Chapter C: R. Edwards, (5)

“A match! A match! A match!” I kept calling, running around and not knowing what to do. Davis hauled forth a box with about eight in it. We had lost our heads absolutely for we were too excited to remember that we had such a thing as gasoline on board. Jumping around like a pair of ducks on a hot stove, we blindly tried to light the fabric on the wings which through the expenditure of a million dollars on experimentation had been made practically fireproof on the surface by the application of noninflammable varnish. We were too dense to take any cognizance of the fact that they continually failed to burn, so, we went ahead making repeated attempts to light the wings. In a minute the last match was gone. There was no hope. I felt like breaking down and crying like a baby. The right side under the motor was still smoldering from the flames in the air, which had been caused by an incendiary bullet striking the carburetor, but had been extinguished by the violent side-slipping of the plane, just as a match is smothered out by being swept through the air. Then Davis had a brilliant idea.

“Hell,” he said, “We’ve got gasoline.” And he jumped up into the pilot’s pit and broke the main gasoline lead and in a second gasoline was spluttering all over the plane like a bubbling fountain.

“Look for another match!” I cried to Davis, and although he knew he had no more, he began to throw things out of his pockets right and left. Among these things there fell a smudge cigarette lighter. These instruments were devised by the French on account of their extreme shortage of matches. The gadget consists of a tiny steel wheel, which strikes a piece of flint, which in turn ignites the smudge. The only trouble with these things is that they do not always work. However, when this fell before me, it was Heaven itself, for I made a high dive and grasping it, began to strike the wheel. It would not ignite. Running back and forth, trying to get the smudge to burn, I began to strike it, pray over it, and do everything else. My kingdom, such as it was, for a light.

“Soak it in gas! Use your bean. Let me have it,” cried Davis, and he snatched it out of my hand and soaked it with gas, but still it would not work. Disgusted, he threw it on the ground with a vehement oath, and took his spite out by trying to kick the rubber tire off one of the landing wheels. Snatching it up again I struck it sharply against a piece of the metal cowling on the motor with the hope that by some miracle this hasty remedy might help it. It was just luck, for something did the work. Whether it was hitting it on the metal or not, I do not guess, but when I gave it a brisk turn it bursted into flame, and my hands also being covered with gasoline, began to burn, too. I dropped it like a piece of hot steel and Davis snatched it up and threw it into the gasoline soaked cockpit. Soon the $20,000 plane was a roaring furnace. It was like the last act of a big motion picture—the criminals at bay were fighting for time against the mob and like the hardboiled leader of the villains laughs in the face of his pursuers while he goes to his self-inflicted death rather than deliver himself, so I turned around, knowing there was no escape from the mob, determined to die in the wreckage. Already Davis was beating it across the field to the left, crying “Come on! Come on!” and so, while I did not have much pep left I started to run toward a sort of rude embankment over toward the left center, which was not over two hundred yards away. Fortunately the burning plane momentarily threw the crowd back, for they knew if there were bombs aboard they would soon explode.

The heavy flying suit was causing me trouble, for I was stumbling through the mud like an intoxicated elephant, but even at that I am inclined, now, to think that I beat the intercollegiate record for the one hundred yards dash. As I rushed around this embankment, I hit something which landed me on the ground in a puddle of mud. What I hit was a horse, which was one of five being ridden by four officers and one sergeant, who had come from another nearby village to get us. These horses stepped all over and around me, and I thought at the time how ironical it was to have endured and lived through the hardships of the morning and have my life crushed out by a horse’s hoofs. It was the same disgustingly disgraceful death that I have always feared since the war, namely of being hit by a Ford automobile on a quiet, country road after coming through the war in safety. However, the horses showed true horse sense and did not step directly upon me. Of course, I stopped. I was already stopped—if not by this sudden impetus, then surely from sheer exhaustion. I got up literally covered with mud.

The senior officer of the party was a true Hun, who had undoubtedly been drinking, for I do not believe otherwise any one, regardless of nationality, could have been so cold-blooded and terrible. He could not recognize that I was American as my flying suit hid my uniform, so, he spoke up in French:

“Qui de vous a brulé l’avion, et ou est votre comrade?” I quite well understood his French, but I felt it would be better policy to say nothing, so I looked absolutely blank. Again he demanded who burned the airplane and where was my comrade, which ultimatum he sharpened by a threatening “Vite! Vite!” I realized that something was necessary on my part, for deafness would be a very lame excuse for any flyer, so, I told him in English that I did not understand him.

“Ah,” he smiled in delight, finding his prize had been even greater than he had expected, “then you are English or American. Which?”

He said this in perfect English, which upset my whole scheme of reticence, for it did not occur to me that he spoke still a third language. I said nothing, but looked at the ground, contemplating my reply.

“American or British?” he demanded.

I was proud of my nationality, so, looking up, I threw out my chest and exclaimed, “I’m American.”

