Volume I
World War I
By
C. Douglas Sterner
This is a Hall of Heroes electronic book, and is available for free download and printing from
www.HomeOfHeroes.com. You may print and distribute this book in quantity for all nonprofit, educational purposes.
Copyright © 2003 by HomeOfHeroes.com
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Table of Contents
PREFACE
TWELVE SECONDS THAT CHANGED HISTORY
INTRODUCTION ....................................................................................................................1
The Birth Of Military Aviation ...................................................................................1
Knights Of The Skies! ................................................................................................8
Lafayette Escadrille ..................................................................................................10
Raoul Lufbery ...........................................................................................................10
Saving Democracy ....................................................................................................11
Hat In The Ring Squadron ........................................................................................12
FRANK LUKE
The Balloon Buster ...................................................................................................14
The Western Front - 1918 .........................................................................................15
St. Mihiel...................................................................................................................22
Madman From Arizona .............................................................................................31
"The Last Straw" .......................................................................................................35
Epithet For A Gunslinger ..........................................................................................36
FOR THE MEN ON THE GROUND
Lost Battalion Of WWI.............................................................................................41
The Meuse-Argonne Campaign ................................................................................43
The First Pocket ........................................................................................................45
Runner Lines And Carrier Pigeons ...........................................................................47
An Unlikely Hero ......................................................................................................55
Help From Above .....................................................................................................58
CAPTAIN EDDIE RICKENBACKER
America's Ace Of Aces .............................................................................................70
Little Eddie................................................................................................................75
Becoming A Man ......................................................................................................76
Fast Eddie..................................................................................................................78
The German Spy .......................................................................................................79
Rickenbacher, The Pilot ............................................................................................81
The Hat In The Ring Squadron .................................................................................83
In Pursuit Of First Place ............................................................................................87
St. Mihiel Offensive ..................................................................................................95
Seven-To-One ...........................................................................................................97
Scourge Of The Sky ..................................................................................................98
The Big Dog Fight ..................................................................................................100
The Finish Line .......................................................................................................103
COLONEL BILLY MITCHELL
An Aerial Armada ...................................................................................................107
Lieutenant Billy Mitchell ........................................................................................110
Billy Mitchell, American Spy .................................................................................114
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
P
Prreeffaaccee
Billy Mitchell, The Pilot .........................................................................................115
Billy Mitchell, Firsts ...............................................................................................116
The U.S. Army Air Service.....................................................................................119
St. Mihiel And An Aerial Armada ..........................................................................124
FIGHT FOR SURVIVAL
The Battle At Home ................................................................................................128
S.N.A.F.U. ..............................................................................................................129
The Crowell Report.................................................................................................131
The Transcontinental Reliability Test .....................................................................134
Army Vs. Navy .......................................................................................................136
The Pre-Game .........................................................................................................140
Kickoff ....................................................................................................................142
Two-Minute Warning .............................................................................................146
The First Exile.........................................................................................................151
Kill The Messenger .................................................................................................153
Perhaps An Explosion .............................................................................................155
USS Shenandoah .....................................................................................................155
The Court-Martial Of Billy Mitchell ......................................................................158
Testimony From A Navy Widow ...........................................................................166
Conclusion: .............................................................................................................175
CHARLES LINDBERGH
The Lone Eagle .......................................................................................................176
The Great 1927 New York To Paris Air Derby ......................................................180
We -- A Man And His Plane ...................................................................................185
Ambassador Without Portfolio ...............................................................................193
The Guggenheim Tour ............................................................................................195
Charles And Anne Lindbergh .................................................................................196
The Albatross ..........................................................................................................198
OLDER HEROES
A Brand New War ..................................................................................................200
Rickenbacker's Atlanta Crash .................................................................................200
December 7, 1941. ..................................................................................................202
Time To Play An Ace .............................................................................................205
Lost At Sea ..............................................................................................................209
New War – New Heroes .........................................................................................222
A New Ace & And Old Hero ..................................................................................223
Lindbergh's Pacific Mission....................................................................................226
EPILOGUE ........................................................................................................................230
APPENDIXES ......................................................................................................................... I
Cher Ami .................................................................................................................... II
Frank Luke Aerial Victories - WWI ....................................................................... VII
Eddie Rickenbacker Aerial Victories - WWI ........................................................ VIII
American Aces Of WWI.......................................................................................... IX
World War I Air Service Organization & Victory Credits ...................................... XI
Bibliography ..........................................................................................................XIII
Homeofheroes.Com Electronic Books.....................................................................Xv
Preface
Twelve Seconds That Changed History
December 17, 1903 - Kitty Hawk, North Carolina
Orville Wright watched the toss of the coin turn in his favor and smiled with satisfaction. He would be the
FIRST to try to do what no man had ever done before...FLY! The elder Wilbur Wright helped his kid brother settle
into the 605-pound frame of their unusual invention. The 13-horsepower engine sputtered to life, turning the bicycle
chains that caused two wooden propellers to rotate. Facing their contraption into the 20-mile per hour freezing wind
that blew across Kill Devil hill, the two self-taught mathematicians and machinists from Dayton, Ohio, felt confident.
Slowly the craft began to move forward on its 60-foot launching track, and then ever so slowly it lifted off the ground.
For twelve seconds their creation defied gravity, traversing 120 feet of distance in the first controlled-power flight.
Three more flights, each successively longer and farther, followed as the brothers took turns enjoying the
success of three years of experimentation. On the fourth flight of the day, Wilbur piloted the aircraft for 59 seconds,
almost a full minute. In that final flight the first successful airplane flew for 852 feet before Wilbur gained the dubious
distinction of being the first pilot to make a crash landing. As the FLYER nosed into the ground, its frail spruce-andmuslin horizontal rudders fell apart. But the day had been a wonderful success; the Wright Brothers had made
history.
Five years later on September 17, 1908, Orville Wright was in the cockpit during a demonstration at Fort
Myer, Virginia. On this day Orville faced disaster, crashing a modified version of their original FLYER. Orville was
injured, and US Army Lieutenant Thomas E. Selfridge, who was along as an observer, was killed. It was a
devastating turn of events causing the Army to delay for six months the delivery of the first military aircraft.
The following summer the Wright brothers fulfilled the first step of their military contract by delivering the first
Army airplane on July 30 after 3 days of flight performance tests. The second portion of their contract called for
training two Army officers as pilots. The first to fly for the US Army were Lieutenants Frank P. Lahm and Frederic E.
Humphreys. Through the fall of 1909, just six years after the birth of powered flight, the first Army aviators were
trained under the guidance of the brothers who had developed the first successful airplane. Within another eight
years the US Army would begin to see results, though the full impact of those results would not be accepted for nearly
half a century.
Perhaps-s the birth of military air power was marked more by politics than anything else. It would cost one
high-ranking pioneer his military career. It cost many more their lives. But through it all there arose a new breed of
American fighting man--adventurers with dreams in the clouds and nerves of steel. These were men beyond
discouragement, determined to prove their mettle, and dedicated to a new kind of warfare. They were the knights of
the sky, the last of the great explorers, and a brotherhood of proud AIRMEN.
1
Introduction
The Birth of Military Aviation
Sergeant Rickenbacker tried to steady himself against the bob and
swell of the lumbering ship that carried the first American soldiers of
General John J. Pershing's American Expeditionary Force to France.
Despite the fact that The Great War had already been fought for three
years, Pershing's AEF would be the inaugural American military presence
on the battlefield.
Rickenbacker himself was a raw recruit. Fame as an American
racecar driver had granted him friends in the right places which in turn had
given him the opportunity to join the contingent whose headquarters'
commander was a young captain named George S. Patton, Jr. The call
had come just two days earlier from Burgess Lewis in New York: "Eddie,
we're organizing a secret sailing to France. We need staff drivers. Would
you like to go?"
"It sounds wonderful, Burgess," Rickenbacker replied. "I'd like to
think about it overnight. Give me a call again at 8:00 in the morning." When
the call came right on schedule, Rickenbacker lined up another driver for
his scheduled run in Cincinnati's Memorial Day 500 race and joined the
troupe of other recruited staff drivers, all of them sergeants, as they
boarded for their Atlantic passage.
Sergeant Rickenbacker's excitement at being among the first
American soldiers to land on French soil since the United States formally declared war on the German Empire the
previous month, was quickly tempered by the condition of his accommodations. The sergeant drivers were billeted on
hammocks loosely strung in steerage. The ship was filthy and when Rickenbacker went for his meals in the mess hall,
he found it even dirtier. Oilcloth covered the Spartan tables and beneath these crawled hordes of bugs. The man who
throughout his life proclaimed, "I'd rather have a million friends than a million dollars," was beginning to wonder what a
friend had gotten him into.
Page 1
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
IIn
nttrrooddu
uccttiioon
n
After forcing down a meal, the dubious sergeant headed for the deck and some fresh air. There he met a
doctor he knew whom he soon learned had garnered a second-class cabin. "You're a sergeant just like me,"
Rickenbacker stated quizzically, "so how do you rate this when I'm down in the hold with the bugs?"
"I'm a sergeant first class," the other replied, making Sergeant Rickenbacker aware for the first time that there
were different types of sergeants in the United States Army.
Next to General Pershing himself, the next highest-ranking officer aboard was Colonel T. F. Dodd, Pershing's
aviation officer. Prior to his abrupt enlistment in the Army, Rickenbacker had met Colonel Dodd and fixed his airplane
motor. Rickenbacker, never shy about asking for what he wanted, went in search of the Colonel and his first
promotion...."After all, I had been in the Army for 48 hours."
Colonel Dodd took in the request with a dutiful ear, and then said, "Promotions come through meritorious
service, Eddie. Now how do you intend to go about that?"
"I don't know, Colonel," Rickenbacker replied flatly. "That's why I brought YOU along."
When the Colonel finished laughing, Sergeant Rickenbacker was spot-promoted to Sergeant First Class
Rickenbacker and assigned to a second-class cabin.
The men who gave birth to American air power were often considered a new breed of soldier:
inventive, impetuous, independent, innovative, and perhaps just a bit brash. Had they been otherwise,
world history may have turned out far different throughout the conflicts and victories of the 20th
century. Sergeant First Class Edward Vernon Rickenbacker may well have exemplified all that the
American airman was in the beginning, and then matured in to all that it would become in the
decades that followed.
Even as Sergeant Rickenbacker was sailing to France and into
American legend and lore, aviation was as green in the world's annals of
military history as the impetuous young sergeant was among the ranks of
the U.S. Army. Less than 14 years had passed since that historic moment
at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, when Orville Wright had, by the fateful
turn of a coin toss, become the first man to pilot a heavier than air
motorized vehicle through the skies for twelve incredible seconds. In those
fourteen years aviation technology had advanced slowly, but it had
advanced. Great strides had been made in Europe largely due to the
ongoing war with the German Empire. Only the United States lagged
behind other world powers in its development of the airplane as a military
weapon, or for that matter, as even a viable means of transportation. A list
of certified pilots at the beginning of 1911 reflected the statistics shown in
the table at the right.
Nation
France
England
Germany
Italy
Belgium
United States
Austria
Holland
Switzerland
Denmark
Spain
Sweden
Pilots
353
57
46
32
27
26
19
6
6
3
2
1
The low number of certified American pilots cannot be interpreted as a total lack of interest in
aviation in the United States. Shortly after the historic moment at Kitty Hawk, the United States
Army demonstrated an interest in the airplane as a tool for its Signal Corps, already well immersed in
tactics from the heavens.
