29
Here, at the start of America entering the war, they take alcohol as no good for the boys or girls. Wait until a few of them get their feet wet in France — if they ever do. It wouldn’t surprise me to see the entire outfit desert to the British Army where rum is a steady diet to a fighting man. And what a diet. If I had any brains, I would quit trying to return to France, desert and start a still of white mule in the Ozarks or the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia and let the revenuers hunt me. Washington won’t be able to fight the war and keep the stills all shut down at the same time. My guess is that the war will be won by our politicians, drinking the product from the still they voted to shut down. Life will go on the same, only worse.
It is March and news from the front is bad, especially from my old hunting ground, Arras, Cambrai, Douai, the Somme front, where my old squadrons are catching hell from the Heinie while I am worse than ever, only hoping for a miracle. I want a miracle but have a break in the monotony when a first lieutenant by the name of William Hoffman Miller is assigned to our hospital as a patient. I have been enjoying a room by myself when I am asked if I would object to a roommate. I am quick to insist that he be placed in my room as this boy is from the flying corps. We at least have something in common. When he is deposited in my room, he is a sight to behold. He had recently landed with ship afire, and in place of saving his own skin he pulls the observer out of the flames, which causes him to lose a couple of fingers from one hand and to have his features all messed up with burns but nevertheless saves his observer’s life. For all of this, he is ignored by Washington. The best he winds up with is a hospital room and a chance to live. No word of congratulation, or citation well deserved, just a chance to get well. You bum, you shouldn’t have gotten afire in the first place. These commanding officers are sure students of human nature, I don’t think. I have finally met one of my countrymen I can talk to. The boy has guts and understanding with a suave air that says do your worst, I can take it. He is my kind of folks. We are friends from the start and will always remain friends without a lot of promises or conversation.
Through my friendship with this boy, my stay in the hospital was made much easier, as with him I could talk about the front and my old crowd with a perfect understanding. He was always interested. I would have liked to have Bill with me in a fighter squadron. He would have been one hell of a fighter pilot, a fellow one could depend on when the going became rough.
August has arrived and my pain is no better. This wonderful hospital staff of Army and Navy have tried everything they know. The waters have only soothed my stiff back temporarily, so I have been given six months sick leave to go to New York at my own expense to see the great specialist, Dr. Joseph Frankel, who my cousin Frank Dame feels can help or at least diagnose my trouble. Thanks to my cousin, an appointment is made and I see the great man. Here I learn I am through, that I have spondylitis deformens of the spine, which will cause me agony for years and then become ankylosed for the rest of my life. My days of flying are over. It is just a question of time what happens and how fast. My dream of going back to the front is only a dream. I am finished, washed up — that is his opinion, not mine. I may fool the doctor. At least I shall try.
New York is a madhouse, people going everywhere in a hurry. The theaters are full, and during intermission there is a Liberty Loan drive to raise money for the war effort, which is quite true of every gathering. Financially, the war has come to New York. My friend Bob Roberts, who went overseas in my old outfit, the motor transport, has turned hero, has a promoter and has published a book called The Flying Fighter. I think the promoter got most of the money, because Bob has a rich dame on the hook, which shows what a uniform can do. One real bright spot: my good friend Getz Rice has returned from the front and is in a show with Blanch Bates and real good. He is a fellow who deserves the best.
I have turned my streamers of the American flag over to the Aero Club of America to auction off on a Liberty Loan Drive at Carnegie Hall. This auction wasn’t intended by me as a stunt for publicity. In fact, I had a feeling of embarrassment, as these streamers had been part of my plane for many, many hours of combat service. Along with and in the same formation with these streamers had flown many of the RFC’s best, both in Forty-third and Twenty-fifth Squadrons. They had become a part of me. They were with me in many a battle, some of which we lost, some of which we won, but we always came back together. All of this caused me to hesitate when I was asked to allow the streamers to be auctioned. Only the assurance of the Aero Club president, Mr. Alan R. Hawley, that it was the thing to do to help the Liberty Loan drive and was for the good of humanity convinced me of its merit. My feelings were best described by a New York Tribune writer, his name I don’t know. To this writer I have always been grateful. In a story published in the Tribune, he wrote: “A timid young officer with a tattered thing in his hand mounted the Liberty Theater platform yesterday afternoon, and while he stood there, cheeks burning with embarrassed red, and eyes looking straight down his nose, a crowd that the moment before had gaped and grinned and jostled, after one slow stare with a sudden passion, stormed toward him. They rolled forward in a tumult of noise, men and women with welcome in their voices and tears in their eyes. Not Fifth Avenue sightseers cheering a show, but a people greeting their own hero. Then a girl reached out and over the crowd, caught hold of the tattered thing, held it hard and with swimming eyes raised it to her lips. The voices stopped and the air was silent as a prayer. The first American flag to fly over the German lines, in the hands of the aviator who carried it there, had come back to New York to be baptized with tears and kisses of a motley New York throng. Those hundreds sought to grasp the precious stripes of red and white and to shake the hand of Captain Frederick Libby. This torn old thing amid all the bright flags of Fifth Avenue was a holy banner. And so the procession passed along, touching its rags as though becoming a sacrament. Some touched it lightly, some shook it as if it were a paw. The women kissed it, the soldiers saluted it. While Captain Libby still tried to hide behind it with the shame that every real hero seems to have for his own valor.”
