Johnny the high sign and we took off. I could see Johnny was nervous because in taking off, the wing almost scraped the ground. Herold had told me where he thought he had seen a panel displayed by the Infantry, so I first looked that place over and then we flew along the Front at exactly five hundred meters above where the line was supposed to be. I began shooting off my fire rocket signals to the Infantry in order to get them to put out their white panels from which I could mark their location on my map, but regardless of the many rockets I fired they did not put out a single panel. We went down to four hundred meters, flew along the line for fully twenty-five minutes and fired rockets, rockets, rockets. Still there was no sign of a panel on the ground. Down to three hundred we went—no panels yet. I felt like going home because I thought three hundred meters was plenty low enough, especially on an off-day, but there was only one thing to do—that line had to be located somehow so, we went on down to one hundred. No wonder they got Herold, the machine gun fire was something terrible. I had already fired my last rocket and was never so disgusted in my life for there was no response. Finally with the naked eye we located our troops at less than one hundred meters. I hastily plotted their position. If ever a man feels he needs a friend it is when he is going through that awful machine gun fire at two hundred feet and trying to be composed enough to accurately mark on his map the location of things he is seeing on the ground. We developed some very fine observers like Wright, Baucom, Bradford, Powell and Fleeson, who got to be wonders at this work, which is, after all, the greatest work of aviation.

We had been up for about two hours, so, when we landed the whole bunch came rushing out to meet us, including Brereton. It was the only time I ever saw him run. I showed him the line and told him how we got it—the holes in the plane from machine gun bullets convinced him of the truth. I told him I would hazard my little reputation that the doughboys did not have any panels to put out, for if they had displayed them I would certainly have seen them.

He was genuinely peeved and after telephoning the location of the line to appease the growing anxiety of the French, we got into Brereton’s car to go to Divisional Headquarters to find out what was the matter with the Infantry.

We arrived at Bacarrat, went to the Division Headquarters, and the Signal Officer, in reply to our inquiry, told us quite unconcernedly, that the Division had panels all right, but this had been their first occasion to use them and they had not been issued for the doughboys would get them soiled, or might use them for handkerchiefs or the like. Brereton, of course, was in a rage and we demanded to see the Commanding General of Infantry. On duty at the Infantry Post of Command was a Lieutenant Colonel in the National Army, who had probably held some big job in civilian life, but who was certainly not born a soldier. He said that the General had been awake all night and had just gotten to sleep after the morning raid and so he did not care to awaken him under any circumstances. Brereton began to cuss in great style and said he’d be blamed if he’d send his aviators out any more to be killed unless he got some coöperation from the Infantry and it was a terrible note when the Chief of a Service could not see the General when an all-important matter was pending and that if this Brigade wanted the Air Service to work with them they had better show some willingness to help. He then demanded that the panels be issued at once. The Lieutenant Colonel began to show a little concern, and although he was looking right straight at our wings, he asked, “Are you aviators?” Brereton said, “Yes, of course. What did you think we were?” The old boy then showed some speed; he got hold of the telephone and after saying “Sir” many times in order to appease the wrath of the General who had been so rudely awakened and so as not to increase his disfavor, proceeded to tell him that the Airplane Major was here, and wanted to talk to him. Brereton was forced to laugh at this new title and for some time afterwards we all called him the “Airplane Major.” The General of course realized the gravity of the situation and was also mighty peeved about the failure to provide the troops with panels. The mission ended with the agreement that the panels would be issued immediately and the General expressed his sincere regret at the loss of our aviators, and, I believe, became converted to the fact that the Air Service was also a factor to be considered in winning a war.

On our way back to the airdrome we stopped at Artillery Headquarters and they wanted us to go up that afternoon and do an artillery adjustment, as a couple of batteries were sorely in need of more accurate regulation in View of further raids by the Germans. When the Artillery Colonel asked who would do the work Brereton looked at me and I looked at Brereton, and I knew it was settled. “Why, Lieutenant Haslett here has been worked pretty hard and I wanted him to rest up, but I guess he can do this one and then take a rest.” The Artillery Colonel was surprised, but I was more surprised at what he said—“So you are Haslett! Well, well, I’m glad to know you. Colonel Sherburne of the 26th Division Artillery told one of our Majors about a big mission you pulled off for him in the Toul Sector. We sure will be glad to have you work with us.” This was the first recognition of this kind that I had ever gotten and coming from Sherburne it was like a million dollars to me, for he was one of the greatest men with whom I had ever worked. Of course, after that compliment I was delighted and I certainly would not have let any one else do the adjustment at all. I felt like a hero with three wings. I was determined to do the best adjustment I had ever done in my life.

When we got to Bacarrat on the way to the airdrome, an orderly handed Brereton a message which dampened my spirit and determination completely. It read that Captain Hinds—Pop Hinds—the old man who that morning had told me about his premonition that it was an off-day and that I ought not go for I would not come back—was himself killed while taking off from the airdrome, his plane having gone into a tailspin. His observer, another “H”—Henderson, the Operations Officer, was seriously injured. This news hurt me more than any I had ever received. Pop was about forty-six years old and had gone into the flying game simply from the desire to help along American Aviation, having had some little amateur training before the War. We had tried our best to get him back from the front because we realized that the old fellow didn’t have much of a show against the Hun and under actual fighting conditions, but Pop would not go back. He was always the first to volunteer for any mission. A braver man I have never seen. He was a real daddy to us all and his great human understanding and sympathy caused us to pay him a marked deference and respect. He often won a lot of money from the officers playing poker, but in his characteristic unselfishness, he spent it all for candy, cigars, cigarettes and tobacco for the enlisted men and mechanics. He was their idol and there was little, if anything, that they would not do for him.

