27
It is September 14, 1917. America has supposedly been in the war since April. Up to now we haven’t seen or heard anything, except that in place of Teddy Roosevelt they have a guy in Paris who I understand has the proper political influence to head the American Army and is likewise a West Pointer, which is mandatory for any appointment of this magnitude. I wonder what happened to the guy who was going to rescue the British from the trenches by Christmas? I’m afraid the British didn’t give him a hearing. I don’t know what he had — it might have been boots with magic springs, as I understand he was an inventor. It might have been well to give the fellow a hearing. We might not have needed the Paris contingent. What the hell they are doing, I don’t know. They haven’t made any impression on the British Western Front in five months, of this I am sure.
Read and I have talked with the senior commanding officer of the RFC and find that, in applying to the American adjutant general for our transfer, General Mitchell requested an increase of one rank over our British rating, which means that if we agree, we are scheduled to be majors as of September fifteenth by sending a cable of acceptance to the Adjutant General Office, Washington, D.C. Read is of the opinion that we should stay where we are, that if we accept we’ll be sorry. But it just doesn’t seem right when your own country requests your services, not responding. This we argue about and finally decide to send the cable, which has been prepared for us at headquarters. As Read says, we can take the trip over and if we don’t like it, have a vacation. We can come back home to our old RFC anytime. Having sent our cable, we arrange our transportation to New York on the Adriatic, which will be leaving Liverpool in about thirty days. The more time passes, the more I’m sure we’ve made a big mistake. The fighting is over here. To go over and come back don’t make sense unless they have a job of training flyers, which I don’t want any part of. We are better here. The only Americans that are in force is the navy. They are snappy in their appearance and look like fighting men should, with none of the drab or dejected appearance of the three army officers of the Savoy Hotel.
Going to the embassy to see my friends and to secure a passport, I am told, in no uncertain terms, what a mistake I have made. They tell me the army is mired so deep in politics that I will be sick at my stomach my first day. Here I learn for sure that what General Mitchell told Major Dore was correct — America had no flying corps, just an outfit known as the Signal Corps — and that General Mitchell was the only outstanding officer who knew anything about flying. Unfortunately, he would be so handicapped by politics and jealousy that Read and I would find Washington impossible. Ambassador Page recommends that we go instead to the Navy Flying Corps and will write a letter to Undersecretary of the Navy Franklin Roosevelt if we will agree to join that service. I explain we have cabled our acceptance of a commission, which he laughs off, saying it means nothing. When we get over, they will ask us to repatriate, swearing allegiance to our own country before we can draw pay as an American officer, so we will be at liberty to do as we please. His recommendation is join the Navy Flying Corps. As Admiral Simms is to be at the embassy with some of his staff for lunch, I receive an invitation to lunch, where I meet a real sharp crowd, some fellows in uniform a fellow American can be proud of.
I find old Read at our favorite spot, the Savoy, and give him all the information which Ambassador Page has told me, together with his recommendation. With all this, we decide to take the boat as per schedule and take our chances. We are two dumb Americans who just can’t believe that our country is so badly controlled by a political few.
We have two weeks before the boat sails. I am fed up with inactivity, so go to RFC headquarters and request an assignment to some home defense squadron while waiting. Our senior officer explains that if he gives me such an assignment and I get bumped off, he is in trouble, because I am now supposedly an American officer, regardless of my British uniform, which I am not going to give up until the last minute. The old boy finally breaks down after much phoning and delay, giving me orders to report to a night-flying Camel squadron. The Hun Gotha is now coming over at night, one at a time, four or five times a night. Wishing me good luck, he sends me on my way with the warning “Don’t get bumped off, just for my sake, or we’re all in trouble.” I report to a squadron under the command of Major Green, one of the really stout pilots of the D.H.2 pushers of 1916, with some forty enemies to his credit.
With five exciting nights on Camels, I am transferred to North-olt, where some Americans have reported to Thirty-fifth Bristol fighter squadron for training as mechanics, not flyers. I found the Bristol fighter the best ship I had ever flown. This was the improved plane soon to go to France. It was powered by the famous Rolls Royce, was short like a Spad scout, with observer and pilot close together and with the usual Vickers and Lewis machine guns. It was a deadly ship in the hands of two good flyers. If I could have this ship in action, just once, it would be a treat. Especially with one of my old observers, Pritchard or Flamer Jones.
