Part 3

This was the gist of my thoughts when I suddenly looked down at the panels and saw a huge “Y” displayed. I did not pay much attention to the “Y” but I saw Jones’ plane taking a steep spiral toward the earth. I did not call the attention of my pilot to it because I thought “Y” was something usual, meaning, perhaps, that the signals were not understood so Jones was going down low to get closer to the battery in order that his wireless could be heard, but Jones kept going right on down near the battery and finally kept circling around close by at about three hundred feet altitude. I looked around and did not pay any great heed; I thought Jones would soon climb up again. In a few moments I saw the battery take in their “Y” and put it out again; take it in and put it out, as if to attract my attention. Then I saw them running back and forth with individual panels in different directions, which had a sort of cinema effect. Then they brought out double panels and made a great, huge “Y.” Then I thought “Y” must mean something if they were making all that fuss about it, so I thought “Y”—“Y”—“Y”—“Y.” It was a memory test for me. I felt I should remember some of those panels and here was the chance to think clear and quick. I went through the various fake memory courses I had taken and tried in every way to determine the meaning of “Y,” so after trying to figure it out by the law of association, the law of likeness of sound, the law of impress and five other such hopeless laws I began to regret that I had paid so much for that memory course. Then I casually took out my map chart to find out what “Y” meant. As I ran slowly down the list of signals I came to “Y” and looking across it I saw “Attention! Ennemi avion pres de vous,” which in English means “Look out! Enemy plane close to you.” I thought I did not know French but I certainly acquired it with the speed of lightning. I dropped my map board like a shot, jumped up in my cockpit, grabbed my machine guns, released the tourelle, and whether I knew anything about that tourelle or not, it followed me as I spun around three times in a complete circle of three hundred and sixty degrees with the speed of a ballet dancer—I was bent on getting anything near me. I stopped—looked frantically at the pilot, expecting to find him dead. He had turned around to find out what the rumpus was about. I did nothing but to give him a sickly smile for I had nothing else to give. They had a signal commonly used among observers to describe a cross with the forefinger and point when the observer saw a German plane, but this was among the thousand things I had not learned about aerial observation. So, he went on, straight flying, just aimlessly drifting on.

I gradually calmed myself and looked into the sky above me and I saw seven airplanes which were hidden from the view of the pilot on account of the position of the wing above him. I was quite sure from the lectures I had had in America from instructors who had never been at the Front, that one could easily distinguish an enemy airplane by the huge black cross that is painted all over it, and so I skimmed my eyes over them trying to discern the cross. I could not, and yet the airplanes stayed about six hundred meters above me and kept on circling around. I decided that I was being duped and that there was some under my tail, so I hung my anatomy over the fuselage and after a hasty examination I was convinced that the only airplanes in that sky, except our own, were the seven above me, and Jones, who was down by the battery still circling around. I looked down at the panels and they were still frantically waving that “Y” and peering at the planes above me I saw that they were still circling around. I did not know what to do. In fact, I did not do anything for fully thirty seconds, except to watch those planes, but they did not make any sudden maneuvers or show any inclination to attack. I looked down again and they were still putting out that big “Y” and my pilot was just floating along as if nothing had ever happened; in fact he had never seen the panels and was not paying any attention, having undoubtedly an abundance of confidence in the ability of the American observer, and as I could not disappoint him in his splendid judgment as to my ability I just used my perfectly splendid logic and decided that if they were German planes they certainly would have attacked me before this time, and since they had not attacked, they could be no other than French; and the solution was that the battery had probably received notice from the Squadron Commander that there was a green observer up and so they were undoubtedly flashing this “Y” trying to play a joke on me, believing that I would run home, and thinking, perhaps, that I had not seen Jones go down in his rapid spiral. So, I decided to show them that they could not fox me and I just stayed up there, floating around. After I had stayed up there for about fifteen minutes Jones pulled out for home, and when I saw him shoot off in that direction I decided that perhaps the signal had been changed and “Y” meant that “there is no further need for you,” and that they were just trying to attract my attention so that we would start home. I decided I would not show any more ignorance than I had and would say nothing of the incident.