The auction is October seventeenth and raises $3,250,000. On the twentieth, I’m leaving New York for one of my very favorite spots, Imperial Valley, California. The weather in New York is turning cold and my doctor advises a warm climate, so I am away to California. Bob Roberts wants to go with me. He is fed up with the big city. I think the promoters have made a sucker out of him, which is par for the course in this town. With anyone in uniform, these parasites do real well. I shall never forget Guy Empey and my family in Boston. I have often wondered how much the promoter let Mr. Empey have out of his book Over the Top. It was one of the first war books published, but my guess is that Brother Empey probably finished owing the promoter.
Our trip to California was the usual slow and miserable journey, thanks to government supervision. Time means nothing to first class trains. The only ones that seem to go through are the troop trains and even they are doubtful. We finally arrived at San Diego, where everyone is wearing a flu mask. It seems there is an epidemic of influenza, so waitresses and all public servants are wearing masks to protect themselves as well as the public. I’m feeling worse than ever. I feel like hell, so to a hotel for a night’s rest before taking the stage to Imperial Valley.
I hit the bed real sick with a chill, so Bob goes looking for the only remedy we know, a pint of bourbon. The guy finds a doctor who gives him a prescription for a pint of Four Roses, which helps some, but in the morning I know that Old Flu has caught up with me. The hospitals are not taking flu patients. They are either nursed at home or sent to a “pest house” on the outskirts of the city. This is not for me, so we call a cab. I dress and am driven to the St. Joseph Hospital, where I walk in and demand a room and a doctor at once. Being in uniform, I get away with it. I am put to bed in a private room and a doctor is called. It’s a cinch. I’m a beautiful flu patient and the hospital wants me to leave. Here my doctor goes to bat, saying that I am too sick to be moved and must have a special nurse immediately, and the fight for my life begins. On the night of the crisis where I either go over the hill or remain around, with a nurse fighting a strong battle to pull me through, I am conscious of a lot of whistles blowing, cans rattling and a continuous noise like a New Year’s celebration. I am too sick to mind, but my nurse goes to the front office to see what is happening. In a voice filled with emotion, she tells me it’s the Armistice. What an awful way to end the war, flat on my back, after more than four years of service, with the big show ended. I am in a room far away from all of my comrades. I have overheard whispers, which indicate that they expect to carry me out — feet first. It seems I’m the only one who doesn’t believe their whispers. I just couldn’t die in this bed this way. True, it might be better than going down in flames on the last day of war, so I pass out or go to sleep. In the morning I am very weak, with no fever and not quite sure about the noises, but my nurse assures me there is an Armistice and that I am out of danger. The war is over! I am damned weak, but with tomorrow will start to get up. All I need, my doctor says, is rest and quiet where it is warm and sunny.
My first move, when out of the hospital, is to wire my resignation to Washington, D.C. I want out of this man’s army fast as possible. With the wire off of my mind, I catch a stage for Imperial Valley, to the town of Calexico, where before the war I had many friends, sincere friends like the Wylie family, my old buddy Chuck Stanton, the Andersons, the Litzenberg boys and others too numerous to mention. Surely some of these kindly people will be there to welcome me. My stage is the same big Packard, with the same driver who brought me from Imperial Valley over three years ago, when I started my trip to someplace, anyplace, Tahiti preferred, and ended up in a war. The driver remembers me and, possibly because of the uniform, I have the seat in front with him where one is more comfortable and can enjoy the luxury of a delightful ride through the mountains to Imperial Valley. With a stop for lunch and a chance to relax, the trip is most enjoyable.
The day I landed in the hospital, Bob Roberts left for Imperial Valley to meet my friends, as there was no reason for him to wait in San Diego for my demise or recovery. So, when we pull into the stage depot in El Centro, Bob with a crowd of my old friends is on hand to welcome me home. How they found out I was coming on this particular stage, I don’t inquire. It is sufficient they are there. The war is over and everyone is in high glee. I am weak but happy. Climbing into a new Packard owned by Paul Datto, one of the famous family of Dattos, we go to Calexico and to the mayor’s house which Bob has been calling home. I find one of the Anderson girls married to the mayor of Calexico, Casey Abbott, a real swell person in any country. Here at Casey’s home we are welcomed in a fashion only possible in a valley of the nicest and most friendly people on earth. I have returned to the right spot, warmth, beautiful sunshine and, most of all, real friendship. Why I went in search of something other than this, I will never know. Here I settle down to freedom and rest, mentally and physically, with no plans for the future. All this could wait. I am still a young man in years, but really old in experience from my constant association with older people in my very young days.
While waiting for an answer to my wire of resignation to the War Department, I have nothing to do except visit with my old friends and enjoy the beautiful climate. I found my old pal Chuck Stanton and his lovely wife, together with Mother and Dad Stanton, who were like my own folks. The Lyons boys were back from service. My Chinese friend, Big Foot, was in China on a trip. My old pal Clint Wylie and family had moved to Los Angeles, as had Sam and Bonnie Jones. The Litzenberg boys were still around, as were most of my old friends, and with the help of good sunshine I was feeling better each day. With no results from the War Department, I decided to shoot another wire of resignation. The first one they evidently threw in the waste basket. What I am going to do, I don’t know, but I want to be free to do it, if only selling pencils on the corner.