2
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
IIn
nttrrooddu
uccttiioon
n
The first humans to view Earth's landscape from above were the Montgolfier brothers who
in November 1783 floated the first balloon 3,000 feet into the skies above Paris. In the century that
followed, lighter than air balloons gained increasing interest from the world's military tacticians.
In the early 1860s Thaddeus S. C. Lowe, a balloon enthusiast and would be world traveler
in his lighter-than-air creations, found in the American Civil War some of the first military uses
for aircraft. Met with great skepticism, on June 18, 1861, he rose above our Nation's capitol with a
telegraph operator as a passenger to transmit a message half-a-mile below to President Abraham
Lincoln. A few days later, following the Battle of Bull Run, from his perch among the clouds, Lowe
was able to ease worries in the Capitol by reporting that there were no Confederate movements
towards Washington, DC. On July 25, less than two months later, Lowe met with the President
who noted his impression of the experiment by establishing a Balloon Corps.
Lowe is often called the Father of Army Aviation and certainly was
the first major proponent of the use of aircraft in warfare. In his own day
however, despite successful uses of his balloons to observe and report on
Confederate troop movements, every advance for his Balloon Corps was
made only with great effort. He once said, "I would rather have faced the
entire Confederate Army of Northern Virginia defending Richmond, than one
Union Lieutenant, defending his own small bureaucratic territory." The
struggle to build an American air force would continue for nearly a
century, and more than one proponent of air power would feel the truth of
his telling observation of warfare traditionalists.
Thaddeus Lowe continued to be an innovator, developing the first
aircraft carrier-- a barge that could ferry everything necessary to operate his balloons over land.
He was unsuccessful in his attempts to convince the military of the value of aerial photography,
however. Perhaps his greatest success came on July 4, 1863, when President Lincoln personally
promoted him to the rank of Colonel; and the Balloon Corps was officially attached as a branch of
the Army Signal Corps. Thus began the link between airmen and the Signal Corps that would
endure until the United States Army Air Service became its own branch within the US Army on
May 20, 1918.
For the next forty years the use of observation balloons for military purposes continued to
grow beyond Lowe's early concepts. At the turn of the century the eminent secretary of the
Smithsonian Institution, Samuel P. Langley, sought to create a motorized balloon utilizing the new
combustion engines developed for the automobile. He called his creation an Aerodrome, from the
Greek word for "air runner," and launched it to great hype in October 1903. The utter failure of
his effort caused the editorial board of the New York Times to write, "The flying machine which
will really fly might be evolved by the combined and continuous efforts of mathematicians and
mechanicians in from one to ten million years." Two months later, two self-taught mathematicians
and machinists from Dayton, Ohio, named Orville and Wilbur Wright accomplished it at Kitty
Hawk.
3
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
IIn
nttrrooddu
uccttiioon
n
In 1905 the Wright brothers offered their aeronautical invention to the US Government
while awaiting the patent on their flying machine. Twice the government declined the offer--failing
to see any value in the airplane. The following year the brothers received their patent followed by
the interest of a powerful ally. Rumors of the new flying machine had reached the White House,
and President Theodore Roosevelt ordered the U.S. Army to review the matter. On December 23,
1907, Specification No. 486 was issued for a "heavier-than-air flying machine." The result was the
development of the future Air Force's first official individual title, Aeronautical Section of the
Signal Corps.
On August 20, 1908, Orville Wright brought his
1908 Flyer to Fort Myer, Virginia, where he began
regular public flights two weeks later. On September 9
Army Lieutenant Frank P. Lahm flew with the young
inventor becoming the first Army officer to fly as a
passenger in an airplane. A week later on September 17,
Orville was flying with yet another Army officer as his
passenger when the right propeller got caught in a guy
wire causing the 1908 Flyer to crash. Wright was
seriously injured; his passenger, Lieutenant Thomas E. Selfridge died as a result of his own
injuries. It was the first recorded airplane fatality.
By the end of the year 1910, the airplane was seven years old and maturing rapidly. During
that year the Wright brothers signed their contract with the Signal Corps; former President
Theodore Roosevelt took to the air at St. Louis; and an airplane manufacturer named Glenn
Curtiss earned a prize as the first aviator to fly from Albany, New York, to New York City. The
$10,000 award, offered by the New York World, prompted rival publisher, Randolph Hearst, to
offer a $50,000 prize to the first aviator to cross the American continent in thirty days or less. Also
in 1910 on August 20, Lieutenant Jacob E. Fickel fired the first shot from an airplane--aiming his
semi-automatic pistol at a 3' x 5' target at Sheepshead Bay racetrack near New York City from an
altitude of 100 feet.
Italy was first to engage the airplane in military operations using them for reconnaissance
flights in its 1911 Italo-Turkish war in North Africa. The Italian airmen became the first
bombardiers in the same conflict on November 1, and the following January dropped the first
propaganda leaflets from an airplane.
In the first month of the year 1914, the Navy aviation unit from Annapolis, Maryland, set
up its first flying school in Pensacola, Florida. This was the same year that the Navy sent a force to
Mexico to oust General Victoriano Huerta who had seized power after a bloody coup d'etat. On
April 25 Navy Lt. (j.g.) P.N.L. Bellinger flew his Curtiss AB-3 flying boat to search for sea mines in
support of the American action at Vera Cruz. It was the first operational air sortie flown by an
American aviator against a foreign nation. On July 18, 1914, the United States Congress
established the Aviation Section (Signal Corps), authorizing 60 officers and 260 enlisted men.
4
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
IIn
nttrrooddu
uccttiioon
n
By August of 1914 the fledgling American air force had six airplanes, in contrast to the
rapid development of military aviation in Europe. At the time the three major powers were well
ahead of the United States military with:
Germany
180 Airplanes
France
136 Airplanes
England
48 Airplanes
On July 28, 1914, Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated, and in the
following month the European powers began aligning themselves for war. In the frantic week that
followed, Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia; Russia mobilized in support of its Balkan ally;
and Germany declared war on Russia and France before marching into strategically vital
Belgium. This act prompted Great Britain to declare war on Germany for violating Belgium's
neutrality, and the Central Powers (Germany and Austria) aligned themselves in war against the
Allies (England, France, and Russia). In the Western Hemisphere President Woodrow Wilson
called on the American people: "To be neutral in fact as well as in name...impartial in thought as
well as in deed."
It had been less than 11 years since the historic flight at Kitty Hawk and the airplane had
grown from infancy to the edge of adolescence. The rapid growth and changes this maturing
process generates in the passage from infancy to maturity in the organic world, would not be lost
on the growth of military aviation. In the organic world the changes are called "puberty," for
military aviation it would be called:
5
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
IIn
nttrrooddu
uccttiioon
n
World War I
On the ground the foot-soldiers, mobilized by the warring nations of the War to End all Wars,
slugged it out across muddy fields, through dense forests, and across fire-swept plateaus. Traditional
warfare had advanced rapidly from the days of single-shot muskets and slow firing cannon, to deadly
hails of machine gun fire and devastating artillery. It was a brutal way to do battle.
As the commanders on the ground moved their troops like pawns on a chess board, positioning
their units for maximum advantage, high above flew the prying eyes of enemy observers. Unlike the
observation balloons of the previous wars, the airplane gave enemy planners a highly mobile means of
learning what their foe was doing so that they could move quickly to counteract. Balloons were a
useful tool and were used extensively throughout the war. But balloons were tethered by cable to a
ground support unit, which meant they were only effective when a unit was close to the front. The
observation airplane could fly well beyond enemy lines to locate enemy artillery positions, direct
friendly artillery fire, and catch shifts in strategy in its earliest stages.
Somewhere over the German lines of advance, a French airplane flew through the August
skies to view, record, and report the direction of the war. As the pilot enjoyed the brisk breeze that
swept through his open cockpit, it was hard to connect to the death and tragedy that was unfolding on
the ground below. To some degree the euphoria associated with being among the first to fly could
easily overcome what was happening in the real world.
Returning to his airfield when his fuel tank had nearly expended its supply, he crossed the
lines to see a German observation plane returning from his own mission over the French lines.
Passing in the wind the two aviators gave each other a thumbs up, wagged their wings, and continued
to their respective landing strips. There was little more that they could do. Both airplanes were
unarmed. Both pilots were observers, not combatants. Though enemies on the ground, they were
brothers of the sky working similar missions and writing new history in aviation.
The scene would play out each day, almost like a routine, until one day when the German pilot
forgot to give the thumbs up or wiggle his wings. Perhaps he'd had a bad day, and he even made an
angry gesture towards the French pilot. Angry now himself, the French pilot reached beneath the seat
in his cockpit to withdraw the hammer left there by his mechanics and hurled it at the enemy flier.
Before taking off the following day, the German pilot shoved a brick behind his seat, ready to
give the Frenchman a "taste of his own medicine." As the Hun brick ripped through the fabric on the
wing of his Newport that day, the French pilot went home to arm himself. The following day the
German flier's insults would be met with hot lead from a Frenchman's pistol.
6
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
IIn
nttrrooddu
uccttiioon
n
No one knows exactly how aerial combat was born, though it
probably came about in a fashion quite similar to the above postulation.
War in the air developed quickly, almost comically, as each side
responded to the other by leaning out of open cockpits to toss wrenches,
bricks, and eventually bullets at each other. Russian aviator Petr
Nikolaevich Nesterov was a talented flier known for his acrobatics, and
became the first aviator to perform a normal loop (subsequently called
the Nesterov loop). As aerial combat developed, Nesterov started letting
out weighted cables from his own airplane to smash into the canvas of
his enemies. On August 26, 1914, three Austrian planes near the town of
Sholkiv in Galicia attacked Staff Captain Nesterov. Nesterov gained
immortality that day as the first Russian air hero when he rammed one
of the enemy planes, destroying it in the first true dogfight at the loss of
his own life as well.
As these early fighter pilots struggled to develop their methods, tactics and skills, a French
pilot named Lieutenant Roland Garros was working on his own innovation. A former stunt pilot,
Garros had mounted a Hotchkiss machine gun on the nose of his Morane-Saulnier Type L monoplane
to shoot straight ahead instead of sideways in the cockpit. The idea was not new; others had
considered the advantage of aiming at the enemy by flying directly towards them, only to see the rain
of automatic fire shred their own propeller.
Prior to the war Raymond Saulnier had worked on an interrupter gear to synchronize the
cycle of the machine gun's fire between the revolutions of the prop. This had proved ineffective and
Saulnier's work was briefly halted until Garros revived it with a twist...steel deflector plates on his
propeller to deflect errant rounds. On April 1, 1915, Lieutenant Garros downed a two-seat German
Albatross with his nose-mounted gun, and then quickly added four more kills to his tally to become
an ACE. On April 19 Garros lost a battle when hit by ground fire while strafing a German infantry
unit near Coutrai. Unable to destroy his airplane when forced to land in enemy territory, his modified
airscrew wound up in the workshop of a Dutch engineer named Anthony Fokker.