Henderson was one of my best friends and happily though he was not killed, it had a peculiar significance to me that one hundred per cent of the day’s casualties were “H’s.” It looked like an off-day for the “H’s” without a doubt. There were only three of us left—one was the Ordnance Officer, Hall by name, who was not a flyer; Harwood, who was busy as could be on some assignments; and myself.

The only “H” left was to do an artillery adjustment that afternoon. I thought it might be a good idea to put off that adjustment until the next day, but I could not get up the courage to tell Brereton my honest convictions.

When we got to the airdrome every one was feeling mighty low, because these were our first casualties, outside of the loss of Angel and Emerson in the Toul Sector. The bunch all felt that though the sun was still shining and it was a good day for flying that there were better days ahead. Even the squadron surgeon sent out the recommendation that the flying be suspended for the day. I felt quite relieved for I could not conceive of any one going against the recommendation of the “Medico.” But this did not appeal to Brereton. In his characteristic manner he loudly and emphatically announced that he was not going to let a little thing like that stop the War; if a squadron went to the Front they must expect some casualties and that flying would go right on. I did not eat any dinner; I did not care for it; for, as usual, I did not agree with Brereton. I honestly felt that flying ought to be suspended in deference to old “Pop” Hinds if for no other reason at all.

I really dreaded that flight and even the praise of that Artillery Colonel meant nothing in my life. No one came out to see us off. It was the wrong atmosphere. There was gloom in the sky, gloom on the ground, and gloom within our own beings. In fact, the whole world looked like a dark cloud. The ordinarily jovial mechanics were all acting like a bunch of pall bearers.

Brereton gave me a pilot by the name of West, which to my mind seemed particularly pertinent for I sure felt as though I were going in that direction.

For protection they sent a plane piloted by Schnurr with whom I had previously had a narrow escape and as his observer they sent Thompson against whom I had no complaint at all, for Thompson on his first flight over the lines with the French, shot down an enemy plane. His presence, of course, was no meager consolation, for while I did not want any drawing cards along, I felt that if the Germans were going to attack it would be a good thing to have some one along who could do the fighting, because my experience in actual fighting up to this time put me in about the same class that the St. Louis Nationals generally have in the Baseball Club standing. I was at the bottom of the list. In fact, Thompson was the only one in the squadron who had so far had a fight and that was while he was with the French.

When we got over our battery I began to call them on the radio and they put out their panels. We picked out the target which we had agreed upon and sent the signal to fire. I had promised to adjust two batteries. The plan was to finish the adjustment of the first battery and then begin the second. So, after an hour and a half I completed the first adjustment after about fifteen salvos, which, I admit, was rather rotten work, then I started on the second.

The name of my second target was “Travail Blanc” which consisted of a section of the trench which was especially heavily fortified with machine guns, having a sweep on our lines in the ravine beneath. I had just given them their first signal to fire, and of course, these batteries not having had a great deal of experience in adjusting artillery fire by airplane, were very, very slow in firing. Ordinarily the observer can time the firing, as a prompt battery fires immediately upon getting the signal from the airplane, and the observer can see the burst almost immediately thereafter. It is extremely important to get the first salvo bursts, for from this the observer knows approximately where to look for the next. So, having pressed the key, I was oblivious to all else in the world except the area immediately surrounding Travail Blanc. I must have eyed it for fully thirty seconds, which is an unusually long time to watch one particular spot on the earth, for with the speed of a modern German airplane against my antique A.R., in thirty seconds the Hun could get in a very advantageous place from out of a cloud or the sun. I was still straining my eyes on Travail Blanc when I heard the rat-a-tat-tat of something. It was the first time I had heard machine guns firing in the air while in the air myself, so I felt that we had probably lost altitude and that they were firing at us from the ground. I knew that I could not remedy the situation now, so I again turned my eyes toward Travail Blanc, when I saw the four bursts of the salvo strike about two hundred yards from the target. I had just started to reach for my key to send the correction to the battery when again I heard the long, continuous rata-tat-tat of a machine gun getting louder and louder. I leaned over the fuselage to take a look at the ground beneath me. I thought we should be high enough so that they could not possibly be firing at me and I could not figure what it was. I wondered where Schnurr and Thompson, my protectors, were, so I began to scan the air directly above me. As I threw my head backwards a streak of fire crossed my face barely missing me. I realized that “White Work” (Travail Blanc) was all wrong; my immediate target was “Dirty Work,” for instead of seeing my protecting plane above me there was bearing down upon us, with a speed that was indescribable, and spitting a thousand balls of deadly fire at me every minute, a German Albatros Scout Fighter, and directly behind it were two others of the same type. The Hun was already not over a hundred feet from me and was coming on every iota of a second with the speed of lightning and with a deadly accuracy of fire that seemed to preclude any defense.