I expected him to immediately recognize the strength of my citizenship, just as the wise old Biblical character, whoever he was, got out of a tight hole by saying that he was a Roman. I had a surprise awaiting me, however, for he gave me a cynical laugh that gave him an opportunity to divert from the subject in mind.

“So you are an American, are you?” he sneeringly went on. “Well, I’ve lived in your America ten years, myself, and I know you all. You’re a rotten bunch of lying hypocrites.”

Strange as it may seem I did not see fit to take issue with him under the circumstances, so, he went on with another little round of abuse of the Americans that made my blood boil, but again I failed to go to the bat for my country. Thinking he had sufficiently riled me, he started on the subject of more vital importance.

“Now, which one of you burned that plane?” he sharply demanded.

Again I said nothing, but I thought a lot, for since he was getting so individualistic about it, I was convinced that we were in a pretty serious situation; yet I knew I was going to have to answer that question. I was hoping that if Davis was caught he would say that he did it and I knew that Davis was human, and was hoping that I would say that I did it.

He interrupted my silent study. “Are you going to answer?” he growled.

What would I say to get by? I decided to spar.

“It burned itself,” was my brilliant repartee.

“Don’t lie to me,” he hissed. “It might have been afire when you started down, but we saw you go back and burn it.”

“Well, if you saw me go back and burn it, why did you ask me who did it?” I unthoughtedly retorted, and then I was sorry for if at first I thought him fierce, he had now become an irate demon.

“You did do it then, eh?” he said persuasively, as he slowly looked around to his companions in order that they might bear witness to my confession.

“What’s the use,” I thought to myself, so, I looked him squarely in the eyes and said, “Yes, I did it.”

“Ah!” and he again looked around, shaking his head with intermingled scorn and pride that he, the Prussian, had been able to bulldoze an American. “Didn’t you know that the moment that plane hit the ground, it became German property and that you wilfully destroyed German material?”

I most emphatically told him that I did not know it, for while I convicted myself on my previous confession, I didn’t intend to sign my own decree of execution. He assumed a slightly conciliatory attitude.

“Now,” he continued, “where is your partner, or comrade?”

I told him that I did not know.

“Oh, yes you do,” he argued, coaxingly.

After a little dickering dispute, I looked him squarely in the eyes and said, “I do not know.”

Then he became fierce again. “Don’t lie to me,” he snarled in rage. “You do know and you are going to tell me.”

I became pretty well convinced that my days were done for, so consequences momentarily did not matter. It was more than I could stand, for this was a matter that not only insulted my character as a soldier, but my integrity as a man—that he should call upon me to divulge the hiding place of my friend and my comrade-in-arms. In spite of the effort to control my temper, it flared up like a tire-pressure indicator and in a daring attitude, I exclaimed, “I don’t know and if I did know I would not tell you.”

He flew into a white rage. “Is that so?” and he quickly reached back to his hip and pulled out a Leugger, the most deadly German automatic pistol, and with fiery eyes he put it right at my heart, the barrel even touching my clothing. I admit I inwardly swooned; in fact, I almost fainted for, while all the time I thought I was going eventually to be killed, I had no idea that there was going to be any snappy action like this. He meant business; there was no argument about that. His very attitude and the decisiveness with which he drew out the gun and the way he put his finger on the trigger convinced me that to spar was to die. If there was any chance at all, it lay in silence. He must have time to cool down or something else must intervene; so, like a weak sister I looked at him, just hoping.

“Are you going to talk or not?” he began quietly and I have never heard words uttered more decisively. I knew quite well that Davis had gone over to the left. One thing was certain, while above all things else I would not tell where he was, at the same time I was not exactly prepared to die. Since I was to die some time it could just as well be later, so, looking over to the right, in exactly the opposite direction in which Davis had gone, I noticed a clump of trees about three hundred yards away. In an attitude indicating that I was only telling to save my own life, I pointed to the clump and breathlessly whispered, “Over there.”

He hastily gave some directions in German, and leaving me with one officer and the sergeant, he and the other two officers hurriedly galloped off toward the location I had pointed out. During this little entertainment quite a crowd had gathered around and as the tenseness was relieved, they immediately began ejaculating and mumbling in great fashion, completely surrounding me. Looking through the crowd my gaze was following the horses and surmising what my next move would be when they reached there and found I had deliberately lied.

When they were almost to the spot I had designated, we suddenly heard quite a noticeable scramble over to the left and looking over that way I saw that they had caught Davis and he was being escorted toward town, followed by a portion of the mob. Hearing the same noise, the arrogant Prussian stopped his steed and wheeling around, saw Davis had been caught in just exactly the opposite direction from that to which I had pointed. He knew instantly that I had deliberately pranked him at pistol’s point. In Western cowboy fashion he gave his horse the spurs and drawing his Leugger back over his shoulder came madly galloping toward me. I knew what was going to happen. There was not a chance in the world; and the crowd around me also knew what was going to happen because they made a clearing just as the gamblers miraculously disappear when some one pulls a revolver in the game. Standing alone I awaited the inevitable.