Every day I take some of the Americans up for a ride and to see London from the skies, including my old pal Coapman. No difference where I may be, Old Coap shows up sooner or later, whenever it suits his fancy. He located me through the RFC, as he is in England to take his training as a pilot. No observing for him. Somehow he bypassed the observer’s period and is going direct for his pilot’s wings. He is one of the many from my old motor unit for whom I signed papers requesting they be given a commission in the RFC. Meeting Coap in London, I invite him out to Northolt for a ride and squadron dinner. The guy is still a private. I take him up over London and give him the works with a few rolls, loops and a spin, which he takes in his stride like I knew he would.
After landing, we go to my quarters, where I doll the guy up in one of my best captain’s uniforms, with pilot’s wings and Military Cross ribbon complete, then to the mess where I introduce him as my brother. To the amazement of no one, they all believe it, except the commanding officer from who I had asked permission to do the stunt, otherwise the going might have become rough if he had started to question us too much.
I am spending my last two days in London visiting friends before leaving for America. I should be awfully bucked up and happy, which isn’t the way I feel. I meet my old friend Bogart from Eleven Squadron, who tries to cheer me up, but I have a feeling that is difficult to describe. It seems like I am leaving my best friends, which I am, as there is no one in America as close to me as the fellows in France and the folks in London, except my own family. The American embassy is like home, thanks to Ambassador Page and Captain Chapman. Lee White and Clay Smith have a new show at the Strand. There is a new girls show at the Gaiety. Beatrice Lillie is all the rage, George Robie is going strong. I wonder if I shall ever see them again? I shall have dinner tonight with my favorite tailor and Jimmy, where we shall just spend a quiet evening like good friends should, and tomorrow I shall say goodbye to my old pal Captain Price, where we will have a quiet lunch. All these friends I am leaving, for what I don’t know. Only time will tell, but for better or worse Read and I are on our way tomorrow evening for Liverpool where the Adriatic will be waiting. It will be goodbye to London and all my friends who have been so kind to me. I hope fate is good and I return soon.
Catching our train for Liverpool, we climb in a compartment, where we meet one of the fellows that joined my old Canadian unit in Calgary, Alberta, September 2, 1914 — Lieutenant Bob Roberts. He had joined the RFC after I did and got his observer’s wing, then he was hurt. Was on his way back to Canada, having been discharged and returning home. We traveled to Liverpool together, where he left for Canada while Read and I sailed for New York.
Our trip back was restful and delightful. The big boat only had forty-five first class passengers. We were loaded and waited twenty-four hours for a clearance from the navy. On the thirteenth of October, 1917, we sailed for New York, without escort but with the big ship running a zigzag course the first forty-eight hours. Read and I were seated at the purser’s table where we had every attention possible. We both wore mufti the entire trip until our last night, when everyone dressed for dinner and a swell time was enjoyed by all. And on the twenty-second of October we landed in New York, the home of the free and the brave. That’s what they taught me in school. The customs people boarded the boat before we landed, and we were given clearance without the usual customs inspection, as Read and I were the only officers on the ship. Upon landing, we took a taxi for the Waldorf Astoria, where I immediately phoned one of my relatives who I had not seen since my boyhood days in Massachusetts. From this cousin I learn that I have lost Father. He passed away in his sleep a few days before I left England. This is my number one blow upon landing back in America. Others may follow, but they can’t compare with this jolt.
I had high hopes of going home for a couple of weeks. Now, I can’t. It wouldn’t be the same, even to see my brother and all our wonderful friends in the little town in the valley of the Platte River where, when a friend returns home, he is welcomed like royalty and a stranger is made to feel he has found a home for life.
Read goes to the Yale Club for lunch and I join my cousin for the Bankers’ Club, where I promise to spend the weekend at his home on Long Island. So Read and I split for the weekend, agreeing to leave for Washington early Monday morning. All my relatives are thrilled about helping win the war, although none of them are in uniform. Everyone is sure that America can win the war single-handed. The fact that France and England have been fighting like hell for three years hasn’t made any impression on the people I have met. Ninety-nine out of every hundred don’t know the uniform I am wearing. If anyone does recognize that I have been overseas, immediately you are supposed to go into a song and dance about the great German atrocities, where women have been crucified and their breast cut off and all this kind of rot. If you explain there has been no such thing, that someone has been giving them a lot of bull, you are at once considered a person who has seen no action, or a little loose upstairs. They all want to hear horrible things. Certainly, the war is no picnic, but who the hell wants to talk about war all of the time, just to satisfy curious people? No one seems to know or care that you would like to be left alone to relax. The small-town talk gives me a pain in my rear. I am wondering where I will go after Washington and how soon will I be able to go back to the front. If they have no pilots, the powers who are might let me take a squadron over to train in England, where everyone knows the ropes. This would be faster and better. Monday will tell.