Fokker was quick to improve on Roland Garros' concept, soon arming German airplanes with
synchronized Spandau machine guns. For months until the technology of the Allies caught up, the
Fokker Scourge ruled the skies with impunity. When at last George Constantinesco gave Allied pilots
a semi reliable, forward mounted machine gun, the field of battle equalized to some degree and aerial
combat became a true art of warfare.
To say that these advances in both aviation and combat in the early days of World War I bred
a NEW kind of fighting man in the annals of military history sounds catchy, though it is probably
grossly in error. It would, perhaps, be more accurate to say that aerial combat REVIVED A LOST
breed of fighting man.
From 1914 to 1918 in the skies over France for perhaps the first time since the Medieval
Period, fighting men went to war in a long forgotten manner of military tournament. Mounting
machine-born steeds of canvas and pipe, these warriors rode aloft to do battle, one-on-one with their
enemy while their prowess was viewed by spectators from a distance. The battles were no less
dangerous than had been the jousts of old; indeed, they were certainly far more deadly.
Like the ancient warriors of the Roundtable, however, adventurous young men from
both sides rose to the challenge, to become the:
7
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
IIn
nttrrooddu
uccttiioon
n
Knights of the Skies!
Manfred von Richthofen
The Red Baron
"I have not gone to war to collect cheese and eggs," the 23-year old
German quartermaster wrote in his request for assignment to a flying
unit. After a relatively nondescript tenure of duty on the Russian
Front during the early days of the war, followed by several months in
the rear, Manfred von Richthofen was pleading for a chance to do
what soldiers are trained to do—fight.
By May 1915, less than a year after The Great War began, the man
who would become a legend to both his friends and his enemies was at last flying. A junior
observer on reconnaissance and then bombing missions, he finally entered flight training the
following October, graduating on Christmas Day. Over Verdun on April 26, 1916, Manfred von
Richthofen sighted a French Newport and opened fire. As the French fighter dived into the
ground, von Richthofen had his first kill (though he didn't get official credit for the victory). In
the two years that followed, von Richthofen would hone his aerial skills in a cool, calculating
manner that would be unprecedented and unequalled.
September 17, 1916
"In a fraction of a second I was at his back (the pilot of an RAF two-seat FE-2 airplane.) I
gave a few bursts with my machine gun. I had gone so close that I was afraid I might dash into the
Englishman. Suddenly, I nearly yelled with joy for his propeller had stopped turning. I had shot his
engine to pieces; the enemy was compelled to land, for it was impossible for him to reach his own
lines.
"The Englishman landed close to one of our squadrons. I was so excited that I landed also and in my
eagerness, I nearly smashed up my machine. The English airplane and my own stood close together.
I had shot the engine to pieces and both the pilot and observer were severely wounded. The observer
died at once and the pilot while being transported to the nearest dressing station. I honored the fallen
enemy by placing a stone on his beautiful grave."
Manfred von Richthofen
Within six weeks of this action, Richthofen was a double ace with 10 victories, and poised
for his greatest victory to date. On November 23 he claimed his 11th airplane, downing British
hero and Victoria Cross recipient Major Lanoe George Hawker. "He was a brave man, a
sportsman, and a fighter," Richthofen wrote of the battle between two skillful men that resulted
in the death of the commander of Great Britain's Number 24 Squadron. Upon downing his 16th
enemy airplane, Richthofen was awarded the Pour le Merite (The Blue Max) and allowed to
8
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
IIn
nttrrooddu
uccttiioon
n
organize his own Jagdstaffel 11, which journalists soon began calling "The Flying Circus."
Baron von Richthofen painted his own airplane red and came to be known as "The Red Baron."
In the first three months of 1917, the Baron and his signature all-red, brand new Albatross D III
airplane became one of the most sought after targets, and one of the most feared sights in the
skies. By March 26 his tally reached thirty-one Allied planes shot down. As the winter weather
that had hampered flying for months cleared in April, aerial missions for both sides increased.
The Red Baron claimed an amazing 20 victories in that one bloody month alone, making him an
Ace ten times over.
Von Richthofen scored five more victories before the odds caught up with him on July 2, 1917,
when he encountered the British RFC 20th Squadron. A bullet creased his skull splintering
bone, and the Red Baron spiraled to earth in a crash he would survive, but with a wound from
which he would never fully recover. For the remaining year of his life he suffered horrible
headaches that plagued his waking moments and may have hampered his brilliant aerial tactics.
By September the German legend had recovered enough to return in his famous red Fokker Dr.
I tri-plane and bring his score to an unprecedented 60 victories. During the winter months aerial
missions slowed again due the weather, but the count rose slowly. Victory number 64 was 2nd
Lieutenant H. J. Sparks who was wounded but survived his crash. When the Red Baron learned
that the British flier was recovering in a hospital, he sent the man a box of cigars. By mid-April
of 1918 von Richthofen brought his final tally to 80 confirmed victories, a record unequalled in
aviation history.
While the Red Baron was ruling the skies over Europe, the United States was being drawn
ever closer to abandoning its position of neutrality. The May 7, 1915, U-boat sinking of the British
passenger liner Lusitania killing more than 1,000 people including 128 Americans strained efforts at
neutrality. The tension eased only when the German government agreed to rein in its submarine fleet.
The avoidance of war was largely welcomed in the United States, which had problems to
contend with on its own shores, some of which had recently prompted the creation of the U.S. Coast
Guard on January 28, 1915. In September U.S. Marines landed at Haiti to restore and preserve order.
The following year on March 9 a Mexican revolutionary named Pancho Villa crossed the southern US
border with more than 500 men to raid Columbus, New Mexico. The death of 17 Americans forced
General John J. Pershing to send troops to protect the border, as well as to mount a punitive
expedition supported by the first American tactical air unit ever placed in the field, the 1st Aero
Squadron.
Meanwhile on the European battlefront, young Americans were getting their first taste of
aerial combat in a most unorthodox fashion designed to avoid violation of US neutrality. The 38
volunteer pilots were all American citizens, most of them Ivy League college graduates who believed
strongly in fighting to preserve the rights and freedoms of other nations. The men flew French
aircraft, wore French uniforms, and served under the leadership of French Captain Georges
Thenault. They organized in April 1916 as the Escadrille Americaine, "American Squadron." The
German government soon complained to Washington, DC, that the unit was a violation of American
neutrality, prompting a name change in December. The first fearless American fighter pilots thus
became known as:
9
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
IIn
nttrrooddu
uccttiioon
n
Lafayette Escadrille
Though the French government authorized the Escadrille Americaine on March 21, the unit did not organize
formally until April 20, when these volunteer American aviators were placed on front-line duty at Luxeuil-les-Bains
near Switzerland. The unit flew its first mission on May 13, and five days later in yet another aerial mission, Kifflin
Rockwell shot down an LVG reconnaissance airplane to score the first victory by an American-born fighter pilot. Forty
days later his friend Victor Chapman was shot down, the first American pilot to be killed in action.
In the months that followed, the now combat-experienced pilots of the Lafayette Escadrille were rotated
among other French units, which were absorbing a fresh crop of volunteer American pilots into its Lafayette Flying
Corps (often erroneously confused with the Lafayette Escadrille). In all, more than 200 Americans served as members
of the French flying forces.
From its organization on April 20, 1916, until the newly arrived United States Army absorbed it on February
18, 1918, the men of the Lafayette Escadrille were engaged in every major battle. The squadron downed 57 enemy
aircraft, and lost 9 of its own pilots in battle. Of the 200 American fliers of the entire Lafayette Flying Corps, eleven
became aces. The leading figure among them and the man who would be called America's first Ace of Aces was a
French-born American citizen from Wallingford, Connecticut.
Raoul Lufbery
A Hero to TWO Countries
Raoul Lufbery was over age 30 when he joined the Lafayette
Escadrille on May 24, 1916; just one month after the unit was
organized. Already he was a combat veteran and an experienced pilot,
two qualities sorely lacking among the unit of American volunteers.
Born in France, Lufbery's father came to America shortly after
his son was born, leaving young Raoul in the care of his grandmother.
When Raoul was nineteen years old, he sailed for America. Ironically, on the very day Raoul
departed, his father returned to Europe; and the two never saw each other again.
10
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
IIn
nttrrooddu
uccttiioon
n
A stint of service in the United States Army, coupled with a tour of duty in the
Philippines, netted Raoul Lufbery American citizenship. When World War I erupted, Lufbery
felt a responsibility to defend the land of his birth, while prizing his U.S. citizenship. He resolved
the situation by joining the French Foreign Legion as an infantryman, which would not
jeopardize that citizenship.
Lufbery got his first aerial victory on July 30, 1916, and his second victory later the same
day. Over the next two months, he shot down three more enemy airplanes to become an ace and
the leading flier of the Lafayette Escadrille. When the United States Army absorbed the
Escadrille in 1918, Raoul Lufbery was the Ace of Aces for two nations, the country of his birth
and the country in which he held citizenship. As an American pilot in a French uniform he had
shot down 16 enemy aircraft.
Saving Democracy
Nearly a century after The Great War, most Americans think of World War I as a long period
of protracted warfare similar to the World War II experience. For the European nations of the
Central Powers and the Allied Forces, this was true—four years of bitter fighting. For nearly threefourths of that war however, the United States maintained its neutrality. Not until April 6, 1917, did
the United States Congress, by a vote of 373 to 50, pass a resolution of war. The Senate had approved
the measure two days earlier by a vote of 90 to 6.
Even then, the United States entered the war with great reluctance following the impassioned
speech by President Woodrow Wilson:
"The world must be made safe for democracy. It is a fearful thing to lead this great
peaceful people into war, the most terrible of wars. But the right is more precious than the
peace, and we shall fight for the things that we have always carried nearest our
hearts...FOR DEMOCRACY...for the rights and liberties of small nations, for a universal
dominion of right by such a concert of free peoples as shall bring peace and safety to all
nations and make the world itself at last free."
The following month saw Staff Sergeant Eddie Rickenbacker en route to Europe as a member
of General Pershing's Expeditionary Force. Pershing's force arrived in France late in June, and
participated in a grand parade through Paris on July 4 to the tomb of the Marquis de Lafayette who
had figured so prominently in the United States' own victory during the American Revolution. Media
reports announced worldwide that historic moment as Pershing stood before the tomb to announce,
"Lafayette, we are here!" (General Pershing subsequently denied speaking perhaps the most famous
phrase of World War I, crediting it instead to his aide, Colonel Charles Stanton.)
The arrival of fresh American combatants, eventually five full divisions, brought a new sense
of hope and relief to the Allies. Even so, it was several months before American combat units were
placed on the front lines. On October 20 the First Division (Big Red One) assumed a combat position
near Luneville. During this period the Aviation Section spent most of its time training and preparing
for war. Things were relatively quiet for the A.E.F. in 1917. All that would change with the thaw of
the winter of 1918.
11
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
IIn
nttrrooddu
uccttiioon
n
Hat In the Ring Squadron
Early in 1918 the Army organized two brand new squadrons of American fliers for combat.
They were given the designation of the 94th and 95th Aero Squadrons. The idol of two countries,
Raoul Lufbery, was absorbed by the U.S. Army and granted the rank of Major, who then assumed
command of the 95th Aero Squadron on January 28. Among the veteran combat pilots' green recruits
was Lieutenant Eddie Rickenbacker.