As the fatal moment approached—suddenly there came from somewhere a sharp voice and from the crowd there rode forth another officer with a flowing purplish-gray cloak about him, the kind German officers sometimes wear when mounted, crying “Halte! Halte!” or something similar. It was a voice of command. The onrushing Prussian, riding past at his terrific momentum, dismounted and saluted. In a fast and furious manner this superior officer spoke to him in a well-modulated voice, but with a manner and expression, which, though I could not understand a word of German, I quite well knew was nothing else than a plain balling-out.

After about three minutes, in which our would-be assassin saluted ten or twelve times, he put his gun in its holster, re-mounted his horse and slinkingly rode away. Then this superior officer addressed something generally to the crowd, in reply to which one soldier stepped out, saluted smartly and after some directions by the officer, proceeded to explain to me, in broken English, that the officer wanted to apologize for the uncalled for conduct of the first German officer. After a little hesitation, I was surrounded by a proper German escort and marched over toward Davis—going where and for what I did not know—but trembling like a cur dog with delirium tremens—too afraid to be frightened.

IX
THE COURT OF INQUIRY

Like many other brazen Americans I felt throughout the war that in spite of the loss of my friends all about me, and the precautions repeatedly urged, that I was the one bird, who, alone, was exempt from mishap and misfortune. Undoubtedly the good fortune that always attended me caused me to adopt the viewpoint that my good luck was perpetual. Well, as a matter of fact, I still think that way to-day.

Such a thing as my ever becoming a prisoner of war in Germany was absolutely foreign to me. It had not even interested me, so, I had paid very little attention to the reports on the treatment of prisoners and I honestly did not know whether the prisoners were slowly starved to death or killed for some act which they had or had not individually committed, or what not. It was terrible at best. At any rate, I was convinced that it was bad enough that one could well afford to be desperate in taking chances to escape. So, when I finally, in spite of my confidence in my continued good luck, was taken prisoner on September 30, 1918, I immediately decided that I would escape no matter what the cost.

Upon being captured Davis and I were first marched down to a nearby airdrome—the den of our captors. There they dragged out a German automobile, which had steel, spring wheels. A very young and fat German boy, who, by the way, was an officer, climbed in first and told us to follow. Of course, we did; and soon we were off for somewhere. This youngster was a genuine pighead—he tried to be a Hun but did not know how and reminded me very much of a newly made Second Lieutenant. Like all other German officers he had the Iron Cross, which he wore complete and as he spoke a little English, I decided that the wisest move for me, was to find out just how much.

I had a hunch that the kid had probably just recently gotten his Iron Cross and might be glad to make a few remarks at the proper opening. So, pointing to the Cross and speaking rapidly, I asked, “What does that signify?”

He did not get me. His answer was a cool stare as if I had transgressed sacred laws. So, I again smiled and tried this time very slowly, “What is that?”

“Ach,” and his flabby cheeks shook like a mold of jelly on a frosty morning, as we bounced along, “dot iss der Deutschen Iron Cross.”

“Oh, my! The Iron Cross,” and I smiled with evident pride at our association. “You are very valiant.”

The youngster was flattered by my expression, though he did not grasp the words. This was what I was after. I could now converse safely with Davis, my pilot, if I spoke fast enough. So, turning to Davis I started to talk, but the kid rose up in all his dignity of rank and called a halt. In painful English he told us that communication between prisoners was absolutely “verboten.” We, of course, acquiesced most gracefully. I wanted to ask Davis especially if he had yet admitted burning the plane, because I already had admitted that I did it myself and if there was any one to be killed for the offense I could see no reason for both of us dying. This was information so vital that it had to be gotten to Davis in spite of any rulings of any school kid, German officer accompanying us. At the same time it was not my intention to purposely antagonize our friend at this particular time, so with a very sweet smile I turned to this German and looking directly into his eyes as if speaking only to him, I rapidly, but convincingly orated:

“Davis, while I’m talking to this distinguished young Prussian, looking him straight in the eye, and I am talking so fast he has no idea what I’m saying, I want to ask you an important question and I want you to answer it right away and look at him as if you were speaking to him when you answer it, for he can speak about as much of our language as a clam. These Germans claimed that when that plane hit the ground it became German property and that in burning it, we have wilfully destroyed German property and the penalty is probably death. Now I’ve already admitted that I burned it, so, if they ask you who destroyed it you must say that I did it, in order that we may not both get stuck for the same offense.”

Meanwhile I was making motions with my hands, shoulders, face, brow, mouth, nose, and ears, and looking directly at the German officer, as if I were performing for his benefit. The kid was dumbfounded—things were happening fast. Davis played his part like a trained actor and began to address this German, speaking very rapidly, and in a similar manner, while the poor German was shaking his head and hopelessly crying, “You are talking too fast; I do not hear you; I cannot understand what you say.”