I had been caught napping and it was now only a question of which one of the thousands of bullets that were flashing all around me that would get me first. He was so close that had it been necessary for me to move my machine gun one particle of an inch he would have finished with me before I could have fired a single shot. The Hun very well knew that he had caught me unawares and that I could not possibly do anything to defend myself. Like a flash my finger flew to the trigger of my machine gun, which was resting in its ordinary position on the tourrelle. I did not move it an inch for fortune had pointed it directly in line with the oncoming German. Already the bullets began singing from my gun and by the grace of good fortune they were going directly into him. On he came and it seemed that a collision was unavoidable, then with the speed of lightning he dived under me. West saw this dive and sharply banked the plane to keep me in a firing position and as the boche began to zoom to a position under my tail I again let him have it. I was surprised at the apparent accuracy of my guns. The Hun made a loop and dived toward home. I knew he was disabled and could not come back. There were still two other enemy planes coming on, but strange things happen in the air, for the other two did not fire a single shot, but turned and flew toward a light fringe of clouds high above us. I have never, however, been able to account for their failure to attack simultaneously with the attack of the first. For once I was close enough to a Hun to see not only the Iron Maltese Cross but also the fatal cross that stared me squarely in the face. It is not a pleasant feeling. The first plane got to Germany all right, but I am quite sure he was forced to land before he reached his airdrome. I have a hunch, too, that he took his machine guns out on a cement sidewalk and broke them to pieces, for if ever an aviator had the death grip on his adversary they all had it on me. In a moment I saw Schnurr and Thompson, who were flying quite low. It seems that they were attacked first, which accounts for the first gun shots I heard, and the Hun, having gotten on their tail first, they were forced to dive. In a few minutes the two Huns in the cloud were joined by a third, but fortunately the sun was on our side, so the only thing to do was to watch that cloud. Regardless of these Huns, Schnurr and Thompson began climbing and soon reached their position directly behind us.

I wanted to go home in the worst way but the first law we had learned was that the presence of enemy planes is no excuse in observation for failure to perform the mission assigned. For once in my career I had completely lost my courage and pointed toward home. The starch had been taken out of me completely and it was quite immaterial to me what any one wanted to think about our quitting. I felt that enough was enough and I had more than enough. As we passed over our battery, however, my mind turned to that new Division which had just come in that morning and who were doing their first service in the lines; in fact, it was the first time one of our National Army divisions had been placed in the line. They had been gassed on their first day. What would they think?

This thought of what those lads in the trenches, who, of course, had seen the entire fight, would say when they saw an American aviator quit, changed my whole attitude and, to be frank, saved me from becoming a downright coward. I knew that nothing helped the morale of the doughboys more than to see American nerve displayed in the air and, on the other hand, nothing pulled them down more than to see the lack of it. So, I shook the plane and motioned West to turn around. I threw my switch in, clutched the key and with an unsteady hand proceeded to send the correction of the first salvo which I had seen, but which I almost had not lived to report.

I afterwards learned that the boys at the radio receiving set at the Artillery checked each other up on the receipt of this message, so dubious were they that it had been sent from our plane. In a few minutes the battery put out the signal “Received and battery is ready.” I then told West to fly in the direction of the line and the three Huns, although I knew quite well if we flew that way we were going to be attacked, but it would be a sportier combat, at least, for I had been caught asleep for the first and only time. I gave the wireless signal to the battery to fire, but I confess I was not looking at the “White Work” target, I was keeping an eye on the three Boche in the sky, looking for more dirty work. The Huns made no sign whatever to attack—they simply kept circling above us in that slender line of clouds.

This was the worst adjustment I have ever been guilty of performing. I simply could not watch the target. We went ahead for an hour and fifteen minutes and during that time we fired a total of seventeen salvos, of which I saw but seven, for my mind was not on the work—I was busy with the cloud. At the end of the seventeen salvos, the Huns came out of the sky and started in our direction, then playfully changed their course and flew back into Hunland. I watched them until they were completely out of sight for I knew they would have to go home some time. Actually I was never so relieved in my life, not for the reason that we were safe from further interruption, but from the fact that we had buffaloed them and were the winners of the day’s combat against great odds.

But I was certain that it was only a question of time before they would have to leave that cloud for a chasse (pursuit) plane does not carry the same large amount of gasoline as an observation plane, and can not stay in the air as long in a single flight. I was delighted and beaming all over, and especially happy to think, or rather imagine, what was taking place in the trenches below us—those hardboiled doughboys were, perhaps, congratulating themselves that they too were Americans.

Our gas was running extremely low and it was getting late in the evening, but with two additional salvos, when my mind was free from “enemy planes,” we succeeded in putting the battery directly on the target. We then signaled for destruction fire and signaled we were going home. Right above the airdrome the motor stopped and we had to glide in. We had used our last drop of gasoline.

As the airdrome was only twelve kilometers from the line every one had seen the fight and had seen us stick it out. It was really a joyous time and we all got a real welcome. Even Brereton came across. It was the first and only time in my life I ever heard him compliment any one or anything. What he praised, however, was not “us” but the plane, in that the Antique Rattletrap was not such a bad old bus after all. Then every one got around the plane to count the holes made by the enemy airplane. I did not wait to see how it came out for I wanted to get to my bunk and collect myself. I was told later, however, that twenty-one holes were counted—then the mechanics got tired and quit.

IV
BRERETON’S FAMOUS FLIGHT

The one characteristic above all others that made Major Lewis Hyde Brereton respected by both those under him, and his superiors, was the fact that he flew over the lines continuously and he never assigned any one to a mission that he would not do himself. All the boys were acquainted with his record for he not only fought in the air, but also on the ground. He kept his remarkable hold on men for they knew he was a fighter from the word “Go.” His whole career had been marked by a series of brilliant ideas which were so radical and revolutionary that they always took him into a fight before obtaining their adoption.

