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 prefix2 to one’s name of “hardboiled.” The accepted meaning of this word varied3 with localities, but I did not like it even in its most liberal and favorable interpretation4.
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 crab5, who was so engrossed6 in himself and his big stick position that he was entirely7 oblivious8 to the feelings and rights of those he commanded. In other words, one who neither sought counsel nor 23permitted 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 flirted9 with death for the fun of it and who valued life somewhere between eight cents and two bits, war tax not included. I paraphrase10 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 parlor11 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 perfectly12 harmless bluffs13 being called since there was no possible opportunity at hand to demonstrate the modest announcements of their prowess. 24But 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 scatter14 broadcast promiscuous15 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 peculiar16 faculty17 of making immediately available full opportunity for demonstrating daring, bravery, or any other manly18 virtue19 that the newcomer claims as a part of his makeup20.
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 embryonic21 course of instruction at the schools. Just as soon as I had gotten to the squadron I began to hear wild rumors22 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 25whatsoever 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 destined23 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 instructors24 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 Majesty25, 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 considerably26 different. “Who 26in 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 spoke27 up, “Sir, I have a new observer reporting and would like to present him to you.”
“Lieutenant29 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 growl30, after a discomforting hesitation31, “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 skunk32 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 buck33 private in the Infantry34, for this was the most inconsiderate sort of a bruise35; it hurt me more, of course, because I was an officer and was wearing my pride on my coat sleeve. The only thing that bolstered36 me up was the fact that I had finally 27gotten 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 dressing38 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 rigid40 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?”
“Volunteered or was ordered to volunteer?” he queried42. This hurt for it had been strongly rumored43 28that in the selection of aerial observers, many line commanders had gotten rid of their undesirables44 by sending them to aviation—as observers.
His attitude showed plainly that I did not strike him at all well. I was still standing46 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 ebbed47 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 evade48 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 decided49 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 prosecutor50 when he finally forces an admission from the 29man 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!” 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 demonstration53 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 30verge of having it strangled by this man’s inconsideration. I could not endure the thought—my attitude changed in a moment—I determined54 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 legitimate55 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 entangling56 net. Sometimes it narrows down to only one way and if the captive fails to choose that one particular hazard out of a thousand plausible57 ones, he is out of luck. So it was, there was only one way to extricate58 myself from the web that Brereton had spun59 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 r?le of the hardboiled, man-eating cannibal, I right away cut out that “sir” stuff, took out my pipe and calmly started to fill it 31with “Bull Durham” tobacco, which was the only brand our little canteen had in stock, and we were really mighty60 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 apparently61 final decision either with tears or blasphemy62 or both. But just as the matador63 seeks to infuriate the bull by waving a red flag before slaughtering64 him, so Brereton seeing me about to fill my pipe with this well-advertised and justly celebrated65 brand of tobacco, ventured forth66.
“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 gore67 him or be stabbed myself by his waiting poniard of arrogance68.
“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 premature69 judgment70, just as you prematurely71 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 concur72 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 32and 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.
Fully39 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 obsolete73 type of French service plane, known as “A.R.’s”—Avion Renault—which in English meant “Renault Airplane.” 33The 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 prospect74 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 artillery75 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 specialized76 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 34Emerson, a fine, young fellow who was killed a couple of days later, and Captain “Deacon” Saunders, our Chief Observer.
Though I was not previously77 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 Liaison78, or Infantry Contact Patrol is the most hazardous79, 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, ammunition80 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
35There 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 sector81 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 trenches82 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 Jack84 Kennedy, who was one of our flight commanders, and who was in for anything new and exciting, so, we fixed85 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 trench83. It apparently was a relief going into place. The trench was unusually long and was not intersected by any other trenches for some length.
36“Those Germans are bringing up ammunition reinforcements for the battle,” I assumed. “They must be stopped!” The ammunition was soup.
I called Kennedy, pointed86 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, lumbering87 A.R. like a little fighting scout88. We came out of that dive with a quivering groan89, 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 gauged90 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 squads91; perhaps it was they who had killed my 37pals, 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 wireless92 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 obsolescence94 to obsolete. The application of proper psychology95 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 Ace37 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 justified96 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 puncture97. The next morning I noticed 38myself 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 reprisals98 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 adverse99 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.
39Shortly 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 coveted100 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 humbly101 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 40that 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 Wade102, the best Squadron Adjutant I have ever seen, and stated that I had been detailed as Acting103 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 extraordinarily104 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 logic93, 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 41not 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 42artillery 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 “Aviator105’s Lullaby,” which is the most rasping and exasperating106 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 concussion107 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 abrupt108 dive, released the throttle109, throwing the motor into full speed. And with one mighty jerk like the sudden release of a taut110 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 43be 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 underneath111 the rim52 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 muzzle112 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 stunned113 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 agility114 44of the ape riding the flying horse at the three-ringed circus.
I scrambled115 up on those machine guns, grabbed the rim of the cockpit and the brace116 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 numbness117. 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 flayed118 by sharp, burning, steel lashes119. 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 wreckage120, but the drone of the motor brought me to the realization122 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 obviating123 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 countenance124 changed from being horrified125 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 45was 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 possessed126 me to do it, but I gave a huge, roaring laugh that would have made the jovial127 laugh of the old southern mammy sound meager128 in comparison. Phil did not laugh, he only gave a sickly, sympathetic smile. The boy was thoroughly129 convinced that I had suddenly become insane—he had justification130 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 preyed131 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.