Have arrived in Washington, which has the appearance of a convention. All the hotels are full to the hilt. Read and I have just been turned down at the Mayflower, when I think of my friend Raymond Price. Not expecting any results, I ask the clerk if Mr. Raymond Price means anything to him. The results are amazing: “Certainly, sir.” Instead of being cold as a stepmother’s breast, the fellow warms up with the information that if Mr. Price would vouch for us, he might find a room in the great village. This is a good start. Finding out from our very new friend, the clerk, where to reach Mr. Price, we are immediately out of trouble with a fine double room and twin beds and a very courteous and changed clerk. In less than an hour Mr. Price puts in his appearance at our hotel. He gives us a grand greeting, something we appreciate as this is the kind of welcome we were used to overseas. Unhappily, we learn from Mr. Price the same things Ambassador Page told us in London. It seems there is no air corps, just a signal corps, because the big boys in power think a flying corps is not too necessary. Price is very upset with the situation here and is one of the dollar-a-year men, spending his own money trying to help his country. To him, we have a great feeling of gratitude. At least we have one man on our side.
Tuesday morning we report to three different places before we find anyone who knows anything about us. So we are finally in front of the great man. He is very much at ease when we appear. He has his feet on the desk, with his hands clasped back of his head, evidently perfectly satisfied with his own greatness. He is undoubtedly delighted to see us, for he never moves out of his chair or gives us a handshake or any kind of pleasant greeting such as was always the custom with any major or squadron commanding officer of the RFC. Here we are, both captains reporting to our own country at the request of the adjutant general’s office to a major who hasn’t the decency to get off his dead behind and, whether he likes it or not, show some courtesy. We didn’t expect him to kiss our bottom, just a small welcome, which we sure as hell rated.
This important individual jumped into his act. No mention of General Mitchell, who was in France. No questions about what ship we had been flying. He began first by telling us we would have to take the oath of allegiance to America, then to get out of our British uniforms and into American uniforms like he was wearing. This was a tight fitting tunic, buttoned to the top, with riding pants, boots and spurs. The wings he wore, we could not wear. In fact, we could not wear any wings until we took an old Jenny, a Curtiss JN-4, up to five thousand and made a dead-stick landing. He explained there were only three senior military aviators in America. To be a senior military aviator, you had to be granted this great honor by Congress. The best we could hope for would be junior military aviator, which was the lowest. They had a military aviator above the junior, but certainly this was not for us.
All this without Read or me saying a word. Why we didn’t kill the gentleman, I’ll never know, except I was too stunned. It just didn’t seem possible. But Read comes to life with a bang and, in a language this bird can understand, tells him to shove the wings, the Jenny and his damn commission where it will do the most good. He is going to Massachusetts for a rest, and to Maine for a hunting trip, then back to the RFC, “and I am going to try to take Libby with me.” Read also tells him, “Your treatment of us today is unbelievable. Libby has had two years of RFC in four fighting squadrons, has more hours in the air and more enemy ships to his credit than any American. All of this you must know. He is the only American with a real record and recommended by Billy Mitchell.” At the name of Billy Mitchell there is a look in this fellow’s eyes which doesn’t speak well for General Mitchell, who we both like and respect. As we start out, the great man asks in a somewhat less pompous voice, “What about you, Libby?” I reply that I will make up my mind later. With this, the great man tells me where to report for orders and to become a citizen again, with the information if we don’t we will be court-martialed.
I am sick all over. Read doesn’t give a damn, but I do. My old friends in the RFC are expecting much of me, and surely the American military can’t all be like this major. And there is my New York and Boston family, to say nothing of my brother. Also there is General Mitchell, who outranks this bird. And my good friend, Raymond Price, who I shall see at lunch. The jealousy and greed are all that I was told in London, only more so. I would be ashamed to go back to the RFC and let them know how lousy we have been treated by our own country. We lunch with Mr. Price, who is deeply hurt over our reception, although he knows what it’s all about. When we tell him who our man is, Price explains that this fellow is a West Pointer and General Mitchell isn’t. Only Mitchell is a keen flyer who has the desire to have a real flying corps, but jealousy from many sources is slowing up all progress, as they are assigning all West Pointers to command the flying branch of the Signal Corps wherever they can. While these fellows can’t fly — they are out of infantry, cavalry and artillery — they’re in command of what few flyers are available. That we should have to take a test before wearing wings, after flying everything the British had, is, as he indignantly expresses it, the act of an overly ambitious egotist.