The 94th and 95th were assigned to the aerodrome near Villeneuve, about 15 miles from the
front lines. As winter thawed and weather permitted increased flying time, historical events began
unfolding rapidly.
On March 6 Major Lufbery led a flight of three aircraft in the first all-American flight across
the lines by an American trained squadron. The two pilots he chose to accompany him were 1st
Lieutenants Douglas Campbell and Eddie Rickenbacker. Five days later Lieutenant Paul F. Baer gave
the 103rd Aero Squadron the first victory of any American squadron during the war when he downed
an enemy airplane near Rheims. For his action he became the first aviator to earn the Distinguished
Service Cross. The following day Captain Phelps Collins of the same squadron crashed while on a
combat patrol near Paris, the first member of the Aviation Section to die in a war zone.
On April 10 an aerial legend was born with the first appearance of the 94th Aero Squadron's
new emblem. Suggested the previous month by Captain Paul Walters of the Medical Corps and
drawn by 1st Lieutenant John Wentworth, it featured Uncle Sam's trademark hat with a ring around
it. The ring had been suggested by Walters, based on the American tradition of throwing a hat into
the ring as an invitation to battle.
On April 12 Major Lufbery threw his hat in the ring in the skies over Epinez shooting down his
17th enemy aircraft, though the victory was not confirmed. Rickenbacker flew for the first time with
the squadron's new emblem emblazoned on his own Newport two days later on the first combat
mission ever ordered by an American commander of an American squadron of American pilots.
Rickenbacker would return empty-handed but Lieutenants Campbell and Alan Winslow scored a
double victory that sent a ripple of excitement around the world and made headlines at home. The
day following the exciting victory for American fighter pilots, 1st Army commander Brigadier
General Liggett and the Chief of Air Service, 1st Army A.E.F. Colonel William Billy Mitchell visited
the Hat in the Ring Squadron to observe their progress and congratulate the men for their success.
ON APRIL 21 AN AERIAL LEGEND DIED!
Canadian Captain Roy Brown was leading the flight of fifteen Sopwith Camels as cover for
photo planes when they were jumped by an equal number of German Fokkers and Albatrosses. As 30
pilots dodged and weaved among the clouds in one of the classic dogfights of the war, an all-red triplane spiraled to earth. To this day no one knows for sure who was responsible for the victory, but
when the German airplane plowed into the ground near a position held by Australian soldiers, it was
found to contain the body of Manfred von Richthofen. The Red Baron was dead.
12
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
IIn
nttrrooddu
uccttiioon
n
The following day the British held a grand funeral for the man who had been their greatest
adversary, complete with six RAF Captains as pallbearers and a fourteen-man firing party. All flights
of the 17th Aero Squadron of the United States Army contributed to the floral arrangement that
covered his casket. Photographs were taken of the last farewell to perhaps the greatest ace of all time,
then dropped over his airdrome at Cappy with the message:
TO THE GERMAN FLYING CORPS:
Rittmeister Baron Manfred von Richthofen was killed in aerial combat on April
21st, 1918. He was buried with full military honors.
From the British Royal Air Force
One month later on May 19, another legend died. Rickenbacker had just returned from a
patrol to hear the news that Raoul Lufbery had been shot down in a field near Nancy. In his
autobiography Rickenbacker recounted the scene:
"He held the plane on a straight course (after being hit) for about five seconds. Then,
from the ground, eyewitnesses saw him squirm out of the blazing cockpit and climb onto
the fuselage. Straddling it, he pushed himself back toward the tail. He rode in this position
for several seconds as the flames fanned back over him. Then he jumped.
"I returned from patrol to hear this shocking story. A phone call came in with the
exact location of the spot where he had landed. A group of us jumped into a car and drove
to the spot. He had fallen in a lovely little garden in a small town near Nancy. Nearby was
a small stream; he may have been trying to land in the water. Instead his body had been
impaled on a picket fence. Death must have been instantaneous."
The loss of two of the greatest icons in World War I aviation served as a vivid reminder to the
young men of what had now become the United States Army Air Service, that aerial combat was not a
game. It was a dangerous experience with deadly consequences. By July the individual American
squadrons were in fierce competition to be the best, while watching sadly as more and more fellow
fliers fell to enemy pilots or even ground fire. New heroes emerged, new aces arose, and new exploits
were recorded; but none could compare to the legendary status of the Red Baron or
Raoul Lufbery. Their deaths had left a void that could only be filled by some as yet
undiscovered new legendary Knight of the air.
Another disheartening blow struck the heart of the Army Air Service on July
14 when a 20-year old Lieutenant was shot down in flames over German lines. The
body of the young pilot was photographed in the most grotesque and macabre
positions of his death; and German propagandists circulated those pictures back
to the United States. The young officer was First Lieutenant Quentin Roosevelt,
youngest son of the former American president.
By the end of July those men of the American Aero Squadrons who had survived their months
of combat were seasoned veterans, many of them aces. After the death of Lufbery, Eddie
Rickenbacker attained the title of American "Ace of Aces." but despite the heroic sorties and valiant
tournaments among the clouds, no American flier had risen to legendary proportions of the two lost
icons among the Knights of the Skies. If ever a new hero was desperately needed to boost morale, it
was now, and the American pilots were ready for him to appear.
When a swaggering blonde cowboy from Arizona arrived, he was ready to rise to that
challenge. The only problem was the seasoned pilots of his squadron were not ready for HIM!
13
Frank Luke
The Balloon Buster
August 16, 1918
Second Lieutenant Frank Luke nursed the engine of his French Spad-13 as twilight was falling
over the field at Coincy near the Western Front. He was late again, the rest of the planes from his
squadron having returned much earlier from their evening protection patrol for two photographic
Salmsons from the 88th squadron. So what else was new? Luke was always returning late, and
usually alone after being separated from his squadron on most of their missions.
The 16-plane patrol including three from Luke's 27th Aero Squadron had left shortly after five
o'clock that evening on what would be a frustrating but uneventful patrol. Shortly after takeoff the
American pilots began dropping out of formation one-by-one as they struggled with the
temperamental engines of their Spads (most of them less than two weeks old). In very short order,
about the only airplane still flying was that of 27th Squadron Commander Major Harold Hartney.
Hartney was furious as he headed back to the airfield at Coincy. These new Spads were
proving to be an airborne disaster. Mechanical problems were knocking far more of his planes out of
the sky than the Germans were. An Ace with five kills while flying with the British Royal Air Force
before transferring to the new American First Pursuit Group, Hartney was one of the few
experienced pilots in the air that day. Despite his experience, he never noticed the four enemy aircraft
that slipped up on his tail or heard the rattle of machine gun fire from the one other Spad still flying.
He didn't even know he had an ally behind him, single-handedly taking on four enemy planes as
Hartney banked and headed safely home to land at Coincy.
On the ground thirteen pilots paced, cursed, and kicked the tires of their Spads while
denouncing the day the "lumbering bricks" had replaced their semi trustworthy French Nieuports.
To make matters even worse, a fourteenth pilot had made it back in his faltering Spad but would
never be going home. As Lieutenant Ruliff Neivius came in at 6:45, he misjudged his landing and
crashed to his death. The one moment of relief came when the pilots, fearing the loss of their
commander when he had not returned, saw Major Hartney's Spad land and taxi to join them. That
left only one airplane unaccounted for, the Spad flown by Lieutenant Frank Luke of Arizona. Not to
worry—Luke was always late! And if worse came to worse, none of them would shed any tears over
the grave of the brash young rookie who had been with the 27th for only three weeks. Already the
Arizona cowboy had worn out his welcome.
Coming in above the field, Lieutenant Frank Luke felt the cool evening wind whip through his
long blonde hair as he banked towards the airstrip. He knew the guys below didn't like him, in fact,
had gone out of their way to shun him. They called him The Arizona Boaster because of his brash,
Page 14
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
matter-of-fact talk of what he would do when at last he saw combat. Perhaps on this evening in the
early stages of Frank Luke's career as a fighter pilot, he still held some hope that he could win them
over. It was dangerous work flying almost daily in skies patrolled by German airmen intent on
shooting you down. It was doubly difficult to come back home and find that even your allies were
your enemies.
Luke gunned his engine, tipped his wings, and leveled for a landing. He was used to being
cheered for his guts and accomplishments. Back in Arizona, where Luke had been an athletic star in
track, baseball and football at Phoenix Union High School; the 5'9", 155-pound young man would
never quit. As starting tailback and captain of his football team, he played with an energy and
abandon far beyond his size. When he broke his collar bone in the first half of one football game, the
crowd cheered at the opening of the second half to see the injured but determined young man come
back in to ignore his pain and finish the game. On this day, Luke had finished the game once again, so
let the cheering begin. With a loud whoop he stepped out of the cockpit and excitedly shouted:
"I GOT ME A HUN!"
There were no cheers...only blank stares.
"You hear me? I got a Hun! There was four of them, right there coming in on the Major's tail
when I opened up. I got one and sent the others hightailing it for home."
More dead silence followed. Then one of the pilots looked Luke in the eyes and asked, "Who
SAW you shoot down this plane?" More dead silence followed.
No one, not even Major Hartney, had seen Luke's purported battle with the German airplanes.
With grunts of disdain and only half-concealed words of contempt, the pilots of the 27th Aero
Squadron turned to head for the mess hall. The Arizona Boaster was not only a loudmouth; he was
now a bald-faced liar! There would be no cheers for Frank Luke on this day.
The Western Front - 1918
Three years of warfare had given the Allies
little hope against the Central Powers when at last
the United States entered the war and began
sending soldiers to Europe. By May 1918 however
only about 500,000 of what would eventually be a
force of 1.2 million combat troops had arrived in
France. The American presence that spring gave
the Allies little more than a hope for change and
some badly needed moral support.
On March 21 the Germans launched a
major offensive to preempt any success the newly
arrived American doughboys might afford,
shifting some 40 divisions to the effort along the
Western Front. By May they held a line only 56
15
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
miles from Paris, and the French were reeling from the series of sudden attacks. Poised to deliver a
crushing blow, the Germans pushed their advantage in the Marne region on May 27. The following
day American troops of the AEF's First Division met the Germans at Montdidier, repulsed their
attack, and then pushed on to capture the strategically located town of Cantigny. It was the first
major American action of the war and the first American victory, despite losses of 187 killed in action
and 636 wounded.
German forces continued their spring offensive, driving through the Belleau Wood in the first
days of June. A full American division was moved up to stop the German Seventh Army. The bloody
battle of Chateau-Thierry was the worst fighting for American soldiers since the battle of Five Forks
in the Civil War, much of it borne by the men of the 5th Marines who struggled with the enemy often
in hand-to-hand combat. Fighting in the Belleau Wood continued throughout the month of June until
the American forces launched their final assault on June 25. Despite nearly 10,000 casualties in the
AEF's Second Division, the brave marines and doughboys had defeated four enemy divisions.
Throughout this period, aviators from both sides slugged it out in the skies. On April 21 with
their Spring Offensive one month old, the German "Ace of Aces" Baron von Richthofen was killed
after 80 victories for the homeland. One week later Lieutenant Eddie Rickenbacker of the 94th Aero
Squadron shot down his first enemy airplane. On May 19, just one week before the first American
victory at Cantigny, Allied Ace Raoul Lufbery was shot down. On May 30 Lieutenant Rickenbacker
downed his fifth confirmed enemy aircraft (he had at least two unconfirmed kills), becoming an Ace
for his own 94th Aero Squadron. Throughout the period, a young Second Lieutenant named Frank
Luke was sitting out the war in combat flight training at Issoudon, followed by gunnery school.
