Part 1

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LUCK ON THE WING _Thirteen Stories of a Sky Spy_

BY ELMER HASLETT

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

NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 681 FIFTH AVENUE

COPYRIGHT, 1920. BY E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY

_All Rights Reserved_

Printed in the United States of America

TO MY MOTHER

SOME WORDS IN EXPLANATION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ELMER HASLETT, Major, Air Service United States Army Washington, February, 1920.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION BY GEN. WILLIAM MITCHELL xxiii

CHAPTER PAGE

I. BEGINNER’S LUCK 1

II. HARDBOILED 22

III. MY FIRST SCRAP 50

IV. BRERETON’S FAMOUS FLIGHT 73

V. TROUBLES ON THE GROUND 99

VI. THE WILD RIDE OF A GREENHORN 121

VII. EILEEN’S INSPIRATION 139

VIII. DOWN AND OUT AND IN 163

IX. THE COURT OF INQUIRY 192

X. BECOMING KULTURED 219

XI. ESCAPED ALMOST 238

XII. THE PRIVILEGES OF PRISONERS 253

XIII. “COMING OUT” 276

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

GEN. WILLIAM MITCHELL, COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE AMERICAN AIR FORCES, AT THE FRONT _Frontispiece_

FACING PAGE

AN OPERATION ROOM OF AN AMERICAN SQUADRON AT THE FRONT, SHOWING BATTLE MAPS, WAR PLANS AND PHOTOGRAPHS 34

THE VILLAGE OF VAUX ON THE DAY PRECEDING THE BATTLE OF VAUX 74

THE VILLAGE OF VAUX DURING THE BATTLE OF VAUX, JULY 1, 1918 78

TANKS GOING INTO ACTION, AND TRACKS LEFT BY THEM 128

PAGNY-SUR-MEUSE, SHOWING PRISONERS CAPTURED BY THE AMERICANS AT ST. MIHIEL 154

A CAPTURED GERMAN PHOTOGRAPH SHOWING AMERICAN PRISONERS 200

COLONEL BRERETON, MAJOR HASLETT AND OTHERS BEING DECORATED AT COBLENZ 296

INTRODUCTION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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