Eddie Rickenbacker told me a story while we were a part of the Army of Occupation which about expresses my idea of this narrative, the fact that I lived through it being what I consider my greatest accomplishment. “Rick” had in his famous 94th Pursuit Squadron, a hair-lipped pilot with whom I was earlier associated in the equally prominent 12th Observation Squadron. This lad was one of the few of our many airmen who realized that the flyer at the front plays ninety per cent in luck and not on good judgment. His flying was daredevilish and reckless, which, while it might be considered good form in pursuit work, was such that it involved entirely too great a risk for the two-place, or observation plane. So, the kid was transferred to Pursuit where he made good right off.
It was the day of the Armistice. The boys were talking it all over, reminiscing and the like. Several of the famous pilots of the 94th had given accounts of some particular thrilling fight in which they had finally won, naming it—their greatest accomplishment of the war. So, as that was the topic of conversation, 164Eddie asked our friend what, after all, he considered his greatest accomplishment. The boys all listened attentively for the kid usually sprang something. The hair-lipped lad puzzled for a moment, then answered with his inimitable impediment, “Well, Captain Rickenbacker, the war is now over, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” replied Eddie, hopeful that this was the correct reply.
“——which means no one else will get killed, doesn’t it?” he added solemnly, and Rick solemnly attested to this fact. “Well,” the lad went on, “you see me; I’m still here.”
“That’s right!” said the great Ace of Aces. “What about it?”
“Well, Captain Rickenbacker,” replied the boy with evident surprise at Eddie’s apparent density. “Look me over, Captain, I’m still alive. That is my greatest accomplishment.”
And after all, I am sure that all of our fighting men who have done actual service at the front—going through its hazards and dangers for any length of time, will agree that their greatest accomplishment is the fact that they came out of the thing alive; for while the code of military ethics at the front taught that one’s own life should be secondary to the accomplishment of one’s mission, yet there could not help but be a justifiably selfish pride after the mission was accomplished, that the participant was also alive to tell the tale.
The 30th of September was a terrible day—there 165was very little flying, it was foggy and the clouds were low, irregular and uncertain, while the wind was almost a gale. We had no business going out—our over-anxiety, which the French say is the greatest fault of the American soldier, to get our work accomplished was the only justifiable reason for the trip.
But even at that on the morning of September 30th the Flying Corps had no reason for being in the air unless the mission was of grave urgency, and fortunately ours was urgent for I was still adjusting our artillery on important enemy moving targets. Here is how my greatest accomplishment happened:
I arrived at the hangars shortly after daybreak and found Davis, who was assigned to fly with me, ready and waiting. I had never flown with him before, but I had heard of him and his reputation, and it was a relief to know I was to get a genuine pilot, such as Lieutenant Raymond Davis, whom we called “Uncle Joe Davis, of Danville,” since he hailed from the same well-known town as Uncle Joe Cannon.
At first, the weather was impossible, so, we had to wait for the atmosphere to clear a trifle and for the clouds to lift some, as a high ceiling in heavy artillery adjustments is not only advantageous but necessary. So, we hung around and hobnobbed and got acquainted. At about eight o’clock we decided we would try it—for the importance of impeding the retreat of the enemy as much as possible was imperative. The advance through the Argonne was 166proving itself to be a hard enough tussle for the doughboys, and we all felt that they certainly merited all the assistance it was possible for aviation to give them.
Luck was not our way, for it was not until after trying four different planes, all of which failed for one reason or another, that we found a bus that would buzz. It looked like an off-day, for the gale was so sweeping that we almost had a serious accident even in taking off. There is safety in height, so, when we got up three or four hundred feet our morale also went up a trifle. The ground station signaled that my radio wireless was O.K., so I jokingly called to Davis, “All aboard for Hunland.” He answered “Check,” and we headed toward the line for our last mission of the great war.