For instance, he came to France with a large number of other officers—about two hundred in all—who accompanied Brigadier General Foulois, the latter having come over to take command of the Air Service of the American Expeditionary Force. The majority of the officers in the party were Brereton’s superiors, and it seemed that he was going to be swallowed up with many others in the service of supply, or in those days, what was called line of communications, which was in the rear, for out of that large number it seemed that but few were destined to reach the Front. Brereton immediately asked for the command of a squadron at the front. The authorities, of course, laughed at him and politely informed him that the Americans only had one squadron at the front and it had gone forward only a few days ago and that all the other squadrons in France had competent officers assigned to them; besides, the other squadrons could not go to the front for a long, long time on account of not having the proper planes and equipment, the production scheme in America having fallen down. This did not sound encouraging to Brereton so he arranged to have himself assigned to a tour of inspection at Amanty, near Gondrecourt, which was the place designated for our future observation squadrons to assemble before going to the Front. When he got there he found that it was true that only one squadron had, as yet, gone to the Front, but that there were three other squadrons then at Amanty—the 12th, 88th and 91st waiting for service airplanes before moving up for action. All these squadrons had old training planes, the A.R.’s—Avion Renaults.

The squadrons were to leave in the order of the 88th first, then the 91st and then the 12th, according to the rank of the Commanding Officers of each. Major Harry Brown was then in command of the 12th Squadron and Brereton found by accident, that Brown was extremely anxious to get into the bombardment end of the game and was more or less dissatisfied that the 12th was to be made an Observation Squadron. Brereton found that an assignment to bombardment would more than please Brown so he wasted no time on further inspection. He had happened onto his great opportunity, and he departed immediately for Colombey-les-Belles, which was the Headquarters of the Air Service, Zone of Advance.

The village of Vaux on the day preceding the Battle of Vaux

Arriving at Headquarters, he presented Major Brown’s request to be transferred to Clermont-Ferrand to take a course in Bombardment in order that he might command our first Bombardment Squadron. This visit resulted in two orders being issued—the first relieved Major Harry Brown from the 12th and ordered him to Clermont, and the other designated as Commanding Officer of the 12th Aero Squadron, an officer previously unheard of in aviation at the front—Lewis Hyde Brereton.

Brereton asked permission to take his squadron to the front immediately, whereupon they thought him insane. It was pointed out to him that on account of not having service planes the squadron could not possibly get to the front before six weeks. Brereton went into one of his famous “pouts,” in which he puckers up his face like a baby about to cry, and said that we would never have an Air Service on the Front if they were going to be that particular. His idea was to take what we had and use it. He argued that since the squadron was going to work over a quiet sector they could operate just as well with training planes as with service planes, providing they had machine guns.

Fortunately, he had hit upon the psychological argument for at that time every one in America was demanding the reason why we did not have squadrons at the front. There was a terrible mess going on about the Liberty motor and the other airplane scandals, so those in power agreed that it would help conditions materially to be able to say that we had squadrons at the front, rather than one squadron, so after considerable argument Brereton was authorized to take his squadron to the front at once with such equipment as they had.

So, the 88th and 91st were left at Amanty and the new comer arrived with orders in his hand to move the squadron forward for action.

Thus when it came time to pick a leader for offensive operations, General Mitchell knew what he was about when he selected Brereton for the Château-Thierry affair. He wanted a fighter and he got a fighter, for with his characteristic foresight Brereton prepared for any eventuality. He quite well knew that something would likely happen any day and he did not intend to let the observation end fall down if it was humanly possible to prevent it. His job was to accomplish the impossible; our “quiet sector” units must be prepared for a great and long offensive, and they must be gotten ready quick.

Brereton selected Lieutenant Ben Harwood as his Liaison Officer, Lieutenant Mathis as his Information Officer and put me in charge of the Operations, so, we were gone from morning until late at night, traveling between the squadrons, corps headquarters and the various divisional headquarters, getting proper coöperation worked up and, in fact, getting some semblance of organization. The covetous eye of the Hun already looked on Paris. It was only a question of days until the German hand would be extended to grasp what the eye had seen.

The Huns held complete supremacy of the air. They dominated in the ratio of five to one and flew about in droves of fifteen and twenty. Where a fight on a mission had previously been the rare exception to our flyers it was now the common rule. We were very short of pursuit planes. Our Pursuit Squadrons—four in number—were trying to take care of not only our own Corps area, but also other areas held by the French and which adjoined us. As a result, very little direction protection was furnished to the Observation planes. So, the boys knew pretty well when they went out for a mission that it meant a scrap.

There was only one time at Château-Thierry when the Boche did not have the complete supremacy of the air. This was on July first at the Battle of Vaux, at which place Johnny Miller and I did the preliminary adjustment and Brereton and I did the artillery control for the Americans during the battle. We had every American pursuit and observation plane we could get off of the ground. There were not less than ninety-six planes in that formation—their mission being to protect the Infantry plane and to protect Brereton and me, who were doing the artillery work. There was such a swarm of planes above us that we practically never looked into the sky, but kept our attention entirely on the work before us. This was my idea of real protection. It was the nearest we ever came to our big threat to literally blacken the skies by droves of American airplanes. However, none of these were American airplanes, although the aviators were Americans. This was the first time in the war that the doughboy was brought to realize that there were really other American aviators than those famous ground flyers who took off and landed so often at the famous Hotel Crillion Bar Airdrome in Paris and who were so accurately described by Irvin Cobb.