But Davis told me that I was a damned fool, that he had told them he had burned the plane and that if there was going to be any suffering done we would both do it together. Believe me, that boy’s actions all through our experience endeared him to me forever, as a brave man and an honest, genuine fellow. However, when we got that one across our first custodian, I felt pretty much relieved for a great burden had been lifted from my mind. After all, I guess, there is a great deal of comfort in companionship even in trouble and misery.

We shot along those roads on that steel-wheeled bus at a remarkable speed. Quite soon we were at Montmedy, which was the headquarters of the 5th German Army. Undoubtedly here we were to be interviewed and sure enough we were taken into the large room in the front of the headquarters building, but, to our great surprise we were left for a few moments by ourselves as the force was out to lunch. I immediately threw off my flying “teddy bear” and hastily ran through my pockets and in spite of standing orders for flyers never to have written communications on their person, while flying over the lines, I found one order which would have given a great deal of aid and comfort to the enemy. I took this order, which was on very thin paper, and rapidly folding it, taking a match from the table I lighted a cigarette and then burned the order. The few other things I had were not important, but at that I wanted to destroy everything. I had thrown my map in the burning plane, so my conscience was clear that I had done my duty all around as far as I was able. We were quite sure that the room had audiphones so we said nothing. As I was about to throw such other stuff as I had in the stove, the kid came in. I simply slipped my hand in my pocket and looked innocent. Then a very suave, English-speaking German Lieutenant came in and told us that he had been a prisoner of war in Russia and had just been released; that he felt sorry for all the prisoners of war, and wanted to tell us not to believe everything we had heard about the German atrocities and that since we were Americans we would be well taken care of, fed, etc., for Germany wanted America to feel that America and “Deutschland” were the best of friends. His line was so smooth that I was sure that he told the same gag to everyone else, regardless of nationality. This intelligence officer was a very smooth article for instead of talking shop, he stated that if we would be so kind as to give him such things as we had in our pockets there would be no necessity to search us. By this time, he was welcome to everything I had on me. Then he told us that he wanted us to be his guests at tea that afternoon at five o’clock. We had no choice in the matter, so, told him we would be very pleased to accept his kind invitation.

It was about one o’clock then, and the kid took us in our steel-wheeled “lizzy” to the prison camp, which was to be our new home. I must say that ostensibly they treated us lovely in every way, and outside of the fact that our home was not in the same class with Riverside Drive or Orange Grove Avenue, it wasn’t so bad. We were incarcerated without ceremony and the kid left us after many assurances of his kind offices. No one came in to attend to us, so, I finally pounded on the door until some one did come. It was the interpreter, who informed us that we were too late for anything to eat as only enough food was prepared for those on hand and they did not know we were coming, whereupon Davis and I sat down to wait until night for something real to eat, meanwhile anticipating, with a great deal of pleasure our tea we were to have in the afternoon.

As I sat there on that old bench I really had my first opportunity for quiet reflection. In spite of the convincing environments I could not bring myself to believe that I was actually a prisoner of war.

This camp at Montmedy was some place. It was a rectangular affair, enclosing about an acre. Around this rectangle was a very heavy barbed-wire fence about twelve feet high, and about four feet within this was another big high fence and within this enclosure, at the four corners, were four separate buildings, each of which was surrounded by two huge wire fences, similar to those on the outside. In one of these houses lived the lord of the domain, the Director of the Prison Camp, a Sergeant in the German Army; in the second was the kitchen where they prepared the luscious food for the prisoners, and in which there was also located the quarters for the guards, where they lived, slept and smoked their German tobacco; in the third building there were bunks for enlisted men who were taken prisoners; and in the fourth were the Non-Commissioned and Commissioned officers who were prisoners, and in this last named building were Davis and I.

We had been so down in the mouth upon actually entering this prison camp that we had little to say. Finally I arose from my old bench, shook myself like a dog after his nap, and in a graveyard tone of voice said, “Davis, we’re prisoners of war,” and we wept on each other’s shoulders like sob sisters. When we got tired of that I walked to the door which was solid, turned the latch and, since no one interfered, walked on outside.

Walking about I took occasion to examine the heavy barbed wire surrounding us. There was nothing else to do, so, I kept walking along, glancing at the wire. It looked rather solid and was sunk rather deep in the ground. It was not encouraging. Then I had a real treat for as I walked along I saw a bunch of American doughboy prisoners, most of them privates, part of them barefooted, being escorted by the camp guard. Believe me, they looked good. I hollered to them and asked them how long they had been in and they answered they had been taken only a few days before, so, I told them I had been taken only that morning. In great eagerness, they demanded to know how the drive was coming along.

“Oh, boy,” I yelled as they passed along, “we’ve sure got the Hun on the run.”