On June 1, the 27th Aero Squadron became operational in the relatively quiet Toul sector of
France as a part of the 1st Pursuit Group. The 1st PG consisted of four squadrons, populated by
veteran pilots and commanded by respectable leaders.
1st Pursuit Group
Major B.M. Atkinson
Aero Squadrons
27th
94th
95th
147th
"Eagle Squadron"
"Hat In The Ring"
"Kicking Mule"
"Terrier"
*In the closing weeks of the war, the 185th "Bat" Squadron, a night-pursuit squadron, was added to the 1st PG.
The day before the 27th Aero Squadron became operational, 21-year old Frank Luke got his
first assignment. To him fell the inglorious task of being a ferry pilot for American Aviation
Acceptance Park No. 1 at Orly. His duties consisted of flying new aircraft to the aerodromes on the
lines to be used by the men who were fighting the air war. His return trips consisted of nursing badly
shot up airplanes back to Orly for repairs. These were bullet riddled with windscreens shattered and
fabric torn. All too often blood stains and pieces of human tissue were spotted throughout the cockpit,
grim reminders that aerial combat was not a game.
16
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
On July 20 the Eagle Squadron fielded a five-plane patrol from which only three returned.
Three pilots, including Second Lieutenant John MacArthur (6 victories and the 27th's only Ace) and
Zenos Miller (4 victories), were wounded and shot down. The third pilot wound up in a hospital in
France, leaving the squadron very short on manpower. Five days later a group of replacements
received orders for the 27th Aero Squadron. Among the young pilots was Lieutenant Frank Luke.
July 25-26, 1918
It was close to midnight when the seven pilots arrived at the 27th Aero Squadron's
headquarters near Saints. Of the seven men all were rookies but one, Lieutenant Donald W.
Donaldson who was transferring from the 95th. The move took the young rookie would-be fighter
pilots from an insulated world that saw combat only through the tales of others, to the real world of
blood, horror and sudden death. Squadron commander Major Hartney was quick to point this out
the following morning in his welcome speech to the new recruits:
"You are in the 27th in name only. When you have shown your buddies out there that
you have guts and can play the game honestly and courageously, they'll probably let you
stay. You'll know without my telling you when you are actually members of this gang. It's
up to you.
"If you survive the first two weeks you're well over the hill. I'm not trying to
discourage any of you, but you may as well know what you're up against from the first.
Some of you are certain to be washed out during the first two weeks. If you get through
that period safely and your own personal god continues to strap himself in with you, you'll
probably accomplish things. That's all, gentlemen."
Throughout his brief speech, Hartney couldn't help but notice one of his rookies. "In a way, I
resented his attitude," Hartney later said. "He seemed to be saying, 'Don't kid me. I'm not afraid of
the bogey man.' When I had finished talking he was grinning. That ruffled me, too."
On his first day with the squadron, Frank Luke was already off on the wrong foot and with the
squadron commander no less.
The fact that Major Hartney's welcome speech dealt more with "belonging" than with fighting
was no coincidence. Hartney knew the men of his squadron well, knew that the word "fraternity"
perhaps defined them more appropriately than the word "team." His words were a cautionary note to
the new pilots designed to help them fit in.
The Good Ol' Boys
Major Hartney himself wasn't necessarily a member of the "Good Ol' Boy" network—didn't, in
fact, need to belong. He was the "Old Man"...the boss and an experienced pilot with the title "ACE'"
which in and of itself commanded some respect. Thirty years old when he commanded the squadron,
he was older than any of his pilots by several years. After serving with the Royal Air Force, the
Canadian-born aviator had assumed command of the 27th Aero Squadron in September 1917 when it
was sent to Toronto to train for war.
When his new replacements arrived on July 25, they joined a squadron of 16 other men, threefourths of whom had been together since the Kelly Field, Texas, muster of the squadron on May 8,
1917. That dozen had been together through initial training…further training in Canada under Hartney,
17
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
the long trip to Europe, and the early days of aerial combat during Germany's Spring Offensive of 1918.
They were a tight-knit group that knew each other well, had learned to trust each other, and found unity
in the things they had in common. One of the common denominators was that ALL had college
educations, most from prestigious Ivy League institutions. Their enlistment in the Army's Air Service
had been for most of them simply a move from one fraternity to a new one.
If the aerodrome at Saints had been a University Campus, the B.M.O.C. would probably have
been First Lieutenant Alfred "Ack" Grant. During his tenure at Kansas State Agricultural College, Grant
had served in the campus military cadet corps. Though not necessarily impressive in either resume or
combat flight, Grant had a little more military bearing than the others and tended towards leadership.
He also had two confirmed victories in combat.
In contrast was the hard-working Lieutenant Jerry Vasconcells, born and raised in the small
Kansas town of Lyons, then working his way through an education at the University of Denver in
Colorado. (With one confirmed victory when the replacements arrived, Vasconcells would go on to
become Colorado's ONLY ace of World War II, yet vanish into obscurity in his home state.) The military
bearing that marked Grant was more than made up for by the engaging personality of Vasconcells.
Neither Grant nor Vasconcells had ever attained the Ivy League status held by most of their
contemporaries, but both were able to find their niche in the 27th Aero Squadron. The Good Ol' Boy
Fraternity consisted of a dozen young men in their early twenties, who had traded their fraternity
sweaters for a pair of goggles and their walking sticks for ailerons. It was into this mix that the green but
eager young replacements were thrown.
The Arizona Boaster
Asking the 21-year old kid from Arizona to become part of this fraternity
was akin to mixing oil and water. To begin with, though a college education
was required even among the earliest US Army aviators, no one knows when,
where, or even IF Frank Luke attended college. He graduated from Phoenix's
Union High School somewhere around 1915-16, where yearbooks described
him as "Too happy-go-lucky to know his own talents." What he did in the two
years following is not generally known. If he did NOT attend college, he must
have pulled some fancy strings to get into pilot training.
Frank Jr. was born and raised in Arizona Territory, in its own way "the new kid on the block"
having only achieved statehood six years before Luke arrived in Europe. Frank Luke Sr. was a
respected man in the community, a shopkeeper before turning to politics where he served as the
Phoenix City Assessor, Maricopa County Supervisor, and finally as a member of the Arizona State Tax
Commission. In 1917 the family patriarch moved his family (there were nine children with Frank Jr.
squarely in the middle) into a new home at 2200 Monroe Street, one of the city's finest homes in one of
its best neighborhoods.
In September 1917 Frank Jr. trained at the School of Military Aeronautics at Austin, Texas,
where he managed to get orders for flight school. On a two-week leave that fall, he returned to Phoenix
to visit the new family home on Monroe Street. During that brief period he was rushing off to watch a
football game one night when his mother called for him. Tillie Luke was busily turning the new house
into a home and wanted her son to plant some lily bulbs before he left. Hurriedly Frank dug up a few
holes, randomly placed the bulbs, covered them neatly, and rushed off to catch his game. It was a
simple act, one of those common occurrences in life that, in Frank's case, would ultimately add a
touching appendix to his legendary life.
On January 23, 1918, he got his wings and a commission as a second lieutenant at Rockwell
Field in San Diego. After another leave he was off to catch his ship in New York and find his war.
18
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
August 1, 1918
When Frank Luke and the other replacements arrived at 27th operations on July 25, the
squadron's only Ace was Commander Hartney, who had got his kills flying with the R.A.F. No other
pilot in the squadron had more than two victories.
In that last week of July, Hartney wasted no time getting his new pilots in the air, often leading
them himself on combat patrols. Despite almost daily flights…not a single combat report was filed by
any of the pilots. The mission on August 1 would change all that and give the new pilots a rude
welcome to the unfriendly skies.
The early dawn mission was an 18-plane protection patrol for two Salmsons darting in and out
of German territory to photograph enemy positions. After three successful passes, on the fourth
incursion eight Fokkers of the Richthofen Flying Circus jumped the American planes. In the initial
attack Lieutenant Charles Sands went down in a fatal dive—dead his first week on the front. A short
time later he was joined by Lieutenant Oliver Beauchamp who had arrived at the front with him.
Neither man had survived Hartney's "two-week" benchmark. But the rookies would not be the only
casualties on the most disastrous day the Eagle Squadron suffered in World War I. Charter member of
the 27th Lieutenant Jason Hunt was also killed in action.
The Eagle Squadron pilots claimed six victories that day, three of them by Lieutenant Donald
Huston who now had raised his total to four victories and was close to becoming the only ace in the
Squadron. Jerry Vasconcells also got a victory, bringing the future Ace's total thus far to two
confirmed victories. But three more 27th Squadron pilots also fell that day, bringing the American
losses to six. Veteran Lieutenants Richard Martin and Clifford McIlvaine and rookie Frederick
Ordway were shot down in enemy territory and captured. With a 33 per cent casualty rate for the
day, Major Hartney's squadron was decimated and would not fly another mission for more than a
week. Frank Luke had missed the battle due to engine problems.
It was in the days following the August 1 disaster that the 27th Aero Squadron started getting
its new Spads to replace the aging Neuports. Though the Spads became popular with the fliers of the
94th and 147th Squadrons, the men of the Eagle Squadron hated them for their unreliable engines.
On August 9 a 13-plane reconnaissance flight was mounted to boost Hartney's pilots from the
doldrums the August 1 disaster had dealt them. Four of the Spads had so many problems they had to
make forced landings, including the one piloted by Frank Luke. Luke's was the only of the four Spads
that was salvageable.
The squadron continued flights over the coming days finally engaging in their first combat
action in two weeks on August 14. Though neither side scored a victory, the bullet holes in the canvas
of the returning Spads proved that the 27th Aero Squadron was back in the battle. It was a badly
needed morale boost, especially in view of the recent victories of now ACE Eddie Rickenbacker and
the "Hat in the Ring Squadron." Competition was fierce among the squadrons of the 1st Pursuit
Group, but it seemed that the 94th was the perpetual front-runner.
From the arrival of Frank Luke on July 25 until his purported victory on August 16, the only
victories scored by the entire 27th Aero Squadron were the six enemy planes claimed in the August 1
battle.
19
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
August 17, 1918
Frank Luke's victory the previous day had not only failed to earn him the respect of his fellow
pilots, it had the opposite effect. Despite the disbelief of the others, Lieutenant Luke filed his combat
report, and then went into isolation. Major Hartney seemed inclined to believe Luke's claim, but
within the Good Ol' Boy network, there was only derision. For his unauthorized flight over the lines,
Luke was grounded for three days and ordered to act as airdrome officer from 4 a.m. until 10 p.m.
each day. Two of the rookies stood with Luke: Lieutenant Joe Wehner, who had arrived with Frank
on July 25, and Lieutenant Ivan Roberts, who had joined the 27th in May. Beyond those two,
however, Luke was a man alone.