The Vaux affair seemed to me just like the practice control of artillery fire that I once did on the blackboard in school exercises. It was really one of the easiest jobs I ever did and for which I probably received more credit. The previous day I had passed over the town and was happy for the poor peasants that it had been spared, for even though in the hands of the enemy it was practically intact. Now it was a shell-torn blot of destroyed homes, made more desolate by the scattered bodies of the German dead—and I had been one of the guiding masters of its ruin.

The village of Vaux during the Battle of Vaux, July 1, 1918

From the first of July to the fifteenth we were continuously engaged in making the best possible preparations for what we knew must come. On the morning of the fifteenth it came. It came from Château-Thierry along to Rheims. The first day we did not worry a great deal for we confidently felt that the Germans would never be able to cross the Marne as all the bridges had been blown up, but on the morning of the sixteenth day things were mighty blue. An American pursuit plane immediately after daylight, reported that the Germans had constructed pontoon bridges in different places and were already sweeping across the Marne.

This flight by a pursuit plane and the resulting information was, I think, unquestionably one of the greatest flights of the entire war. I did not learn until several days later who the aviator really was. No one seemed to know, nor could we find any record on the regular reports. The French Army Commander told me the source from which he had gotten this timely information as to the presence of the pontoons. It seems that General William Mitchell, who commanded all American Aviation at the Front, had been at the French Army Headquarters during the night of the fifteenth, getting the reports from the Front and making his aërial dispositions accordingly. An hour before daybreak on the morning of the sixteenth he left the French Headquarters and without telling any one his intended movements he drove his high-powered automobile, with all haste, to the American Pursuit Airdrome about fifty kilometers away. Climbing into a single place Spad, the General hastily drew out a pocket notebook and scribbled a few words to his chief of staff, and handed this note to his mechanic. Then the General headed his plane into the wind and with whirring motor sailed off into the somber darkness. At the first glimpse of dawn he was over Fere-en-Tardenois, fifteen miles within the German lines. He saw the glare of the village, but the usual whiteness of the roads was not there—they were of a greenish hue, like the morning mist surrounding them. It was hard to comprehend the magnitude of this view. Heading south for five miles, the roads presented the same aspect. From fifteen thousand feet the General swept down to three thousand. Here he could realize the awful fact of what was taking place below him—the whitened roads were green with the thousands of German troops driving on toward the Marne with the steadiness and determination of a huge caterpillar. On south he flew—the Germans were everywhere—infesting the whole salient like a plague of locusts. Reaching the Marne, it was certain the inevitable had happened—one, two, three, four, five—five pontoon bridges already across and the onrushing Huns were marching across in terrible precision.

It was singularly fortunate that the man who undertook this hazardous mission was a rare tactician and strategist. He realized the awful truth where the ordinary airman would not have conceived the possibilities of such a situation. The General knew that the biggest German Army ever concentrated was on the move in a final effort to intimidate and conquer the world.

He made a landing in a small wheat field at the French Army Headquarters. It would have been folly to go on to the American Airdrome for if ever seconds were golden this was the time. He told the supreme commander the extent of his observation and how far back the Germans were concentrated. It was realized that it would be absolutely inconceivable to attempt to hold back this advance by a frontal attack. There was only one thing to do—we must flank the German Army and force them to withdraw or be annihilated. This must be done within three days or the Germans would break the line of our armies and march unmolested to Paris, coming up and flanking our own Northern forces. Going to his own Headquarters, the General was handed the note he had written to his distinguished chief of operations, Captain Phil Roosevelt. It simply stated that if he did not return by eight o’clock that morning to notify Brereton to take command of the American Aviation at the Front. The distinguished Roosevelt had also been out doing some rough riding so the note had never reached his hands.

This flight of General Mitchell’s needs no comment—it was no less than wonderful, and when the flyers finally heard who had made it, our morale was strengthened one hundred per cent. We felt we had a fighting General sure enough.

The Germans continued their crossing on the sixteenth, sweeping on down toward Epernay on the seventeenth and on the night of the seventeenth it rained. It rained all night; and all night long, passing our headquarters were troops going up to the front; all night long we could hear their continuous tramping; the roads were hydraulically jammed with cannons, ammunition trains, supplies and troops. They were going to Château-Thierry. They were retreating from the south it seemed, but why did they come to this side of the salient? Why not stop the Germans by a frontal defense?

In a few hours we knew why for on the night of the seventeenth, at nine o’clock we received orders from General DeGouttes of the French Army that the French Army, in connection with the First American Army Corps, would attack all the way from Soissons to Château-Thierry in an effort to flank the German advance and would continue at any and all costs until the Germans were forced to withdraw from the salient or face annihilation.

