One of the greatest experiences an observer can have is to take a new pilot over the lines for his first trip; in other words, “break him in.” I had sort of specialized in this work in the early days in quiet sectors, but when I was sent up to the Argonne sector it was for an entirely different mission. I had long since gotten past this preliminary stage. The object of my being there was to carry on adjustments of artillery on the moving enemy targets, for I had been giving a great deal of attention to this special work all through our experiences at Chateau-Thierry and Saint Mihiel. At the opening of the Argonne drive on the 26th of September my position was that of Operations Officer for the Corps Observation Wing of the First Army. It seemed that the development of artillery adjustments on fugitive targets had sort of been overlooked, so General Mitchell, who was then Chief of Air Service of the First Army, began to realize the importance of this work and decided that it should be given more attention. Of course, it was strictly a Corps Observation mission, and so he passed the order down to Brereton 122and Brereton, of course, passed the “buck” on to me, for the buck never passes up—it’s always down. It was an important matter, especially for the coming drive, and no satisfactory method of carrying on this work had yet been worked out, so I proposed to Brereton that I be authorized to visit each of the Corps of the First Army during the drive in order to carry on this work; then I could compile the proper manual for future guidance of our observers. The big three, consisting of General Mitchell, Colonel Milling and Major Brereton, all approved, and so I went first to the 5th Corps, whose airdrome was at Foucoucourt, arriving there on September 25th, about six o’clock in the evening. The big Argonne-Meuse drive was to begin the next morning at daybreak.
The Corps Air Service Commander, Colonel Arthur Christie, and the Group Commander, Major Joe McNarney, and I had a talk about the entire situation. They decided that I should work with the Hybrid Squadron, which consisted of a Flight of the 104th Squadron and a Flight of the 99th Squadron under the command of Lieutenant Jeff Davis. The Operations Officer was Lieutenant Britton Polly, whom I knew quite well in the Observers’ School, so I told Davis that I would like to take one of the first missions the next morning, in order that I might get an early start on my fugitive target ideas.
Polly told me the situation—they were up against it, as they had several new pilots who had never been over the front, so he wanted to know if I would help him out by taking one of the new ones over. Ordinarily 123there is not much opportunity to do real work when “breaking in” a green pilot, and although I knew this would detract from my chances for success, I agreed.
That night I worked quite late preparing a very complete chart, showing the location of all our batteries on the map, their radio call codes and a miniature picture of each battery’s panels. I knew that the batteries would soon be on the move, and my scheme of adjustment had for its object the ability to call any battery which had halted temporarily, whether its location was permanent or not.
I got on the field about eight o’clock the next morning and walked over to the Operations Room of the 104th Squadron to find my pilot, who, for the purposes of this story, we will call “Lieutenant Greenhorn.” Inside the hut I found a tall, slender, effeminate looking chap talking to Britton Polly. I was unnoticed by either. The lad was inquiring as to this new guy, Haslett, who was supposed to fly with him at nine o’clock. I heard him tell Polly that as it was his first trip over the lines he demanded an old and experienced observer to take him over. Since he didn’t know me, he said, and had never seen me, he would rather have one of his own squadron go over with him, as he would have more confidence in some one whose experience he knew. Polly, who was a sort of hardboiled war horse, told him that he wouldn’t find any observers in the American Service who were more experienced than Haslett and that he had better take me while the taking was good.
124After “Greenhorn” left I had a good laugh over the matter with Polly and then I followed the lad to his room, went in, and disclosed my identity. He was noticeably nervous and made me a confession that he had had very little flying and that he really had no business being at the Front; and, as this was his first trip over, he didn’t want to stay long and wanted to know how it felt to be up there, and what to do when he was attacked, and what to do when the enemy anti-aircraft artillery shot him, what to do if his motor failed him over the lines, and a lot of such odd and foolish questions. My experience with Phil Schnurr on his first flight made me leary. I didn’t object to taking a man over the lines for the first time so long as he knew how to fly well, but when a man did not even have confidence in his ability to fly—well, it was a very different matter. I was not seeking any thrills—observing had become a business with me, so I felt very much like refusing to fly with him, but on afterthought it came to me that perhaps this lad was not such a bad sort after all and maybe it was just his modesty and timidity that caused him to talk so disparagingly of his ability. At any rate, if he was going over, for his own good I would take a chance and try to start him right.
I proceeded with a story something like this (the same that I told all the new pilots I ever took over the lines for their first trip):
“The pilot in an observation plane is, in one sense, the chauffeur. On account of the fact that communication between the pilot and the observer is ordinarily 125very poor, we refer to the pilot as the horse, for he must be guided, and for that reason we append to his arms directly under the armpits two pieces of twine, string or cord which we extend back to the observer. The observer holds the reins. The observer is given the mission to perform and, while he expects the utmost voluntary co?peration of the pilot, when it comes to any matter of tactical decision the observer’s word is final; for instance, in this flight, should we see five planes and decide to attack them, I would simply give the word and you would direct the plane toward them; or if we are attacked by them I would give the word whether to dive toward the ground and run from the enemy or stay and fight it out; or should I see a machine gun nest on the ground which was holding up our advancing troops, should I decide to go down and destroy that machine gun nest it is your duty to direct your plane down on the machine gun nest even though you know it is certain death. The observer points out the direction in which he wants to go, how long he wants to stay there, how long he wants to stay at the line, and, in fact, is the commander of the plane. As I said before, he is the holder of the reins.