About that time the German Sergeant Interpreter rushed out—“The Hell you have,” he madly screamed. “Get inside.” I took orders from a Sergeant.

He came after me and I didn’t know whether he was going to browbeat me or not, but I had a strong hunch that it would be an advantageous idea to change the subject, so, I started to talk about what we were going to have to eat and he again surely informed me that we were too late, that they had not made any preparations for us and that we would not get anything to eat until that night. That subject apparently didn’t interest him. I tried another.

“Where’s the barber shop?” I asked

Here was a new field for him. He asked us if we would like to buy a razor and some soap and some cigarettes. The old boy liked a little money, that was clear. Here was a chance to eat perhaps, so, I encouraged his mercenary inclinations.

“No,” I went on, “but I would gladly buy a ham sandwich.”

He was taken back aghast at my not knowing it was impossible to obtain food for love or money, except as rationed by the Government. So, I thought it would be a good idea to play up to the old boy, and smiling, I told him, “Sure, I’ll buy a razor.” We gave him some French money to get changed into German marks and after a while he brought our purchase—a very small piece of pure, lye soap, which we used for both shaving and washing, and which cost us exactly eighty-five cents. It was about the size of the individual cakes of soap you get in a hotel. I realized that the Germans must be quite short on soap for this stuff left our faces in about the same condition as one might expect from a massage with Dutch Cleanser—indeed, this was the real dutch cleanser.

In a little while an orderly came around and brought us our beds, which consisted of a couple of old blankets and one dilapidated mattress filled with wood shavings. Then he brought some wood and made a fire in the very heavy brick stove. We were so chilly that when he made the fire I kept on feeding it in order to get warm. It was not very long until the orderly came back again and we persuaded him to get us a little pack of cards, whereupon Davis and I sat down and played Solitaire and Casino, and meanwhile we took turns at getting up and putting another little stick of wood on the fire. By about four o’clock we had used up all the wood, so I went out and hollered to the orderly, but he did nothing but shake his head. The sergeant came and I told him that we wanted some more wood. It did not concern him, for he said that we had used our allowance for twenty-four hours and could have no more until noon the next day. I began to swear and asked him why he had not told us that instead of freely putting it in there as if we could have all we wanted. He admitted it might have been more prudent to tell us, but at the same time he wouldn’t give us any more wood. After all he wasn’t a bad old duck, for he wasn’t cruel—he was just over-imbued with this old, German, military régime of austerity which believed in the letter of the law absolutely. In other words, it had his goat.

A little while later on the same steel-wheeled bus came rolling up and in it were three immaculately groomed officers with nice shoulder-straps, purplish-gray cloaks, and everything. All spoke perfect English, and as they were introduced they stood rigidly at attention and gave a snappy salute. The leader spoke up in the most elegant English and said perhaps we were not so unfortunate after all, as we would be well taken care of by the Germans; that they were German-Americans who had come to Germany at the outbreak of the war, long before America had entered, and since they had not heard from their folks for a long time they thought perhaps we might be from their section of the country and could give them some idea as to the welfare of their kinsmen. This did not sound fishy to me; at least, not so far as I could see, so we did not lie to them—I told them that the German people as a whole were being well taken care of in America, being interned in well-kept detention camps, and that no harshness was permitted by the Government except in cases of spies or traitors, in which case they were arbitrarily shot. I did not know whether that affected any of their kinsmen or not, but at the word “shot” they all looked at one another in a very sickly way.

After some remarks about the awful weather they started to leave, the leader remarking that they just wanted to come out and pay their respects and see that we were getting along all right, and that if at any time we wanted anything just to let them know. My mind was not on these empty formalities—it was on the fact that we had a chance to provide for our own welfare, so I took them at their word.

“That is so kind of you,” I smiled. “There are several little things you might do for us now. We would like to have some wood to keep us warm for the rest of the night, we would like to have something to eat, we would like to have some better blankets to sleep on, we would like to have a better mattress and would like to have some fresh water, and if it would not be too much bother we would like to have that slop pan outside cleaned up so that it will not smell so bad—Oh, yes,” I went on, “we would also like to have some exercise and some books or newspapers to read, and I, personally, would like to write a letter to my folks.”

They looked somewhat dazed, so I ended my modest requests and said, “I think that is all we need right now.”

They again looked at one another in a funny manner, as if to indicate that I was not lacking in the power of expressing my wants. I thought their parting sympathy was all bunk, but surprisingly enough they gave instructions to the sergeant to give us some more wood and promised that they would send us some newspapers. When it came to eats, they balked.

“Food is something,” they explained, “over which we have no control.”

“But, as a matter of fact,” the leader went on, “you really would not have time to eat anything, as you are soon to go to headquarters to meet the Staff, and you will undoubtedly have tea there.”