The attack was to start at daybreak on the following morning. Then I heard of Mitchell’s flight and information. His recommendations had been concurred in by Marshal Foch and General Pershing. There was some activity in our headquarters. We got hold of our squadron and balloon commanders and ordered them to report immediately. By the time they all got there it was eleven thirty at night. Harwood was still up at the line where he had been all day in liaison with the line units. Brereton was over in conference with the Corps Commander, General Liggett. Lieutenant Mathis was busy getting out the necessary maps, so, I took the orders for the battle and, like a young Napoleon, I told the whole story and made the aërial dispositions for the first day. Fortunately the squadron and balloon units had already been assigned to the various line units and had made some arrangements. Of course, the suddenness of the attack, and the short time we had been there, had caused many details to be incomplete. I told them that they would still have to go up to the lines that night and see the units to which they were assigned in order to be on the job at daybreak. This was absolutely necessary and yet it did not seem that they could possibly be able to get there due to the roads being packed with the on-marching troops. It was a great question, but it was the only way possible. Ben Harwood, our liaison officer, saved the day, for he came in just as I was about to dismiss them. Ben had shown his natural initiative and resourcefulness, and had already been to every American unit. He had gotten the big news while still at the front lines and had, very fortunately, obtained all the necessary liaison information. Harwood took over the meeting, explained everything he had learned from the line units, and by one-thirty o’clock all the squadron and balloon commanders were on their way back to their organizations to get out the necessary orders and to see that the planes were at the lines at zero hour.

The rain stopped just before daybreak. It seemed that even the heavens were effecting a close, immediate and personal liaison with us, as Harwood would say. When the barrage lifted and the boys went over the top in America’s first big effort, they found there to cheer them and to assist them the drone of airplanes, upon the wings of which was painted the American cocarde. It was the real launching of American aviation—it was truly the beginning of the end.

We were tremendously handicapped by the shortage of pilots and observers and during the entire period of the offensive we were unable to get replacements for our casualties. In our office we were taking care of the transmission of every order pertaining to the Air Service, taking care of the aviation movements, issuing of instructions, getting out the necessary reports and information. Our office personnel consisted of Colonel Brereton, Lieutenant Harwood, Lieutenant Mathis and Sergeant “Spike” Marlin, of whom I cannot speak too highly for sticking to the job throughout that prolonged period. The boy was sick at the time, but knowing we had no one else, he stayed right with it and worked on the average of twenty hours a day for two weeks straight. I might incidentally say that all of the rest did the same. In fact, our real activities began when the Germans made their attack on the fifteenth and with our Shortage of personnel it was necessary that some one be on the job day and night. Our losses were terrible. It began to tell on me for I was losing all my dearest friends.

Tired and exhausted under this three days’ strain, in which we had about two hours sleep nightly, on the third day of our own drive, namely, the twentieth of July, at about ten in the morning, it was deemed necessary by the American and French High Commanders that a long distance reconnaissance should be made immediately in order to determine as near as possible the intention of the enemy. The Americans did not have an Army Reconnaissance Squadron at Château-Thierry at the time so the mission came to us for proper action.

I talked it over with Brereton and we agreed that in order to do the mission properly with full justice to every one concerned it would take not less than twenty-five planes and considering the distance of the mission, the time necessary in the air to complete it, and the supremacy of the air held by the Germans, based upon the average of our casualties, we decided we would lose not less than eight of these planes, with a minimum of sixteen officers.

But things were in a very peculiar situation. We had been temporarily stopped and it was necessary to find out whether the Germans intended to make a firm stand or whether their stand was only temporary, in order to give them time to withdraw their forces from the south. When we came to our decision we consulted the high command, telling them the number of planes it would take and what our minimum losses would be. We impressed upon them our already heavy casualties and how short we were of airplanes. The answer was that the importance of the mission would justify all losses should the desired information be gained.

At this answer I suddenly became a tactician and strategist. I hit Brereton with the suggestion that if we could find a pilot and an observer who were overloaded with “guts” and properly “hardboiled” and who did not care much for their lives, they might be able to get in fine by going very low and thus get the information. My idea was that if we went in with twenty-five planes this would be such a force that the Germans would be able to concentrate practically their entire Richtofen circus against us before we would have had time to make the large circuit assigned and get out, while if one plane went in, extremely low, several favorable suppositions might be possible; namely, the German Chasse Patrols, high in the heavens above, seeing a plane so far behind the line, would not think that it could possibly be other than a friendly plane; and being by itself, the anti-aircraft and the command reporting it would not call out so much pursuit as they otherwise would; and, furthermore, being alone the pursuit planes would not have so much chance of finding it. I agreed with Brereton that it was practically hopeless, but at the same time it was a long chance and as it was in the middle of the day, if this mission failed we could have another mission of the twenty-five planes required, in readiness to take off to perform the mission in compliance with the original plan. This large formation could leave as soon as definite news was obtained that the first plane had been shot down, or that it had failed to return after a reasonable time. Brereton laughed sarcastically and said, “That idea is just about as feasible as a single aviator trying to fly to Berlin, picking out the Kaiser from the rest of the squareheads and hitting him with a bomb.”

I accused him of being arbitrary for not giving valid reasons against the plan whereupon he sprang to his feet and puckering up in his singular way, exclaimed, “I am running this Air Service, Lieutenant, and I don’t need any suggestions from First Lieutenants.”

Tired and exhausted from lack of sleep, a court martial didn’t matter any more to me than five cents does to a millionaire, and Brereton, who had suffered the same loss of sleep and, of course, more serious irritation on account of his responsibility, did not care any more for a poor Lieutenant than an elephant does for a fly. The dog’s hair had been rubbed the wrong way for I reared up on my hind legs and began to paw air and it looked like the Corps Air Service was to have a slight disruption. I was so sore that I almost bawled. I hotly informed Brereton that if I was to hold the job of Operations Officer I intended to express my opinion, and if it wasn’t approved, he had a right to say so in a military manner, and in no other.