I knew the wind was high, but I did not actually realize its true velocity until I happened to look toward the earth and to my surprise saw to our right the familiar ruins of the village of Montfaucon sitting high and distinct amid the surrounding ruins and desolations. I had never flown so fast, for a strong wind behind the airplane adds marvelous rapidity to its speed. We were swept along like a feather in a gale. In front, on the Bois de Beuges, there was raining a tremendous artillery barrage, which we knew extended all across the Argonne front. Almost instantly, it seemed, we were over Romange, which was Boche territory, and hastily I picked my target. We would again pile up the German traffic by adjusting our heavy artillery on their cross roads in 167front of our own 91st Division, whose batteries were around Epionville. We would repeat our previous successful adjustment and when the traffic was heaviest, would call for fire. Imparting this information to Davis, he turned the machine and we started back toward the line to call our batteries and start the fatal ball rolling.
A favorite trick of the Hun’s anti-aircraft artillery, and our own, as far as that is concerned, is to allow the entrance of observation planes to a considerable depth within the lines without molesting them, closely following it all the time with finely adjusted sights, and just as the plane turns to go back toward the lines the artillery opens up with everything available.
I knew it was going to happen as soon as we turned into the wind and that in bucking the wind we would practically stand still in the air, making us an easy target, especially since we were skimming along low, heavy clouds upon which the artillery could easily get accurate data as to range and direction. It happened. The Archies opened up. As luck would have it they realized our position and had us in their deadly bracket. One high-explosive shell burst directly under our tail, whereupon the plane reflexed like a bucking broncho.
The airman is bracketed when the archies have bursts on all sides of him, for in such a case he knows not what direction to go for one is about as bad as the other. One thing was certain, we did not dare to stand still in the air hanging on the propeller, 168as we were doing in fighting the wind. We must slip the deadly noose of the bracket and do it before it was too late.
Realizing the necessity for quick action, Davis sharply slipped the plane into the wind, and amid a deafening applause of exploding shells, we plunged to momentary safety behind the curtain of the low, dark clouds with which the sky was filled. We were in the cloud, perhaps, for five minutes and the wind was with us. I knew we were covering a great deal of territory and in the wrong direction. So, when we emerged I quite well knew we were completely off our course. I asked Davis if he knew his location. He answered frankly that he did not—that it was away off his map. I was in the same predicament exactly as to the location, it being off my map as well, but fortunately I recognized the bomb-shattered town nearby as Dun-sur-Meuse, as I had many times studied it as a very prominent bombing objective.
“Head due south along the river,” I cried through the communicating tube, “We’ve got to hit the lines sometime.”
Dun-sur-Meuse had been bombed very heavily in the drive and I am sure the remaining inhabitants thought we too had that intention, for in heading south they certainly let us know we were not welcome. This time it was not only artillery, but machine guns in such a hail of fire that we would have been brought down with little effort had we attempted to fly a straight course. We didn’t attempt it. We answered by sharp zig-zags, and it was the master 169job of my life to keep up with the snaps, jerks, slips and dives of Davis’, in dodging the archies; and to still keep our direction in mind. We attempted this for fully ten minutes, but we were making no appreciable headway. The firing was too heavy—we must get higher as we could not expect to live at nine hundred feet at a very long period. We had been lucky to survive this long.
Davis headed due south by his compass which was east by mine. It looked all wrong to me.
“Is your compass pointing south?” I asked feverishly, for it was a question of life and death.
“Yes, due south,” he replied.
I knew one of the two was considerably off, but it might be mine as well as his, so I decided to try his. A constant mist of rifle fire and archies followed us in our ascent into the clouds, which fortunately was not long—thanks to the climbing power of the Salmson airplane. We were in and above the clouds for fully twenty-five minutes, and believe me, those twenty-five minutes were prayers that Davis’s compass was unerring.
Finally, considering the wind velocity, our probable distance from the lines, and the speed of the motor, I was convinced that if the compass were true we should be well over the French lines, so, hoping to encourage Davis, I called, “Well, Davis, if that old pointer of yours is right we are in La Belle France again. Let’s go down and see.”
