Chapter C: R. Edwards, (1)

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.

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.

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.