Then came my downfall. I raved on, “I’m getting good and tired of this proposition of being stuck up on one of these bullet-proof jobs when all my buddies are flying two and three times a day and getting killed,” and after a moment of silence, I continued, “I came over to be a fighter and I want to go to the Squadron and take my chances with the rest of them.”

Brereton was worn out and was in no mood to be irritated. “Well,” he sharply and decisively replied, “if you want to go down to the Squadron, go ahead, no one’s holding you.”

This made me more peevish than ever, for I had in some way or other acquired the idea that the Corps Air Service could not possibly exist without me. My pride was bruised forever. With even more irony he went on as if to leave no opportunity for a repetition of such bluffing on my part, “If you’re so hardboiled and brave, why don’t you tackle the mission you just outlined. Go ahead and win yourself the Croix de Bois (Cross of Wood).”

I was serious about the proposition; I was pretty sure of getting killed, but after that last sneering remark my decision was formed. Momentarily, I hated Lewis Hyde Brereton more than I ever hated any one in my life, but I knew his weakness, so, I was determined that we should die together.

“Well, why don’t you go on?” he hotly demanded.

It was up to me; I did not have the composure of a jack-rabbit, and I began to paw air again, pound the table and turn red, and said, “Well, Major L. H. Brereton, I’ll go, you know that, and I’ll get the information, but I can’t pilot a plane. I am the observer. If you will order,” and I accentuated “order,” “a pilot for me, there will be no further delay.”

I knew he would do it. He only needed to be brought to the psychological moment. I knew his big nature would not permit him to order any one on such a mission. Changing from his irritant, harsh and denouncing manner, his face registered the greatest possible human kindness and the merry twinkle in his eye told the world we were friends again.

“Well, Elmer,” he said, in a sharply pitched voice, which, however, carried deepest respect and utmost conviction, “we have never asked any one yet to do what we would not do ourselves. If you want to go on that mission, I’ll go with you.”

We hopped into Brereton’s motor car and were off to the airdrome. Mathis called the squadron and instructed them to have the command plane in readiness. On the way to the airdrome the trip was marked by a prolonged silence. We were not particularly fisty; at least, I was not, because I was beginning to realize the magnitude of our undertaking. It seemed to me that we were already making the flight. Just as a flyer keeps a cool and level head when actually engaged in a combat, even though at great odds, so, as we sped on, I did not feel any particular nervousness. It was not necessary to talk over the mission for Brereton knew as well as I what we were supposed to do, and the route we must take.

Arriving at the airdrome we found the plane ready. Only a few officers were on the field and to these we said nothing more than the ordinary greeting between flyers when leaving on a mission. We climbed into our places. Brereton played with the throttle for a few moments, then he turned around and in the usual way preparatory to taking off he asked, “All clear, Elmer?” I looked around to see if any other planes were in the air, whose landing might interfere with our taking off; seeing none, I answered as cheerfully as possible, “All O.K., Sir.” But he did not take off; he allowed the motor to idle away. Suddenly he turned his head and in a tone that indicated profound sincerity, and at the same time extreme uncertainty, he said, “Elmer, we’re a couple of boobs. We’ve got no business doing this job. If they do get us who in the devil is going to run this Air Service? Your darned hunch is all wrong this time.”

Here was a thought that had not entered my mind for we alone were familiar with every detail of the organization of the operations for the drive and our loss at that particular time would really have been felt. I personally felt it was too late then to change, but this was a question which I felt was up to the Chief himself to decide, so after thinking it over a moment I said, “Use your own judgment, Sir.” He hesitated a few seconds, then shrugged his shoulders and turned loose, “Well, I guess Bill Mitchell can handle it all right, and as he made that flight the other day by himself, I guess we, together, can make this one.” He pulled his goggles down over his eyes, hastily adjusted his helmet, motioned the mechanics to remove the blocks.

“All clear, Elmer?” he questioned.

“All clear, Sir,” I replied.

He gave her the gun and we were off. We headed straight over Coulommiers, to La Ferte sous Jouarre, which was the headquarters of the 1st U. S. Army Corps, and followed the Marne on to Château-Thierry. We lost no time in climbing, but in a steady path like the crow flies we went directly over the lines. We were only nine hundred feet high and every feature on the ground seemed to stand out perfectly. Our course carried us straight north along the road from Château-Thierry to Roucourt; from here we branched off toward Fere-en-Tardenois, and from Fere-en-Tardenois we hovered along the road to Grandes Loges and St. Remy. Leaving St. Remy we clung to the road leading north and finally reached Soissons. Banking to the right we skimmed along the River Vesle, searching the roads on both banks to Misy-sur-Aisne. We followed the Vesle down to Braisne and Fismes. At Fismes we were thirty kilometers within the German lines, and had reached our farthest objective; it was now only necessary to get out without being caught.

I cannot remember the exact route we took in getting out. I only remember that Brereton asked me at Fismes, which way home and I answered, “south with the wind.” I remember that we crossed the Marne again at Dormans and headed toward La Ferte to drop our message of information. In fact on the trip out I was not concerned with the route particularly—I knew that south meant home and we already had the information wanted, so, to me, life and happiness meant home by the shortest possible route.