They left and after a while the tin-wheeled bus came again and under proper escort we went back to Montmedy. There we had “tea,” which consisted of tea, about which the Germans constantly reminded us that it was exceedingly hard to get on account of the blockade, and that it was, indeed, a decided luxury and that we should appreciate that we were being served real tea. The rest of the “tea” was German war bread, which the Intelligence Officer admitted was bad for the stomach and was much better toasted, and then we had diminutive portions of confiture and butter, served individually, and as a finale we had cigarettes and sugar. They also offered us some liquor, which neither of us accepted, for we realized that the time of our interrogation was at hand, and since the usual trend of liquor is toward the tongue it was better not to imbibe, for we didn’t want to talk any more than was absolutely necessary. They did not insist on our breaking the water wagon vows, and it’s a good thing they didn’t, for while I cannot speak for Davis, I, personally, know that my nervous and physical condition was such that I could not have withstood a great deal of persuasion on such sensitive subjects.

In the midst of our “tea bacchanal” the door opened and we saw standing before us a full-fledged German aviator, whose face was nicked and scarred from the great German pastime of fencing. Although wonderfully straight and well-built, with a face and jaw that spelled determination and strength, his eyes possessed all the hellishness and heinousness of a Hun. We were introduced, whereupon this young Flying Lieutenant clicked his heels together and gave us a salute almost as perfect as the world-famous salute of General Pershing.

After some sort of a framed-up conversation, the flyer sat down and the Intelligence Officer explained to us that the flyers and the anti-aircraft artillery and the machine gun crews had been in a controversy as to who should have the credit for bringing us down and that this Lieutenant had contended that the Squadron which he commanded was responsible; and he wanted to find out who it actually was that gained this victory. This did not seem to interest the other German-American officers present, so they excused themselves and left. The only remaining officer who spoke English was the Intelligence Officer; the young, battle-scarred Lieutenant, to the best of our knowledge, did not. So when the Intelligence Officer stated that this Lieutenant was in one of the four planes that was firing on us when we finally went down, Davis went to pieces and snapped out the impertinent question, “And was he one of the four who fired on us after we were already shot down?”

The flyer conceded that all four of them fired at us, but that they were certainly not trying to kill us but were merely trying to keep us from escaping. This was too sad an excuse to get by. Davis told him that he didn’t care a hang who got the credit for shooting us down—we were down and that was all there was to that subject—but that in the American Army it was considered mighty poor to strike a man when he was already down. The Intelligence Officer was surprised and scornfully asked me if the Americans did not do exactly the same thing. Davis reared back like a rattlesnake about to strike and with eyes flashing fire of indignation and contempt told them that if an American Aviator was caught doing a thing like that—firing on the enemy when he was already down—that the Americans, themselves, would take their own countryman out and, without giving him the pleasure of being shot to death, would tar and feather him and hang him, for to an American, when a fellow was down he was down, and whether we were fighting a war or not, we wouldn’t stand for murdering any one in cold blood. I saw we were getting in Dutch, right off, and so did Davis, for as the Intelligence Officer explained it to the high-spirited flyer we could see his temples throb and his eyes quiver from anger; and his jaws closed with hatefulness and scorn. The Intelligence Officer, realizing that the conversation was getting into deeper channels than was especially desired for the occasion, told the German aviator something and without saluting or otherwise rendering military courtesy, he left the room.

There remained only the Intelligence Officer, Davis and myself. The court of inquiry was in session—the suave Prussian on the bench and two obstinate American jailbirds in the pit. The German told us to help ourselves to the cigarettes, and believe me, we realized that it might be the last time we would have such a liberal invitation for, maybe, many months to come. We accepted. Take it from me, we certainly smoked—rapidly, but at the same time languidly. We consumed those cigarettes like a Vacuum Cleaner takes up dust. When we had depleted the supply of twenty the Intelligence Officer produced twenty more.

As a hard and fast rule a prisoner should never talk. In this way it is certain that no information will be given out. Once in a great while a prisoner can do some good by talking—I am sure that no American ever told, deliberately, any true information, either voluntarily or under pressure or even threat of execution; but a great deal of dope was gained through subterfuge, or from the ordinary man who foolishly tried to spar against the keen mind of the officer who has made a life study of that particular work. Thus our case was different, for as an Operations Officer of an Army I also was versed in intelligence work. At least, I had an equal chance.

As usual, the first ruse of the German was to find the location of our airdrome, for, since they found an identification tag on Davis, they knew his squadron was the 104th. Of course, I didn’t belong to that squadron, but I said nothing, for the reason that it would serve no useful purpose to dispute this presumption. He showed us some absolutely marvelous photographs of our airdrome taken by German cameras at extremely high altitudes and also pictures of other airdromes close by. I recognized them all right, but, believe me, I gave no signs of it.

