Читать книгу Luck on the Wing: Thirteen Stories of a Sky Spy - Elmer Haslett - Страница 6

Table of Contents

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lieutenant Haslett, Sir,” replied Captain Saunders.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s your name?” he commanded.

“Lieutenant Haslett, Sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“None, Sir.”

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

“None, Sir,” I said meekly enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s cracked open,” he answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HEADQUARTERS 26TH DIVISION AMERICAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE

France, September 17, 1918.

GENERAL ORDERS

No. 78

Extract

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

C. R. Edwards,

Major General, Commanding.

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