ROUTE · COVERED · BY · ‘BRERETON’S · FAMOUS · FLIGHT’

In undertaking such a mission as this, that is, in being so far behind the lines without protection, I fully realized the utter futility of trying to concentrate my attention on the sky in search of enemy planes and at the same time do justice to the importance of the mission which would require practically constant attention to the ground. I quite well know that if we were caught so far back we would have no possible chance to get away with our lives, so, in my mind, it was of no importance to watch the sky. My watching the heavens would not help us from being seen, but at the same time, as we were carried along, I was also carried off with a multitude and variety of thoughts. About the biggest question I was attempting to solve was just how long I would last after a German patrol started after me. Then, I figured myself falling in flames. It is strange the many thoughts that will play upon one’s mind in similar circumstances. The sudden pangs of regret that you ever left the airdrome and even more sincere sorrow that you ever got into the Air Service; the wondering what the boys in the Squadron are doing, and how the folks back home are, and whether you will ever see them again, and what the preacher in the village church will say at your memorial services and whether the Commander of the Army will write your mother a nice letter of condolence and whether the girl who jolted you will be sorry; and you wonder what you would finally have turned out to be if you had not been killed, and other such trivial, little things; and the fact that you had wished you had burned all your letters before you left and a lot of little things you should have attended to before—for instance, on that flight I remembered that I was directed to call up the Corps Artillery Squadron and relieve them from two flights during that day. I brooded over the thought that if that Squadron went on with those flights and one of the flyers got killed how sorry I would be—how sorry I was that I had not attended to that before going out on this fool trip myself.

I was certainly thankful that I had $10,000 worth of Government life insurance and was wondering how my mother would get along on $57.50 per month for twenty years, and I wished I had taken out $20,000 worth in private life insurance instead of spending two hundred dollars last month in Paris. All these more serious thoughts were going through my mind, having practically no one dependent upon me and with only the expendable rank of First Lieutenant upon my shoulders, and then I thought of poor, old Brereton with a wife and two children, and a Major’s responsibility. Very shortly before this, Major Brown, in command of the 96th Squadron, had gotten lost in Germany and had landed with five other American planes and their crews, and this matter had occasioned unfavorable remarks as to his judgment. None of Brereton’s friends would ever be able to explain why, in his responsible position, he ever even started out on such a hazardous mission as this.

Well, I came to the conclusion that one has two brains—one constructive and the other retrospective, for actually while I was thinking all of those things I was at the same time intently watching the ground and carefully noting the location of all my information.

That trip, from a standpoint of a war panorama, was a sight-seeing tour of wonder. Imagine the solid and continuous barrage of thousands and thousands of shells bursting in a line for miles and miles, the barking cannons on each side, like so many ferocious dogs spitting fire, roads filled with on-marching troops, coming up in formation from both sides, walking as it were, into that veritable valley of death and destruction; the air filled with hostile planes and our whole safety depending upon the supposition of being alone and so far behind the lines that the Germans would not realize the presence of an enemy plane.

We must have seen between a total of seventy-five and one hundred German airplanes during the entire flight, for do not think that we kept our eyes glued to the ground all the time; at least I did not; and in one place we were so near a Boche airdrome that we saw the German planes on the field milling around about ready to buzz up after us. Yet even at such a low altitude we were only fired at once or twice by machine guns from the ground. At the front the machine guns were busy firing forward and in the rear there did not seem to be any available.

Our mission had been a long one and one of the few in which the crew can use their own judgment. So, when he circled over La Ferte, the Headquarters of the Corps, and dropped our message, we had not only stated the facts as we had seen them, but also our conclusions, taking the whole aspect as it presented itself.

When we got back to the field Brereton circled the field twice before he could land. He was considerably discomposed—personally, I was the living Wreck of the Hesperus. Brereton’s car was waiting and we rushed up to headquarters. The boys on the field were still ignorant as to where we had been and what we had done. Neither Brereton nor I said very much about the mission for we didn’t know whether we would be condemned for undertaking it or congratulated upon its successful completion. Of course, the line units around Corps Headquarters did not realize exactly the importance of such an undertaking, although I admit that Lieutenant Colonel Williams, whom we affectionately called “Houdini,” and who was in charge of G-2 Information Group, stated that night, at the nine o’clock conference, that it was good dope and whoever got it, he certainly wanted to congratulate them. Brereton kept closed like a clam, while the position of my mouth was not unlike an oyster. However, when the French Air Service Commander, Commandant Gerard, heard of it, and he knew of it almost immediately, he came right over and offered his congratulations and was very profuse in his praise. Then we began to think we had really done something. The French told General Mitchell about it and he came right up to Headquarters and patted me on the back. Brereton was out, but when General Mitchell did that I knew we had done something.

In a very short time came the famous order of the great French officer who commanded our Army—General De Gouttes. It was as follows:

SECRET

VIth Army       24 July 21h 50.

TELEPHONE ORDER.

The enemy is in retreat on all our front. I give the order to march without stopping in such a way as to lay hands upon the enemy, to accelerate his retreat and not to lose contact with him under any pretext.

DE GOUTTES.

136/G3       Headquarters 1st A. C.

24 July 1918.

Copy transmitted for your information and thorough compliance.

By Command of Major General Liggett:

MALIN CRAIG,

Chief of Staff.