“Now, there is only one exception to this, and that is when something is mechanically wrong with the airplane. For instance, if the engine is failing or if a strut is broken, or if flying wires are destroyed—in such a case the pilot becomes responsible for the command of the plane. The fear of failing to hear clearly the directions given by the observer through 126the speaking tube is the reason we have the lines to guide the pilot like a horse, and when the observer wants to go up he points up and when he wants to go down he points down; and should he want to go to a certain place he would point to that place. It is a sort of mental telepathy which is expressed in a sign language and is ordinarily easily understood, so don’t worry—just pay close attention and don’t lose your head and you will get along all right, for after all, flying over the front is not so full of thrills as one ordinarily is led to believe, and whether you live over your allotted twenty hours over the lines depends largely upon your ability and good luck and watchfulness.”
“Greenhorn” took it all in and said he understood fully. After quite a little delay in getting a serviceable airplane we finally made a stab at getting off. I told Greenhorn to take me to a little town called Avocourt, which was in No-Man’s-Land, and I carefully pointed it out to him on the map. Of course, Avocourt had been destroyed by shell fire and nothing remained but the ruins of the town, but they were plainly discernible from the air. I tested out my wireless and everything was O. K., so I motioned for him to head on up to the lines. I paid very little attention to the ground, intending to sort of take it easy until we got to Avocourt, thus getting a general idea of the lay of the country over which we were flying. I instructed him to let me know by shaking the plane when he came to Avocourt. He seemed to be flying along in good shape so I didn’t concern myself 127with our location until he finally shook the plane. He pointed down to an extremely large city and motioned his lips “Avocourt.” I looked down below me and recognized very well the historic city of Verdun, as I had flown over this sector one time with the French in the early days. I shook my head and pointed toward Avocourt. “Greenhorn” had missed Avocourt only by about fifteen kilometers. However, the kid was insistent and nodded his head in affirmation of his own decision and he pointed to his map again and pointed down and said “Avocourt.” I swelled out my chest and pointed to myself to impress upon him the lesson that I was running the plane as per our previous conversation and that he was to go in the direction pointed without further argument. He hastily acquiesced and turned the plane in that direction, and from that time on I used the cords attached to his arms to guide him. When we got over Avocourt I attracted his attention, pointed down and said “Avocourt.” He gazed down at the shattered ruins of what was once a town, but said nothing. However, his eyes and face expressed very well the fact that he would never have recognized Avocourt from her photograph. I couldn’t blame him, for from the air a ruined town is highly deceptive and unless one had flown over that sector he could not realize that the effect of artillery destruction could be so complete. In a moment he gave some sort of a shrug of his shoulders to indicate that he was entirely lost, so I signaled to him and gave him his directions. Then, taking my map, I pointed north 128and said “Montfaucon,” which is easily distinguished from the air for miles, being situated on the crest of a very high hill. “Greenhorn” immediately headed toward Montfaucon, thinking that perhaps I had pointed toward that town with the intention of going there. I did not have this in mind, but since one place was just about as good as another until we found a target I let him go.
 
Tanks going into action, and the tracks left by them
129Just over Montfaucon we were opened up on by the German anti-aircraft artillery. I heard a heavy thud under our tail and at once the plane began to side-slip and quiver. The “Greenhorn” was badly frightened and began looking in every direction. Then his eyes fell on me and I have never seen the equal of the expression on his face when he saw me laughing. He did not realize the significance until I pointed to the anti-aircraft bursts, which were fully three hundred yards behind us. I assured him that everything was O. K. and he had done well. That put him a little more at ease. After a while I spied a splendid target, so I started him back toward the line so that we could call our batteries. We then played over our own lines for about an hour, as we were having a great deal of trouble in getting any batteries to answer, since they had all started to move up farther to support the fast advancing doughboys. I didn’t know whether “Greenhorn” appreciated that ride or not, but believe me, that sight was beautiful. The heretofore impassable region known as No-Man’s-Land was now converted to Every-Man’s-Land, for the whole shell riddled section was simply covered with the advancing American doughboys—in trenches, shell holes, everywhere. The mighty tanks were slowly plugging and lumbering along over the shell holes and we could easily see our most advanced lines, the troops deploying, the German machine gun crews at their nests vainly attempting to hold back the advancing infantry, and farther back we could see the retreating Germans, their supply trains, artillery and convoys. I marked down the location of our advance units, as this was important information, and told “Greenhorn” to fly north. As we circled over Montfaucon to the west we drew a very heavy machine gun fire from the Bois de Beuges, which had put several holes in the plane, and since “Greenhorn” was getting more and more unsteady in his flying I thought it well for our own safety and comfort to get a little better altitude, so I motioned up and “Greenhorn” started a steep climb right off the bat. Of course, I ............