Luke's misfortune took a devilish turn on August 21 when orders arrived assigning Major
Hartney to the post of Group Commander. Though Hartney had been more than miffed by Luke's
reaction to the welcome speech and even more upset at the young man's demeanor on the ground, he
seemed to have an almost paternal understanding for the troubled young flier. After the war Hartney
would describe Luke as: "Bashful, self-conscious, and decidedly not a mixer...his reticence was
interpreted as conceit. In fact, this preyed on his mind to such an extent that he became almost a recluse,
with an air of sullenness, which was not that at all." Other pilots recall Hartney saying of Luke during
the war: "He was the damnedest nuisance that ever stepped on to a flying field."
Whatever Hartney's true feelings, he at least was the one person in authority who could view
Luke rationally, to the point that the other pilots ribbed their commander by referring to Luke as
Hartney's "boyfriend." Hartney's promotion left a void in the Eagle Squadron's command structure
that was quickly filled by Lieutenant "Ack" Grant. There would be no slack cut on behalf of Frank
Luke in the days ahead. After one of his solo missions, Grant called him in to straighten him out. "I
don't know what you got away with under Hartney," he told Luke, "but things will be different now.
You will get with the program, fight this war by the book, or so help me I'll have those shiny wings of
yours." Then, to emphasize his point, he made Luke the engineering officer—one of those dreaded
details that consisted of menial tasks and long hours.
In the weeks that followed, Luke avoided the other
pilots when he could, taunted them to fisticuffs when he
could not. To pass the daylight hours he began honing his
marksmanship. On a motorcycle he would bounce across the
field at Saints with a pistol in each hand firing
simultaneously at targets mounted on nearby trees. With his
mechanics he worked on his Spad, honing the engine and
tightening turnbuckles to try to increase its maneuverability.
The most hated man in the U.S. Army Air Service didn't
seem to care if no one liked him. He was a loner and had
carried that reputation since his first day on the lines.
That was how the legend of Lieutenant Frank Luke
would be told for future generations. It is probably a very
inaccurate explanation for the complexity of the young
aviator's psyche.
Of course Luke had become known for weeks as the pilot who was always dropping out of
formation to strike out on his own. The fact of the times was that dropping out of formation was a
20
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
regular occurrence for ALL pilots of the 27th, more so after the arrival of the hated Spads. If another
pilot developed engine trouble, dropped out, and made a forced landing, it was chalked up to
mechanical problems. Where Luke was concerned, mechanical problems became an excuse for those
who disliked him for his boisterous talk, to label him independent, rebellious against authority, and a
loner.
Luke was independent and quick to ignore orders if he had a better idea. But it is safe to
assume that prior to August 16 the Arizona cowboy had still hoped to win over his fellow pilots. Had
he not expected his victory to earn him a new niche in the Squadron, the negative reaction would not
have affected him so deeply. In the weeks after his first victory, Luke did drop out often to visit with
the French fliers. Everybody needs someone, and Frank Luke found his only human solace among
these French pilots who seemed to welcome his company. Similarly, had Frank Luke been a true
loner, he would never have developed the friendship that helped him generate a legend and ultimately
turned him into a "MADMAN."
The German Spy
When the new replacements arrived at the 27th Aero Squadron on July 27
Corporal Walter "Shorty" Williams wrote in his diary: "We suspect a couple of German
spies are in our outfit." Somehow, the reputation of Lieutenant Joseph Frank "Fritz"
Wehner had preceded him to the Western Front in France.
Wehner was indeed German by heritage, the American-born son of immigrant
Frank W. Wehner who had risen from poverty to the American Dream in Everett,
Massachusetts. The elder Wehner's sons had benefited from the Land of Opportunity,
and had taken advantage of every opportunity presented to them. Like Frank Luke, Joe
had been a standout athlete in high school, captaining the 1913 Everett High School
football team to an undefeated season. When he graduated in 1914, his football prowess
netted him a two-year scholarship to the Phillips Exeter Academy in New Hampshire,
where he earned honors as a member of the Kappa Delta Pi fraternity.
Joe Wehner was indeed the All-American young man—bright, athletic, and dedicated to all things good.
Upon finishing his education at Exeter, he went to Berlin as the private secretary to an official in the Young Men's
Christian Association. There he reportedly worked to help Allied prisoners of war until April 1917 when the United
States severed diplomatic ties with Germany. He promptly returned home to learn that his surname made him
suspect as an enemy spy, allegations further enhanced by his time living in Berlin.
Such charges were not uncommon during World War I, even famed race driver Eddie Rickenbacher (he
changed the Arian spelling to Rickenbacker during his military service, partially due this prejudice), had been
suspect and repeatedly tailed and investigated...even after joining the Army and going to Europe with the A.E.F.
Wehner joined the Army Air Corps during the summer of 1917 and was preparing for war at the Aviation
Corps in Bellville, Illinois, when the F.B.I. launched an investigation on October 8. On October 14 the cadets
received Sunday passes; and while they were out of the billets the assigned agent went through Wehner's
belongings. Nothing incriminating was found, but the suspicion continued to hang over Joe Wehner for the rest of
his military career.
As Joe was preparing to leave New York for duty in France in January 1918, he was again detained. It
took a judge's order to free him so that he could join the February departure.
When Joe joined the 27th Aero Squadron, the suspicions followed him and denied him close friendships
save for Frank Luke, a fellow first-generation German-American with a personality as different as could be
scripted from that of Joe Wehner. Luke seems never to have suffered much of the suspicion endured by
Rickenbacker, Wehner, and others (perhaps his father's political influence back in Arizona spared him); but
among the pilots of the Eagle Squadron, Luke's friendship with the spy Wehner made him guilty by association
and gave Grant and his buddies even more fuel to fan their hatred of the boisterous Arizonian.
21
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
St. Mihiel
After August 16 the flights by pilots of the 1st Pursuit Group were all routine. Rarely did the
pilots even see an enemy plane, and not a single victory was scored by any of the four squadrons. It
was just as well. Colonel William Billy Mitchell was gearing up for the greatest American air show of
the war, and until the opening guns he wanted his aerial armada well concealed.
On August 29 the Eagle Squadron got orders to
move to a new aerodrome at Rembercourt near the
Marne River. From the small grass field hidden by a ring
of trees and artificial camouflage, the 1st Pursuit Group
would be launching support for the first American
offensive of World War I near the town of St. Mihiel.
The 27th began moving on September 1 and
completed the transition on September 6, one week before
the opening salvos of the offensive were scheduled to
begin on September 12. For air power, it would be a
defining moment if Colonel Mitchell could pull it off. For
months the Colonel had argued for a unified aerial role in
the war, and the St. Mihiel offensive would give him that moment. Half a million American soldiers
and Marines, supplemented by 110,000 French, were poised to strike at eight German divisions along
the line from St. Mihiel. Mitchell himself would command more than 500 fighter, observation and
bomber aircraft in support of the offensive.
A key role for the fighters would be to deny the German tacticians intelligence information on
Allied troop movements. If the enemy did not know the Allied strength, the position of its elements,
location of artillery units, and the movement of troops, the offensive might well be a great success and
turn the tide of the war once and for all. Such information could only be denied if the fighter pilots
could somehow keep the German observation balloons out of the sky.
Drachen
Perhaps no other type of aircraft was as important to either side during World War I than the
large observation balloons...called "Drachen" by the Germans and "Sausages" by the Americans.
From a well-placed balloon near the front lines, an observer could watch enemy troop movements and
direct deadly and devastating artillery fire with pinpoint accuracy. Where a well-placed machinegun
might kill dozens of soldiers or a bomb perhaps even a hundred; a good balloon could account for
thousands of deaths in a matter of hours. To the infantryman struggling to survive the horrors of war
near the front lines, the appearance of an enemy balloon rising on the horizon was perhaps the most
dreaded of all sights.
Because of their great value to warfare, both sides took extreme efforts to protect their
balloons. Balloons were costly, scarce, and ultimately vital to success on the ground. One might think
that the large orbs would be an easy target, stationary and far too big to miss. In fact, the most
difficult victory for any flier on the Western Front was a balloon kill.
22
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
First and foremost, one could not bag a balloon without flying beyond friendly lines. Because
they were stationary and tethered to the ground, they were hoisted only in an area controlled by their
own forces. Furthermore, to protect the valuable balloons, anti-aircraft guns were concentrated
around them on the ground to fill the skies with deadly explosions (called "Archie" by the
Americans). This heavy concentration of fire built a literal protective wall around the gas-filled
balloons that would quickly destroy any would-be attacker in the sky. Finally, if any pilot was foolish
enough to fly into the deadly curtain of anti-aircraft fire in his quest to destroy one of the prized
balloons, there was usually a flight of fighter planes lurking above to sweep in and quickly destroy
him.
Attacking observation balloons was a suicide mission, and every pilot knew that. If, somehow a
daring soul succeeded in his mission, and occasionally one did, the flaming eruption of the gas-filled
airbag would all too easily engulf the attacker taking him with it in its final throes of death.
"Any man who gets a balloon has my respect," Lieutenant Vasconcells said as the
officers chatted in the mess hall on the evening of September 11. "I think they're the
toughest proposition a pilot has to meet. He has to be good, or he doesn't get it."
The other pilots nodded in ascent, adding their own small chatter to the subject of balloon
hunting on the eve before the St. Mihiel Offensive was to begin. All participated in the discussion, that
is, except for Lieutenants Luke and Wehner, who sat by themselves in the distance.
September 12, 1918
At 5 a.m. the countryside near St. Mihiel reverberated with the sound of artillery as the first
American offensive of World War I began. At Rembercourt, anxious pilots wolfed down a quick
breakfast eager to become airborne and do their part to support the men on the ground. Their orders
were to take to the skies to protect American balloons, but not to cross the trenches to engage enemy
aircraft over hostile territory unless it was to conclude an engagement that had begun over friendly
lines. Enemy balloons were to be identified and their location noted, but there was no standing order
to attack beyond the trenches.
The steady rain that grounded all early aerial patrols for the 27th did not help the early
morning jitters; not until 7:30 a.m. did the squadron get any of its pilots in the sky. When at last the
first Spads took off, the flight consisted of eight pilots streaking out towards...and (despite earlier
orders) across the lines of battle. Instead of flying in previously ordered three-man formations, all
eight Spads hit the heavens like spreading shot.
One of the first pilots out was Joe Wehner. Shortly after takeoff he sighted a balloon near
Montsec and fired 100 rounds into it. Quickly the German ground crew began winching the Drachen
to the ground, and by the time Wehner had turned to make another run, the sausage was safely in its
nest.
23
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
Lieutenant Leo Dawson sighted a line of enemy balloons, but avoided them after duly noting
their position. He did manage to strafe enemy trenches before landing to refuel at Erize. Less than
three hours after the patrol began, he was back at Rembercourt where he was quickly joined by the
27th's leading pilot Donald Hudson, who had seen no action other than to fire on a few vehicles in the
city of St. Mihiel.
The day would not be totally uneventful for Allied fliers, however. First Lieutenant David
Putnam of the 129th Pursuit Squadron was America's top pilot with thirteen victories (eight of these
flying with the French before transferring to the US Air Corps), a role he had held since the death of
Lieutenant Frank Bayless back in June. On the opening day of the offensive, the American "Ace of
Aces" was shot down and killed. Though Allied pilots would claim more than a dozen victories that
first day, Wehner was unsuccessful in his efforts to get credit for his balloon, leaving only one man to
gain a victory for the entire 1st Pursuit Group. It would be the only confirmed balloon victory for
ANY American pilot that day.