After about thirty-five minutes of dickering with those photographs in which he tried by every possible manner and means to catch a clue as to the location of our airdrome, he pulled the very subtle change in conversation from airdromes to the general feeling about the war. He wanted to know what schools we had attended and what subjects we had taken, and what Americans did for diversion in their colleges, whether or not they fenced, and then he nicely asked us to explain a little about football; in other words, perfectly harmless questions. We gladly talked football, but kept on the alert lest we be taken unawares. Suddenly in the midst of these immaterial questions and discussions about our schools, customs and life in general, from a clear sky and in a very nonchalant manner, came a new surprise.

“Oh, about your relatives and friends,” he remarked sympathetically—“they will be very worried to hear that you have been reported missing in action.” We both agreed to that, of course. “Well,” he went on as if he had been inspired by a solution, “if you wish to write a little note to some of your friends back in the squadron the German flyers will very gladly drop the messages over the lines on the next patrol, which will be to-night. You see,” and he cleared his throat by way of emphasis, “by this method your parents and your friends will not worry; otherwise, they may think you have been killed.”

I was surprised, really, at this ostensible kindness—it was attractive enough to bear investigating. As a matter of fact, the recent illness of my mother convinced me that she could not withstand the shock of my reported casualty. I immediately decided that if it was possible to adopt this expedient news service, provided I did not have to give any military information, I would do so. Like every boy, I knew that the one person in the world who loved me most was my mother. She had a right to know. So, accepting his pencil, I wrote very rapidly:

“To Any Allied Officer or Man:

Kindly Notify American General Headquarters that Lieutenants Raymond
Davis and Elmer Haslett, Air Service, are safe prisoners of war in
Germany.”

He took it, read it, and in a business-like manner wrote something over it by way of endorsement, which, he explained, meant “Censored,” and handing it back to me I read what I had written to Davis. Calling a man, who like all the other Germans we had seen so far, gave a smart salute upon entering, the officer handed him the note and muttered something in German, then hypocritically smiling, he assured us that he was sending the message direct to the airdrome to be dropped over the lines by the next patrol. His matter-of-fact attitude led us to believe that everything was a matter of course, and the incident was closed. However, after the soldier had been gone a few seconds the officer jumped up, hastened to the door and called him back. The man handed him our note and, hastily glancing at the address, the Lieutenant said smilingly, “Oh, you know, you neglected to write on the note where you want it dropped,” and handing me a pencil he continued quite concernedly, “Lucky I thought of it, wasn’t it?”

I began to see the gleam and color of the snake in the grass. So I wrote on it “France.” I knew he expected to see the name of our airdrome on there, so after a cynical laugh he tried to look serious, although he well realized that he was being outmaneuvered.

“Oh, you know,” he explained, “you must make it more definite than that. Where are your friends? That would be the place to drop it.”

Whereupon I told him to write upon it “Paris.”

“Oh!” and he manifested complete surprise, “you have come from Paris?”

I laughingly told him that I had been there, and then he grew serious, but did not show any anger.

“Now really,” and he looked directly at Davis, as if to solicit some aid from him, “you should tell us your airdrome, for instance, which would be the best place to drop it.”

Davis told him that we really did not know the name of our airdrome, or its location. This was a good hunch, and backing Davis up with our mutual ignorance, I told him that if he dropped the message anywhere over the lines it would certainly be found, and while we, ourselves, were not very well known in France, having been there only a very short time, the American General Headquarters was well known and our names were on record at Headquarters. He was nonplussed, for his last card had been played and the location of our airdrome had not yet been divulged.

The Germans were, of course, anxious to find out the location of our airdrome for the reason that if by collaboration of information they found that several squadrons had been moved from other places to airdromes opposite their own front they would know that the forces were concentrating at a particular point and that something was likely to pop. Thus, it gave them the opportunity to distribute their own strength accordingly. He had failed on this, so he started out on new tasks.

“How do you like Rickenbacker?” he said very casually, by way of changing the subject.

“Who?” I questioned disinterestedly.

“Rickenbacker, your greatest flyer—Squadron 94,” he added in surprise at my ignorance, and corresponding pride at his own intelligence.

“New one on me—never heard of it,” I replied.

“Never heard of the 94th?” he ejaculated, even more surprised. “Well, the 94th is your best chasse squadron and,” he continued, by way of demonstrating his superior knowledge, “the 12th is your best observation squadron, the 96th is your best bombing squadron and the 91st is your best surveillance squadron. As a matter of fact, by following the movements of these four organizations we pretty well know where your main body of aviation is concentrated.”

A hasty reflection taught me that the old boy had the situation pretty well sized up, for, indeed, he had accurately named our most famous squadrons in their particular work.

However, I still professed ignorance.

“So you don’t know Rickenbacker?” he proceeded. “I can also tell you something about him.” Whereupon he enlightened me by the statement that Eddie was a German, born in Germany and educated while a boy in German schools—all of which he pointed out as the reasons for Rickenbacker’s superior skill and efficiency. But the Fatherland was completely off with “Rick” in spite of their proud—but, by the way, unfounded—claim of nationality. The Intelligence Officer told me that they considered him an absolute traitor to the Fatherland.