He put the boat into a dive and we came out of the clouds in a long, straight glide. In a jiffy I quite 170well knew we were not in France. A German balloon with the Iron Cross was directly beneath us firmly moored to its bed on the ground. Here we were at less than a thousand feet. The excitement around that balloon bed could easily be imagined when out of a cloud, in such terrible weather, a huge and awkward two-place enemy plane unexpectedly dropped. I have been on the ground at our balloon beds when they were attacked and know something of the awful fire the attacking plane goes through in attempting to burn the balloon even at the ordinary height, but it is many times worse when it is moored to its bed, for the lower the plane must come the greater the hazard. It is for this reason that most armies consider it a greater feat for an aviator to destroy a balloon than an airplane. There we were like a great ghost suddenly manifesting itself, and take it from me, if the machine gunners were asleep on their work at our unannounced arrival, they mighty suddenly showed signs of speed for almost instantly, from every angle came the put-put-put, while we helplessly tried every conceivable maneuver to dodge the many guns which were firing upon us at full force. It is not strange that the airman does not worry much over the regular steel ammunition of the machine gun, for like other similar dangers, while they are the most fatal, they cannot be seen, so, he is oblivious to their presence; but when the guns are using tracer and incendiary bullets, the stream of fire is not unlike a miniature fire rocket and behind each of the pretty fire rockets comes two silent, fatal 171ball cartridges, for, indeed, the very object of “tracer” ammunition is to show the path the bullets are taking. If there is anything that gets a flyer’s wind up, it is tracer bullets from the ground. Our wind was up and had been up for some time. But, Davis did the right thing and again headed with the wind, while “tracers” saw us, met us and almost conquered us. It certainly is terrifying to watch them come up at you for the helpless part of it is that they come so fast you cannot even try to dodge them. They were all around us; our right wing was perfectly perforated with several accurate bursts and in the diving and slipping I had been thrown around in the cockpit like the dice in a dicebox. My seat had slipped from beneath me about three times, but the condition of my mind was such that I was positive that it had been shot from beneath me. The sharp turning with the wind left a wake of disheartening tracers in our trail. It resembled a billion small rockets for the flaming trajectories were easily followed. The Fourth of July was not in it. I thought at the time that it was a sight well worth seeing, but dangerously unhealthful. Soon though as we shot along we were again greeted by the high explosive bursts of the artillery which was some relief for they were considerably behind us and we were at least away from the machine guns at the balloon bed.
The painful fact was that while we were going through the air at a terrific speed, that speed was carrying us farther and farther into Germany. The situation was becoming more and more serious. 172What could we now do? We could not possibly fight the wind below the clouds and make the long distance home, so I told Davis to go into the clouds again; at least, we would not be such an easy target. This time we would try my compass, for while it might be slightly untrue, if we went long enough we surely could not fail reaching France at some point. He started to climb and, well—those were long moments. The climbing greatly decreased our speed, while the machine guns again played upon us most cruelly. But that climbing was a most wonderful piece of work; poor Davis twisted that boat in every conceivable manner, but the best part of it all was that he continued the climb at all costs. There was nothing so dear to me as those clouds—so near and yet so far. Anything to again get out of that constant and swarming bee-hive of fire bullets. Then we penetrated the ceiling. My heart was again almost normal for a few seconds. Here was the supreme moment it seemed—truly to err was to die, or worse, to finally land from shortage of gasoline and be made prisoner. Hugging close to the compass, oblivious to all else, lest we deviate a jot from its true south reading, I slowly and distinctly called the directions. For fully a half an hour we followed this procedure—sometimes above the clouds and most of the time in them, but never below them. At last I was absolutely certain that we were well over dear old France again; at least, somewhere between Paris and Nancy, so, after another three minutes to be sure, I called to Davis again.
173“This time we have sure foxed the Hun,” I said; “let’s go down and look over the scenery.”
We had climbed quite a lot farther in the clouds than we thought, and it took longer to come to light, so, in our anxiety to see France again he put it into a steeper dip and soon we emerged in almost a straight dive. Below us to the right was another balloon at its bed. It was our own balloon line, of course. It could be no other for my compass had been undoubtedly true and somehow the ground looked like France. Furthermore, we had not been fired upon.
“Davis,” I said, “look out for a place to land and we’ll find where we are, then after dinner we’ll fly on home.”
I had no more than gotten the words out of my mouth when a machine gun started to fire at us, again using tracer ammunition. I was convinced that it was all a mistake and that when they saw who we really were they would quit, so, I told Davis to tilt the plane and show the colors of our cocarde as the weather was not clear and any one might make a similar mistake.