Lieutenant Frank Luke was near Marieulles, well out of his sector, when he saw the large
black shape hanging steadily in the morning skies. Banking and turning 180 degrees, he climbed high
above the Drachen, intent on fulfilling the statement he had made before he took off that morning,
that he was going to bag a balloon.
High above now, he pushed the stick to the firewall, stood his Spad on its nose, and began his
dive. The air around him shook with explosions as a curtain of Archie was hastily put around his
target. Shrapnel ripped through the canvas of his wings and taught wires strained and snapped.
Staring straight ahead he continued his dive, straight into the enemy balloon, opening up with his
guns only when he was so close it would take great skill to avoid a collision. In the wicker basket
hanging below the large black sausage, Lieutenant Willi Klemm tried to jump and parachute to
safety, only to become fouled in the rigging. Below, the ground crew was anxiously winching the
Drachen to its nest as Luke banked to come back for another pass.
The skies continued to explode around the balloon and heavy machine gun fire tore through
the skies as Frank Luke made a loop and a half-roll to come in on his second pass. Moving even closer
this time, he opened fire to rake a line of holes across the Drachen's side. Still, the balloon refused to
die as he hammered it with every round he could until both guns jammed. Circling for a third pass,
he reached under his seat, pulled out a hammer, and slammed it against his guns to clear them.
Few pilots dared to attack balloons, much less make a second pass if the first attack failed.
Frank Luke would not be denied. Climbing in a chandelle as he hammered at his guns to free them,
he flipped over on his back and came in again, machine guns blazing at the rapidly descending orb.
Suddenly a white cloud erupted upward, nearly engulfing his Spad as intense heat threatened to burn
24
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
him alive. Coaxing all the RPMs his now ailing engine could muster, he burst through the explosion to
see the enemy balloon collapse in a sea of flame. With a smile, he turned towards friendly lines.
The Spad's engine sputtered and struggled as Luke watched the trenches pass below as he
crossed into friendly territory to land near Dieulouard. American infantrymen rose from their
positions, running in the direction of his battered plane. "What's wrong, you hit?" asked one of the
first to arrive.
"I'm okay," Luke replied. "Did you see me nail that balloon over there?"
"See it?" The soldier responded. "How could any of us miss it? How you ever managed to get
out of there...."
"Here, sign this then," Luke interrupted as he held out a piece of paper and a pen to first one
man, then another." This time no one would deny him his victory for lack of witnesses. Minutes later
with a hand full of witness statements tucked in his pocket, Lieutenant Frank Luke climbed back in
his Spad to return to Rembercourt. It was not to be. His engine had taken hits along with the rest of
his airplane, and would fly no further.
Luke spent the day and that night with the men on the ground—weary infantrymen and the
crew of an American balloon. Increasingly in the weeks ahead, he would finally find among them the
crowd that cheered when he came onto the field. These men appreciated the work he was doing,
eliminating the enemy balloons that could bring sudden death upon them. These were the men who
fought it out in the trenches, who struggled often in hand-to-hand combat, to defeat their enemy and
to try and survive one more day. These men appreciated the Arizona flier's tenacity and his raw
courage to press his attack until he achieved victory. Without a doubt, they loved the show as well.
Lieutenant Luke didn't return to Rembercourt until the following morning, and then only
after hitching a ride in a motorcycle's side car. It was Friday the 13th, but it would be a great day for
American pilots—more than three-dozen victories. The 103rd Aero Squadron alone scored seven
victories without a single loss. Among the four squadrons of the 1st Pursuit Group, however, not a
single victory was recorded. Among the three-dozen Allied victories for the day, not a single enemy
balloon victory was listed.
Luke fretted the time away waiting for Spad No. 26 to be patched up. The mechanics towed it
back to Rembercourt and shook their heads in amazement. "I've seen lots of planes come in," the
chief mechanic stated, "but when they come in this way, the pilot that flies 'em doesn't climb out of the
cockpit." From the wings more canvas had been shot away than remained. The top left wing was
nothing but air, wire, and three stringers. The empennage was a sieve and a huge gash had been
ripped through the pilot's seat less than six inches from where Luke's body would have been seated.
Smiling, Luke stuck his finger in the hole in the seat and said, "You take care of the aircraft,
chief. I'll take care of me. If I were going to get killed, this would have been it."
If Frank Luke swaggered a little more than usual on September 13, he had good reason. His
balloon victory was more than verified (though strangely enough it wouldn't be officially credited for
two weeks), and the condition of his Spad showed all too well the evidence of a man fearless in battle.
His success did little to endear him to the rest of the squadron, more so in light of the fact that once
again Luke had disobeyed orders, flying beyond the lines and poaching in another squadron's area. It
also probably helped little that in two days the entire 1st Pursuit Squadron had scored no victories
other than Luke's.
25
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
Saturday the 14th would be a different matter, however, a banner day for the entire Group.
Second Lieutenant Wilbert White of the 147th knocked down one enemy Fokker and one Drachen.
Eddie Rickenbacker, the most popular pilot in the Hat In the Ring Squadron (he had become an Ace
by the end of May but hadn't had a confirmed victory in three months), brought down number six.
Luke left Rembercourt in a 12-plane patrol, armed for sausage. After his experience two days
earlier, he had loaded his left machinegun entirely with tracers, hoping they would quickly ignite any
balloon he encountered. Breaking away from the squadron with Lieutenant Leo Dawson, the two men
attacked a balloon near Boinville. Luke's stream of tracers crippled the balloon, but failed to ignite it.
In the first pass the German observer leaped out to parachute to the ground while Luke continued his
dive to strafe the soldiers on the ground that were now pouring all their fire towards Dawson as he
dived at the balloon. Lieutenant Thomas Lennon came in to deliver the coup de grace, the balloon
collapsing slowly to the ground but never erupting.
The fate of the German observer who had parachuted to safety gives a unique insight into
Luke's attitude towards his war at the time. Later asked why he hadn't strafed Sergeant Muenchhoff
of German Balloon Company No. 14, Luke replied: "Hell, the poor devil was helpless." For Frank
Luke balloon hunting, despite its danger, was still something of a sporting event, not a killing field.
Luke, Dawson, and Lennon each tried to claim credit for the balloon victory when they arrived
back at the aerodrome. The squabble became just one more of those annoying disturbances Frank
Luke would cause his new commander, Ack Grant. (Ultimately, each of the three men would receive
credit for the victory.) After playing referee between his three pilots, Grant got an idea. Ignoring the
one victory his squadron had scored that day, he threw a gauntlet before the swaggering blonde pilot
that gave him so many headaches.
Pulling out a map, Grant drew a circle around the town of Buzy near the front lines of the
ongoing offensive. "There's a balloon there that has been giving us hell," he said. "Corps has given our
squadron the task of taking that balloon out. Luke, if you think you're so damn good, go get that balloon.
It is heavily protected, not only by Archie but also by a whole flock of Fokkers. I'm going to send up a
flight under Lieutenant Vasconcells. I want you to drop out of formation at Buzy and get that balloon.
You can take one man with you."
It was more than a challenge; it was a solution. Chances that Luke would succeed were slim at
best, the job a suicide mission at worst. If Luke failed that might take some of the swagger out of him.
If he got killed in the process, well, no one but Wehner and Roberts would shed any tears.
The Drachen at Buzy was concern enough that Major Hartney himself came over from Group
that afternoon to visit the 27th. Flight Leader Lieutenant Kenneth Clapp informed him, "Grant and I
are going to send your boyfriend, Luke, on that assignment. Now, here's the proposition: If he gets it,
he stays in the 27th. If he fails and still comes back alive, you agree to transfer him to another outfit.
Luke's a menace to morale."
Hartney didn't say much, just nodded his head. Meanwhile, Frank Luke was preparing for his
flight with the one other pilot he had been allowed to select to accompany him, Lieutenant Joe
Wehner. The two men mapped out their mission in detail, like teamwork. Luke had loaded his guns
with incendiary rounds while Joe would arm with a mixture of tracers and slugs. Frank would fly in
low to stitch a line of flaming rounds across the large black orb while Wehner flew up high to pounce
on any Fokkers diving on the balloon buster. It was a well-laid plan but was still fraught with danger.
At 2:30 in the afternoon, Vasconcells led his seven planes as they lifted off from Rembercourt
followed by Luke and Wehner. As they neared Buzy, Frank banked his wings towards Joe, and then
26
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
the two men broke away from formation to do their thing. This was the kind of stuff that had branded
Luke an independent loner; only this time he was doing it under orders.
It was a stunningly clear afternoon, and even from a distance Luke could see the Buzy
Drachen hanging brazenly in the sky. In the distance near Waroq he noticed a second balloon. That
would be his encore performance. High above him Joe Wehner lurked, waiting for the dogfight that
was sure to follow. Frank Luke knew Joe was going to have his hands full. In the distance he counted
eight enemy aircraft speeding his direction to intercept his attack. Frank opened his engine wide,
angling forward until he was rolling into a dive directly into a wall of exploding Archie and the
looming shape of the German sausage. Gravity allowed his dive to reach speeds up to 160 mph, 30
miles per hour faster than the top speed of the Spad in normal flight. At such a dive, while holding
fire until he was well within killing range, there was a very good chance he would take out the balloon
in a collision instead of with bullets. Finally at point-blank range, he opened fire with both machine
guns. A stream of deadly fire ripped through fabric...and then, his guns jammed...cooked by the
rapid-fire of the incendiary rounds.
As his Spad passed the enemy balloon, he again felt the sudden rush of intense heat as gasses
exploded and the balloon nearly disintegrated. As he passed the point of danger, his airplane began to
shake under a horrible pounding to the side, as the bullets of an enemy Fokker raked him from prop
to tail. The lead Fokker had nailed him and a second was coming in right behind him. Bullets
splintered his instrument panel, shredded the canvas of his wings, and sailed furiously around his
body in the exposed cockpit. Lieutenant Luke rolled to gain some distance, and then tried to break for
safety with the enemy on his tail. Both of his guns out of commission and his airplane damaged to the
point of nearly falling from the skies, it would be up to his partner now.
Joe Wehner had seen the explosion and knew that his partner had accomplished what no other
pilot expected him to do. Now he watched as Luke rolled toward the ground with enemy machine gun
fire ripping his Spad to pieces. Despite the odds, the brave little kraut from Massachusetts tapped his
own machine guns and headed out of the sun to surprise the Fokkers. The ferocity of his attack
startled the enemy squadron, which quickly dispersed. By the time they realized that they were being
assaulted by but a single American pilot, it was too late. Luke had disappeared, and Joe Wehner was
hightailing it back to join Vasconcells and the other seven Spads for the flight back to Rembercourt.
"After the second patrol I had scarcely landed and made my way to Group
headquarters when Grant, Clapp, and Dawson came galloping up, highly excited,"
Hartney later wrote of that day. "Dawson was the spokesman:
"Listen Major, we want to take that all back. Boy, if anyone thinks that bird is yellow
he's crazy. I'll take back every doubt I ever had. The man's not yellow; he's crazy, stark
mad. He went by me on that attack like a wild man. I thought he was diving right into the
fabric. Then, even after it was afire, I saw him take another swoop down on it. He was
pouring fire on fire and a hydrogen one at that."