46“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 commendable132 on their part and it sorely tempted133 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 co?rdinates 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 perseverance134. 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 47the 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 fiddled135 around another half hour before we could find our airdrome. We finally landed and poor old Schnurr was a nervous wreck121. Pride forbids me from accurately136 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 48only 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, undoubtedly137, the best observation pilot on the entire front, and he went through the hard fighting at Chateau138 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 promotions139 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 accomplishments140, we were both 49cited 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 registration141 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 emoluments142 and incidental responsibility thrust upon me.
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1
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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prefix
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| n.前缀；vt.加…作为前缀；置于前面 | |
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3
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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5
crab
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| n.螃蟹，偏航，脾气乖戾的人，酸苹果；vi.捕蟹，偏航，发牢骚；vt.使偏航，发脾气 | |
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6
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10
paraphrase
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| vt.将…释义，改写；n.释义，意义 | |
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11
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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12
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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13
bluffs
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| 恐吓( bluff的名词复数 )； 悬崖； 峭壁 | |
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14
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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15
promiscuous
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| adj.杂乱的，随便的 | |
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16
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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17
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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18
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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19
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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20
makeup
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| n.组织；性格；化装品 | |
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21
embryonic
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| adj.胚胎的 | |
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22
rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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23
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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24
instructors
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| 指导者，教师( instructor的名词复数 ) | |
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25
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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26
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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27
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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28
irate
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| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
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29
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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30
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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31
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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32
skunk
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| n.臭鼬，黄鼠狼；v.使惨败，使得零分；烂醉如泥 | |
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33
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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34
infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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35
bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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36
bolstered
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| v.支持( bolster的过去式和过去分词 )；支撑；给予必要的支持；援助 | |
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37
ace
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| n.A牌；发球得分；佼佼者；adj.杰出的 | |
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38
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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39
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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40
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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41
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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42
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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43
rumored
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| adj.传说的，谣传的v.传闻( rumor的过去式和过去分词 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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44
undesirables
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| 不受欢迎的人，不良分子( undesirable的名词复数 ) | |
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45
bluffed
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| 以假象欺骗，吹牛( bluff的过去式和过去分词 )； 以虚张声势找出或达成 | |
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46
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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47
ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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48
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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49
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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50
prosecutor
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| n.起诉人；检察官，公诉人 | |
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51
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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52
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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53
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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54
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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55
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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56
entangling
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| v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的现在分词 ) | |
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57
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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58
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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59
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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60
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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61
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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62
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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63
matador
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| n.斗牛士 | |
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64
slaughtering
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的现在分词 ) | |
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65
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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66
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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67
gore
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| n.凝血，血污；v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破；缝以补裆；顶 | |
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68
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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69
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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70
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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71
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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72
concur
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| v.同意，意见一致，互助，同时发生 | |
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73
obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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74
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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75
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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76
specialized
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| adj.专门的，专业化的 | |
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77
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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78
liaison
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| n.联系，（未婚男女间的）暖昧关系，私通 | |
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79
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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80
ammunition
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| n.军火，弹药 | |
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81
sector
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| n.部门，部分；防御地段，防区；扇形 | |
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82
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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83
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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84
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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85
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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86
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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87
lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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88
scout
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| n.童子军，侦察员；v.侦察，搜索 | |
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89
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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90
gauged
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| adj.校准的；标准的；量规的；量计的v.（用仪器）测量( gauge的过去式和过去分词 )；估计；计量；划分 | |
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91
squads
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| n.（军队中的）班( squad的名词复数 )；（暗杀）小组；体育运动的运动（代表）队；（对付某类犯罪活动的）警察队伍 | |
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92
wireless
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| adj.无线的；n.无线电 | |
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93
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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94
obsolescence
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| n.过时，陈旧，废弃 | |
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95
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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96
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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97
puncture
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| n.刺孔，穿孔；v.刺穿，刺破 | |
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98
reprisals
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| n.报复（行为）( reprisal的名词复数 ) | |
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99
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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100
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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101
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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102
wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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103
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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104
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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105
aviator
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| n.飞行家，飞行员 | |
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106
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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107
concussion
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| n.脑震荡；震动 | |
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108
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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109
throttle
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| n.节流阀，节气阀，喉咙；v.扼喉咙，使窒息，压 | |
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taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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113
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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114
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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115
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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116
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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numbness
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| n.无感觉，麻木，惊呆 | |
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118
flayed
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| v.痛打( flay的过去式和过去分词 )；把…打得皮开肉绽；剥（通常指动物）的皮；严厉批评 | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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120
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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obviating
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| v.避免，消除（贫困、不方便等）( obviate的现在分词 ) | |
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124
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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125
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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128
meager
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| adj.缺乏的，不足的，瘦的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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130
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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131
preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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commendable
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| adj.值得称赞的 | |
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133
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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135
fiddled
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| v.伪造( fiddle的过去式和过去分词 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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138
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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139
promotions
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| 促进( promotion的名词复数 )； 提升； 推广； 宣传 | |
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140
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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registration
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| n.登记，注册，挂号 | |
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emoluments
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| n.报酬，薪水( emolument的名词复数 ) | |
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