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HONOR MEDAL FOR U. S. SAILOR

FIRST AWARD GOES TO OHIO MAN WHO SAVED

BALLOON PILOT

Washington, Nov. 12.—The first naval medal of honor awarded during the present war was announced by Secretary Daniels to-day as the reward of Dennis O'Hara, who rescued the pilot of a kite balloon which was struck by a squall in the submarine zone.

The balloon was being used for observation purposes by a United States cruiser. The pilot was saved by O'Hara from the submerged basket of the balloon.

When is a hero not a hero? Do you know, if there is any one thing this war has proved to all of us, it is the fact that every man jack of us has a large and totally unsuspected slice of courage tucked away within him somewhere. We never used to think so. We used to suppose that the ability to be brave in the face of death was a great gift granted only to a chosen few.

Do you remember wondering how such heroes came to be born as the men of the "Light Brigade," who rode without a quiver straight into the jaws of hell? We read in our history books of Perry and Farragut, or we heard the veterans of the battles of Lake Erie and Mobile Bay tell the stirring tales. I used to suspect that these men, whose names went ringing down the halls of time, were of different stuff somehow—a sort of super-caliber—I never thought to see the day when the greatest deeds of fearlessness, of self-sacrifice, would be performed on the field of honor by the butchers and bakers and candlestick-makers of this country.

Take a clerk who has toiled at his desk for ten long years. He is afraid of death because he has time to be, but close up his books and dry his pen and let him join the army or navy—build him up—make his white blood red and send him on a destroyer or order him over the top—afraid of death! not much he isn't!—too intent on launching a depth charge or sniping a Hun to think about it.

Besides, once you get used to the idea that every minute may be your last you don't seem to mind it. You rather relax and you don't worry; you obey orders and stand by—and you are determined to be as game as the next fellow when the Great Call comes.

Heroism is a large word for all this. It is just a part of the day's work. That's what I like best about the youngsters in this war who have done deeds of bravery that can stand up beside any acts performed in the days gone by. They are indignant if you praise them. Yes, they are. They tell you impatiently that what they have done anyone else would do. Perhaps it is true. I guess so. But you have to let it go at that. They won't stand your making much of them. Not by a long shot.

Take the case of the boy on our ship. He was a capable chap, who went about his duties without attracting a bit of attention. Just one of those splendid cogs in the war machine—a Chief Petty Officer, who wasn't looking for glory or honor medals, but was just doing his job to the best of his ability.

Our trip over had been without thrills, unless you work up one on your own by wondering how it happens with the number of ships at sea minus a light there are so very few collisions. That always interested me. I remember one black night when we were shipping seas over the fo'ca'sle that were sending sprays to the bridge. The darkness hung about us like a velvet curtain. As far as we knew we were the one and only bark afloat on the whole Atlantic, and yet when dawn broke, we sighted a convoy going east. If it hadn't been for pure Yankee luck she might have been in the same latitude as we were. Had the meeting come a few hours earlier or our course been a trifle different the results might never have been told.

But that is side-stepping my story, isn't it? We had an observation balloon attached to our ship, which we flew with considerable success during the first part of the voyage. We were nearing the point where we expected to join the vessels sent out from France to meet us, and as the captain wanted the balloon to be aloft that morning, she was sent up a good bit earlier than usual.

It was a squally, rainy morning—the sort you expect in the North Atlantic. The sea was rough, and I suppose we were making about thirteen and a half knots. There was considerable wind on our starboard bow.

In the balloon basket was a young officer. He understood managing the big bag, so we sent him up about a thousand feet. We passed through a rain squall and the balloon rode that tip-top. He telephoned to the officers below that he'd like to stay up for a while as the wind seemed to be dropping.

About a half-hour later we entered another rain squall. It was a nipping cold one—far colder than the first. The combination of chilled rain and strong wind was too much for the balloon. First thing we knew the bag had crumpled up like a crushed-in derby. And, before you could say "Jack Robinson," down she flashed like a shot, her buoyancy gone, and the little basket suspended about fifty feet below her, riding the crest of the big waves like a tub.

Inside the basket, busy as the busiest bee that ever came out of a hive, was that young officer, throwing out ballast as fast as the good Lord and his right arm would let him.

It had the desired effect. Up rose the balloon, until it climbed to about five hundred feet, but with its ballast gone it was like a kite without a tail—a wild balloon at the mercy of the wind. That was a sight you did not soon forget! All hands were on deck staring up with bated breath—a few tried to shout advice, but the gale drowned out their voices and the boy in the basket was far too busy hanging on for his life to heed us.

The facts of the case were that he was virtually a prisoner, with the ropes so twisted about the basket, as it swung on high in its fantastic dance of death, that he could not have saved himself if he would. We didn't get onto that at first. We rather expected to see him shoot like a projectile through the air. It certainly seemed to us that he must be the one exception to the law of gravitation, for by all rights he should have been hurled earthward at least a hundred times by that careening, dipping kite. And as it swung and lunged and turned over on itself in wild contortions it reminded me of a mad beast tugging frantically at its leash to be free.

There was only one chance of saving him and that chance was a small one against the almost certain sacrifice of many lives. To stop the ship was the one chance, but a ship with engines dead in the war zone is a first-class target for the subs, and I can tell you that any man with the responsibility of hundreds of lives on his shoulders is loathe to give the order. But the sight of that pitching, rearing devil, with its fragile cargo—one human life—was a sight no man could well resist, and the captain finally gave the order to slow down.

We went aft. The balloon hung over our port quarter, and, as we drew it toward the ship, we got hold of a trailing line from the nose of the bag. The big kite came docilely enough, as though it were tired of the game it had been playing and was sorry for the damage it had done. But the basket, with the man inside, was in the water, half submerged and in great danger of going down before help could possibly reach him.

Now here is where the hero part of the story comes in. It was so quietly done that we did not know, until we saw a man flash over the side of the ship and down one of the basket lines, that a rescue was being attempted.

The ship still had headway and the sea was running high, neither of which argued well for any chap trying to save a human being caught fast in a maze of rope.

The basket was three-quarters submerged. The boy inside was played out and could offer no help, but the C. P. O., clinging fast to his bobbing goal, went to work with his knife and a singleness of purpose that no mere raging sea could shake. He hacked away at the imprisoning ropes, his teeth clenched, and at last crawled into the basket and got a bowline under the officer's shoulders. We hoisted him aboard, and while we were doing it, the C. P. O. clambered up to the rail, where eager hands drew him over.

But he did not want our praise. It embarrassed him. What he wanted most of all was to get into dry clothes and to go about his duties. Hero! He grinned at the word. Just the same, that is what he was—a real American boy with steady nerves and quick eye and plenty of pluck. Oh, yes, there are lots of heroes at large these days, but they do hate like the very dickens to have you call them that to their face.