Our own aviation never, under any circumstances, approached our balloons suddenly, for the reason that the Germans one time used some allied captured planes in the Chateau-Thierry offensive, and with the French colors on their cocarde, approached one of our balloons and, unmolested, burned it. Since then all balloons had adopted the policy of firing on any machine which came suddenly out of 174the clouds toward them. I was positive that this was the case here. Suddenly other guns vigorously began to take up the firing and by the time I saw the foreboding black, German Cross painted on the side of the sausage, the whole balloon machine gun crews had us well in hand. When we went down on the first balloon I was pretty well convinced that it was all up with us, but this time there was no doubt about it, for we had lost far too many of our best pursuit pilots in attacking balloons at low altitudes for me to even hope otherwise, and our pursuit planes were smaller targets, were faster and more maneuverable. What chance in the world, I thought, has a lubberly, two-place observation plane in a hole like this when few of the pursuit planes even ever emerge with their lives?
Here I again hand it all to Davis, for with a bravery and grit that I have seldom seen equaled, and a skill that was uncanny, he did everything imaginable with that plane, but wisest of all he again headed with the wind, our only chance to get out of the mess. That second in banking into the wind was actually the longest of my life—the ground had surely anticipated it for we were truly the apex of the cone of lead and fire from the circular base of guns surrounding the balloon bed. The plane was almost a screen where so many bullets had perforated it. I heard a snap with a dismal twanging sound. One flying wire had been already cut by the barrage, but Davis kept right on twisting the boat as if nothing had happened.
175We still had life—something for which I had almost ceased to hope. Like persecuted souls weak from exhaustion, but strong in determination, we went on, still with the wind unrelentlessly driving us farther into Germany. Already we had been up about two hours and the thought occurred to me that we would soon be out of gasoline. We could not take another chance. My calculation, which later turned out to be accurate, was that we were then about fifteen kilometers from the line.
The known splendid liaison of the Boche was already in action; this we well knew and undoubtedly several German planes were already up after us. The solution was simple. There were only two things we could possibly do. We knew the wind direction when we left France, so, we could pick up our direction from the smoke from locomotives, chimneys and the like and fly below the clouds toward the line. At best the condition of our plane would but permit elementary maneuvering and at that we stood but little chance of getting through the continual machine gun fire at such constant low altitude. Then, too, it was certain that if we kept below the clouds on such a course we would soon have enemy planes hot on our trail, although, personally, I thought we would never get through two more minutes of the gun firing even with our plane in the best condition. The alternative was to land, destroy the plane and try to escape. It all ran through my mind like a flash. I thought of Davis. I admit I thought of myself. One was justifiable 176life for the reason that the destruction of the plane, at least, would be guaranteed, while if we were shot down we would both die in the crash and the Boche would get the salvage and design of the plane. The impelling fighting chance of the second proposition was enough. There was no more hesitation.
“Davis,” I shouted, “can you pick up the direction from the smoke on the ground?”
He looked around doubtfully.
“I’ll try,” he more doubtfully replied.
“All right, head into the wind again—beneath the clouds. This is our last chance. Fly straight into the wind. We will have to scrap for our lives, but luck is with us.”
Nodding his head with characteristic determination, he swiftly steered the bus into the wind. For several minutes the combined fire of anti-aircraft artillery and machine guns played upon us. I will not attempt to describe the horrors of those minutes that seemed years—how we lived through it I do not know. A piece of my tourelle was shot away and my wireless reel was torn completely off. I could hear the plane whine in its flight, the broken wires even dolefully singing our requiem. Through it all the motor was not hurt—it was turning like a top. Indeed, it seemed just like the last moments of the poor fowl which, with its neck wrung, will continue to flop about. Veritably it seemed we were flopping—it was the wonderful Davis doing his best to dodge the myriads of deathly bullets coming at us from all angles.
177Then suddenly all became quiet. The machine guns and the archies had for some reason stopped their firing. I had been there before—I knew. The time had come. Looking over to the right I saw what I expected—four German Fokkers had already taken off the field and were coming up after us. We could even see their airdrome and othe............