So we went home and I felt pretty good that I was in sight of the airdrome again and still alive and that nothing unusual had happened after all. Jones got there about five minutes ahead of me. Meanwhile the battery had called up the Squadron and told them that the observer in that second plane was either the bravest man they had ever seen or the biggest idiot, that he had stayed up there daring seven Germans to attack him single handed, while they had toiled feverishly for fifteen minutes with “Y’s” and double “Y’s” trying to give him warning and that his utter disregard of their signals had so unnerved the crew that fifty per cent. would be sick for a week. So, of course, the entire flying personnel, including Adjutants, Sergeants, Corporals, Lieutenants and Aspirants (Cadets) were there, as well as the Capitaine, to meet and greet us. Jones, of course, had gotten out and also told them about our narrow escape from the seven Huns and you can imagine the excitement and ejaculating of a bunch of Frenchmen when anything so preposterous as this should happen, especially with a new American who as yet was untried in valor on the battlefields of France.

They were thoroughly convinced that I was an unusually hardboiled soldier and that I had just dared the Germans to come down, and knew all the time that they were Germans and that I was really seeking a fight with the seven. Imagine the reception—they all ran up to the plane, double time, including the rather heavy Captain, waving their hands and shouting, but their remarks were so jumbled that I could not grasp the entire meaning. They all came up and shook my hand and patted me on the back and said “Bravo!” “Tres Fort!” and “Vive l’Americain!” and a lot of other stuff. I was not much excited about it because I thought perhaps that was customary as it was my first trip. Then, just as suddenly as if they were waiting to hear a pin drop, everything became quiet, and they demanded my story. Strangely enough I was perfectly convinced that we had done nothing wrong, so I asked one of the Lieutenants who spoke a little English to tell me what it was all about. He threw his head back in great surprise and demanded in low tones, “Did you not see those seven planes above you?” I quietly answered, “Certainly, I saw those seven planes,” for I did. Then he continued in the same low voice, “And did you not see the battery putting out the ‘Y’ with the panels?” I said, “Certainly!” Everybody and everything was as quiet as death, and then the light began to come to me just as the sun’s rays so suddenly and rapidly dispel a fog, and I knew exactly what the next question was going to be. He said, “Those were German planes, didn’t you know it?” At those words I almost faded away but this was the real time for a little “emergency” drama, so I assumed the rôle of a modern Daniel emerging from the Den and shrugging my shoulders with a very much emphasized forward motion of the chest, I bellowed, “Sure, I knew they were Germans all the time. I didn’t run (emphasizing “I”) because I wanted to say I had shot down some Boche on my first trip over the lines.” Their fond expectations of the bravery of the Americans and incidentally my prowess were met. They were proud of their new ally. Then came many cries of “Bravo! Bravo!” and indiscreet whispers of “Croix de Guerre,” and we all went home, with the American Sky Spy about the most popular fellow he has ever been.

That night we had a real banquet at which I bought the champagne and the red wine. While we were celebrating I was going over the whole matter and long before I went home that night I realized that it was more than luck and a “handful of Marines” that had saved me from those seven Huns. It was manifest destiny, for I found that the reason those German planes did not attack when they had me cold was that one of the aerial tactics in vogue at that time, was to send one plane low as I was, with a strong pursuit patrol high in the clouds above so that when the enemy attacked the lower plane the pursuit planes high above could dive on the enemy, thus having the great advantages of position, speed and surprise. The seven Huns thought I was a dupe—I was, but not the kind they thought. Mine was a case of ultra-distilled beginner’s luck.

II HARDBOILED

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lieutenant Haslett, Sir,” replied Captain Saunders.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s your name?” he commanded.

“Lieutenant Haslett, Sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“None, Sir.”

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

“None, Sir,” I said meekly enough.

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

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

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

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

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.”