What to do and how is my problem. Certainly I want to get out of Washington, which should be easy after our reception this morning. The sourpuss major will see to that. Just what an aviator does with spurs is one for the books. I was raised with a pair of spurs, but wouldn’t the RFC boys laugh to see me with boots and spurs? Climbing into a plane, I’ll bet old sourpuss can’t fly a good British plane even with spurs and a saddle. What a hell of a ragtag outfit I got myself into — after all the good advice I had in London. God, I’m dumb! And this repatriation is a royal pain in the tail. You would think that with America in the war, this kind of bunk wouldn’t be necessary, especially where a fellow’s family was over here with the Indians where my great-great-great-grandfather chased Pocahontas’ great-great-great-grandma over the hill every night. Now, with America in the war, I must swear allegiance to my own country.
The major isn’t the only one that’s nuts. I have made the big decision. After talking to some of my family, I have again become an American citizen and have my orders to report to Toronto, Canada, to Twenty-second Squadron, which is supposed to be in training with the Canadians. It has been a long circle. I left Toronto in 1915 for England, via Halifax, and here I am receiving orders to report to some American squadron in Toronto. Read is leaving for his home in Massachusetts tonight. He has been waiting, hoping I would go with him. God knows I would like to, but it doesn’t seem the thing to do, so I shall try to make the best of a big mistake.
Bid farewell to my two real friends, Mr. Price and Read, and I am off for Toronto, which to say the least is away from Washington where a politician will give you anything the hen laid, except the egg. These politicians are worse than a pimp. A pimp only takes a gal’s dough. These boys will take everybody’s dough. They damned near own our country. My guess is, no politician will get hurt in this or any other war. Speaking of taking your dough, when Read and I asked for our bill at the Hotel Mayflower, we were told no statement. This place where we had difficulty being admitted was very gracious as long as there was a man like Raymond B. Price to pay the check. Life is funny. There is certainly a difference between people. Any resemblance between Mr . Price and our beloved major? There ain’t.
The trip to Toronto is slow and uncomfortable. The government has taken over all railroads and is operating them, so naturally every train in America is running late and the service is getting worse. Even the hobos won’t ride them. Walking is safer.
Here in Toronto, I feel very different than in Washington. There are RFC boys everywhere, many back on leave, who know what war is all about. I am still wearing my RFC uniform and am in no hurry to take it off, even if it did seem to upset the senior military aviator (with nothing to aviate). The only difference, I am now an American, by the act of oath, in a British uniform, and it’s a cinch they don’t care if I remain in their uniform for the rest of the war. Tonight I am going on an old fashioned binge with some of the RFC crowd, as tomorrow is soon enough to look over my new American squadron. Three years ago I was stationed in Toronto’s Exposition Park as a full fledged private, without a care in the world. I still don’t have any worry, except the change from something to nothing.
For the past two months I have been having a great deal of pain in my back and find it very difficult after three or four hours of flying to get circulation back to normal. Our good squadron doctor in France said I was not playing enough tennis and horseback riding. Both of these are my favorite pastimes but only succeed in causing a great deal more pain, so I am convinced it isn’t exercise that I need. Today the pain is worse, and I have trouble getting out of bed. Maybe I am just getting old. I have just passed my twenty-fifth birthday. Crippled old man that I am, I call a cab to take me out to the air field and report my presence to whoever is the colonel commanding. Washington didn’t seem to know. I am expecting the worst. True, I’m not disappointed. When we reach the Canadian headquarters and make my mission known, the Canadian colonel patiently explains that the squadron which I have traveled from Washington to Toronto to join has been in Texas for the past two weeks. I am shown a letter to Washington addressed to the Signal Corps, advising of their departure. I inquire about the personnel of Twenty-second, to see if there are any trained pilots. I am assured there are no pilots, just a few men for training, and that the squadron is supposed to be completed and trained in Texas where America has built a new air field close to Fort Worth.
Back to my hotel. After a few highballs to relieve my disposition and back, I wire Washington, telling them where their lost squadron is and requesting orders and two weeks leave to visit my darling Aunt Jo in Boston. Next day, I receive my orders to report to Hicks Field in Texas after my two weeks leave, which makes for a long train ride across the U.S.A. With the trains as they are, time means nothing. Arriving in New York, I have decided to order two American uniforms, as I have seven beautiful RFC outfits complete. I don’t intend to throw them away, even if I just keep them with the hope that the American uniform may be made more comfortable and my British uniforms may be useful.