Chapter II: Introduction (1)

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.