Another potent reason, he explained, was that they emphatically believed that Rickenbacker’s tactics of burning balloons at night was inhuman, since the poor balloon observers did not even have a chance to get away with their lives. It was at this time that Lieutenant Frank Luke was at the height of his marvelous success of burning German balloons at night, but they had blamed it all on “Rick.” In fact, it could easily be gathered from what he said that Luke had the German balloonists’ goat so well haltered that many of them refused to go up for night observation, and naturally the command was worried.

As I told Rickenbacker afterward, there certainly would have been a crowd around the fire if he had been shot down in Germany, for he was the one man for whom they were all looking, for more reasons than one.

After again emphatically denouncing “Rick” for his “inhuman tactics” he changed the conversation and asked me how many Americans we had in France.

“That is a matter we do not care to discuss,” I said in a manner indicating that while we knew positively the exact number we wished to sidetrack the issue.

He momentarily permitted it.

“Your losses by our submarines must have been appalling,” he said, not forcing the subject.

I told him that our losses by their submarines had not been nearly so great as their losses by their own submarines. This was Greek to him, so he asked me what I meant, and I explained to him that while their submarines were causing us some damage all right, and a lot of worry, yet they were also responsible for our being in France and that if the American Army had not already caused them all the losses and all the worry they could possibly withstand that it soon would. He was very anxious to impress upon us that he believed that the policy of Von Tirpitz was all wrong and he admitted that Germany realized that she could not win with America in the war. “To Germany,” he said, “it is now a proposition of defense.”

Then Davis calmly proceeded to tell him that if Germany ever wanted to save herself she had better throw up her hands quick, because in 1920 the Allies were certainly going to give her a walloping blow from Switzerland to the sea.

“Ah,” he said, “1920 is a long way off. How many Americans will you have here in 1920?”

I looked at Davis, hesitated a second as if calculating, then said, “Let’s see—we have three million five hundred thousand here now; we ought to have seven million by that time.” Then I assumed a sheepish-looking attitude, as if I had said something which should have been kept secret. He looked at me a moment in amazement, then laughingly said:

“You are joking. You have not three million five hundred thousand here now.”

I nodded my head affirmatively, while Davis chirped up, “That’s right.”

“In France?” he gasped.

“Yes, in France,” I repeated.

“Oh, no. It is not possible. How do you know?” he exclaimed.

With a perfectly straight face I told him that the only way I knew was that every man who came across was given a number as he sailed, and that I had been in France only two weeks, and that my number was 3,246,807, and I was quite sure that the difference had been made up. If he had asked me to repeat those figures I couldn’t have done it to save my life. He looked thoughtfully at the floor, which gave Davis and me the opportunity to smile and wink at our little joke.

“How long do you think the war will last?”

I bowed my head and rubbed along my temples as if in deep thought, then suddenly looking up at him as if some muse had given me a correct solution of the problem, I told him that while it was very hard to tell accurately, most Americans felt that it would be not less than three years and not over five. The officer threw back his hands in utter horror like a spinster at her first view of a t. b. m. production.

“Three years more of this Hell?” he said. “Ugh! It will be not more than three months.”

I agreed with him entirely, although I did not say so.

“Three months?” I said in surprise. “Do you think you will win this war in three months?”

“No, Germany will not win the war,” he sighed in apparent regret, “but we will quit, for we cannot win. We lost our last chance when he failed to get to Paris in July.”

Seeing that we were evidently interested, he thought that it was the proper time to get down to the real subject of “intelligence,” but we, too, were prepared.

“Do your aviators know everything that is taking place?” he asked. “Yes,” answered Davis, “our aviators are very intelligent. The command has great confidence in them”; “and,” I added, “in fact, aviators see a copy of every Army order issued.”

“You knew, then,” he continued, “that you had attacked from Verdun to Rheims and the French from Rheims to Soissons and the British from Soissons to the sea.”

“Yes,” I said, “I know that the Allies have attacked all along.” And, as a matter of fact, I did, but most of our flyers did not, and it was only on account of the nature of my work that I knew this information. But I also knew that for some time past Marshal Foch had been pulling a big, strategic fake down in the Vosges mountains from Lunéville to the Swiss border, a very quiet sector, by displaying an unusual amount of activity in the parading of empty motor trucks back and forth to the front, which, of course, could not have been unnoticed by the Germans and necessarily caused them much concern. As a matter of fact, I knew that those trucks were empty and were being paraded only to create the impression that the Allies were getting ready to attack in that sector. Intelligence reports that I had read previous to my capture stated that the Germans were looking forward to this attack and that some of the newspapers had even mentioned it. So, when he fired his next question I, too, had my little pop-gun all ready, cleaned, oiled, primed, bored, trigger pulled, cocked, aimed, set and loaded to the brim with T.N.T., triple forced dynamite, and I let him have it.