"Said Clapp, with tears in his eyes: 'Gosh, Maj. Who spread that dribble around that
Luke is a four-flusher? I'd like to kill the man that did. He's gone, the poor kid, but he
went in a blaze of glory. He had to go right down to the ground to get that....balloon and
they've got the hottest machine-gun nests in the world around it. They couldn't miss him.'"
The Arizona Boaster had lived, and died, up to his brag. Three balloons in three days. It was
unheard of. In death, Frank Luke finally earned the respect of his fellow pilots—the admiration that
had eluded him in life.
27
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
And then the field phone rang. It was the 27th Headquarters.
"Major, you'd better come down here quick and ground this bird, Luke. He's ordered his plane
filled up with gas. He's just run over to Wehner's ship, and he says they're going out to attack that
balloon at Waroq. His machine is full of holes, two longerons are completely riddled, and the whole
machine is so badly shot up it's a wonder he flew her back at all. He's crazy as a bedbug, that man."
The Arizona cowboy was back in the saddle.
There was no third kill for Luke that afternoon. After an argument between Grant and
Hartney ended with Grant posing the question to his Group Commander, "Who's running this outfit
(the 27th Aero Squadron) Major, you or me?" Hartney had backed off to leave the man who had
replaced him at the helm of the Eagle Squadron to command in his own rigid way. A good senior
commander doesn't undercut those beneath him, and Hartney was a good senior commander.
That didn't prevent him from telling Luke in private, "I appreciate all you're doing. I'm so
proud of you I hardly know what to do. It's only a few hours since the army called for the destruction
of those balloons and you did it. No outfit can beat that."
Grant did allow Wehner to fly after the balloon at Waroq, but by the time Joe got there
French Ace Rene Fonck had reduced it to flames. It was probably just as well. Ack Grant
temperament could probably have handled no more heroics from the two outcasts of the Eagle
Squadron on this day. A dose of jealousy might have only added fuel of his previous hatred of Luke
and his partner, and it was no consolation that Frank Luke was now the Group Commander's fairhaired boy.
Things would only get worse for Grant on Sunday.
September 15, 1918
The three-day rampage of the balloon buster did indeed send ripples throughout the 1st
Pursuit Group that reached all the way to the top of the Air Service Command. Colonel Billy Mitchell
labeled the 27th his "balloon platoon," and Luke had a friendly and open ear in Hartney to whom he
could pitch his ideas. The Major was thinking about Luke's ideas for twilight balloon hunts when his
planes began taking off in the morning. Soon, another ripple of excitement spread through Group
Headquarters; 94th Aero Squadron pilot Eddie Rickenbacker had just shot down his eighth
confirmed airplane. The Hat in the Ring Squadron was now the home of America's newest Ace of
Aces.
Meanwhile, the balloon platoon was grudgingly preparing to carry out its own orders. Thanks
to Luke's success, the squadron had received orders that morning via courier assigning it the task of
taking out three balloons at Tronville and a fourth balloon at Villers-sous-Paried. The squadron's
reputation, built by one daredevil pilot, seemed now to destine all of them to suicide missions.
Wehner was late taking off, so he was pushing his engine to catch up before Frank Luke broke
away from the formation to do his work. Racing towards Etain (Boinville), Joe watched the midmorning sky turn suddenly brilliant. Luke had beaten him to the punch and nailed the first balloon
on his own. Instead of flying towards the brilliant fire in the distance, Joe turned towards the second
target he and Frank had marked that morning, the Drachen at Bois d'Hingry. Again, as he
28
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
approached the area, the sky was filled with a bright orange flame and billowing white smoke. The
Balloon Buster had struck again...two balloons and it wasn't even lunchtime.
This time Joe continued towards the scene of the explosion, concerned that his partner might
be under attack from enemy fighters. He arrived just in time to find Luke streaking for home, seven
Fokkers on his tail. Wehner opened fire to give his friend breathing room, shooting down one (the kill
was unconfirmed and never credited to the soon-to-be Ace); and then both men raced for the
American lines.
Frank had to land for repairs, but Wehner returned for a solo patrol to attack a balloon near
Barq. After destroying it and shooting down one of its protecting Fokkers (neither victory was ever
confirmed or officially credited), while returning he noticed eight enemy Fokkers attacking a single
American observation plane. As he had defended Frank Luke against all odds, again Joe Wehner
went into action, shooting down one and forcing the other to land out of control. For that action he
would ultimately be awarded his first Distinguished Service Cross, though he was officially credited
with but one kill...his first confirmed victory. (Wehner is also believed to have shot down one Fokker
the previous day when he had covered Luke's attack on the balloon at Buzy.)
Shortly before five that evening, Luke and Wehner went out with yet another patrol in this
most busy of days. As they neared the lines, the two pilots again split off from the main flight to hunt
enemy balloons, but soon were separated. Northeast of Verdun Joe Wehner found his sausage
hanging in the evening sky and filled it with incendiary rounds, getting his second confirmed kill for
the day...2 for Wehner (1 balloon and one Fokker) and 2 for Luke (both balloons). Yet the two flew
once more on this day of days.
Luke was eager to test his ideas of hunting balloons in the earliest stages of advancing night
fall, and it was nearly eight o'clock when the skies lit up near Chaumont, and Frank Luke became a
6-kill Ace with three balloon victories in a single day. The feat was unprecedented, eventually earning
Lieutenant Luke the Distinguished Flying Cross, though there would be no celebration back at
Rembercourt. Attempting to return to his aerodrome, Luke became lost in the darkness and landed in
a wheat field near Algers to spend the night, returning to the aerodrome after noon the following day.
September 16, 1918
The St. Mihiel offensive ended its run with American soldiers pushing the Germans more than
10 miles backward in four days, the number of prisoners in the tens of thousands. Not only were the
Kaiser's ground forces in total disarray, his airmen were reeling from the loss of more than 100
planes and balloons in the period. The normally invincible balloon companies were especially shaken,
nervous now at the site of two lone Spads in the sky. Luke and Wehner had become a legendary team
among both friend and foe.
The newfound respect the enemy had for them was posing its own set of problems. The duo
flew two separate hunting patrols on the afternoon of the 16th, but every time they neared a potential
target, the German ground crews were winching the large Drachen to the ground well ahead of the
hunters. It was frustrating for two men making aviation history, and Luke approached Major
Hartney once again about flying dusk patrols. He and Joe had noted balloon positions as they were
hauled safely into their nests at the approach of their Spads earlier, and now Frank was promising
the Group commander a triple-punch victory in twenty minutes if only he would authorize the flight.
29
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
In the boisterous manner of speech that had made him the most despised man in the squadron,
he pointed to a map and said,
"Wehner can get one about 7:10, I'll get another about 7:20, and between us we ought
to get the third about 7:30. Just start burning flares and shooting rockets here on the
drome about that time (to light up the field), and we'll get back all right."
This time, fellow pilots took Frank Luke and his big talk seriously.
Not only was the experiment approved, it was publicized and even closely watched by the
commander of all the aerial forces, Colonel Billy Mitchell himself. Rickenbacker himself, his new title
of Ace of Aces in jeopardy, watched the events unfold in admiration and fascination, later recording
the evening's activities in his autobiography, Fighting the Flying Circus. (Different accounts written
after the war detail events and actual times with some discrepancies, but the basic facts of the balloon
attack of September 16 are generally accurate.)
"Just about dusk on September 16 Luke left the Major's headquarters and walked over to his
machine. As he came out of the door he pointed out the two German observation balloons to the east
of our field, both of which could be plainly seen with the naked eye. They were suspended in the sky
about two miles back of the Boche lines and were perhaps 4 miles apart.
"Keep your eyes on these two balloons," said Frank as he passed us. "You will see that first one
there go up in flames exactly at 7:15 and the other will do likewise at 7:19."
"We had little idea he would really get either of them, but we all gathered together out in the
open as the time grew near and kept our eyes glued to the distant specks in the sky. Suddenly, Major
Hartney exclaimed, 'There goes the first one!' It was true! A tremendous flare of flame lighted up the
horizon. We all glanced at our watches. It was exactly on the dot!"
"The intensity of our gaze towards the location of the second Hun balloon may be imagined. It
had grown too dusk to distinguish the balloon itself, but we well knew the exact point in the horizon
where it hung. Not a word was spoken as we alternately glanced at the second-hands of our watches
and then at the eastern skyline. Almost upon the second our watching group yelled simultaneously. A
small blaze first lit up the point at which we were gazing. Almost instantaneously another gigantic burst
of flames announced to us that the second balloon had been destroyed. It was a most spectacular
exhibition."
It had indeed gone like clockwork—Luke and Wehner both attacking the first balloon over
Reville (for which each would get credit). Even as the flames from that first victory were fading into
the darkness, Luke was single-handedly dropping the second balloon at Romagne in burning refuse
over its ground crew while they in turn filled the sky with deadly bursts of Archie and machine gun
fire. Minutes later Joe Wehner was completing the triple play as he flamed the Drachen at
Mangiennes.
As the third balloon exploded, the ground crews at Rembercourt lit the sky to mark the field
for their returning heroes, a fireworks display befitting the encore performance of the St. Mihiel
offensive. For Joe Wehner it was four confirmed victories in two days. For Frank Luke it was an
incredible eight balloons in five days...and the new title American Ace of Aces. Eddie Rickenbacker
said he didn't mind being supplanted by the action, "We all predicted that Frank Luke would be the
greatest air-fighter in the world if he would only learn to save himself unwise risks."
30
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
Madman from Arizona
In the myriad of stories that were told and written about
the Great Balloon Buster after the war, Frank Luke is often
referred to as a "Madman" for the fearless abandon with
which he attacked the Germans. On that night in September, as
well as in the battles of the previous day, Lieutenant Frank
Luke was far from MAD. Independent? Yes. A loner? To some
degree, though his friendship with Joe Wehner shows he
understood teamwork to some degree. But Frank Luke did not
wage warfare with a crazy abandon. His incredible string of
victories were the result of skillful flying, careful planning, and
cunning calculation. All of that changed two nights after the
famed triple play.
America's new Ace of Aces was a phenomenon,
worshipped by the infantrymen who witnessed his amazing
displays over enemy lines, revered by the mechanics that
patched up his Spad after each action while marveling at his survival, and envied by pilots of both the
Allied and German air forces. If Luke had any competition for first place in the ace category, it would
come from Joe Wehner, not Eddie Rickenbacker or one of the other great fliers of the day.
Indeed, after the night of September 16 when Frank Luke bagged his eighth balloon, Joe
Wehner could only claim four victories. In fact, had they all been confirmed and counted, Joe might
have been one victory ahead of Frank. But where Frank and Joe were concerned, there wasn't a
competition but a sense of teamwork. Rickenbacker described them thus:
"There was a curious friendship between Luke and Wehner. Luke was an excitable,
high-strung boy, and his impetuous courage was always getting him into trouble. He was
extremely daring and perfectly blind and indifferent to the enormous risks he ran.
"Wehner's nature, on the other hand, was quite different. He had just one passion, and
that was his love for Luke. He followed him around the aerodrome constantly. When Luke
went up, Wehner usually managed to go along with him. On these trips Wehner acted as
an escort or guard, despite Luke's objections. On several occasions he had saved Luke's
life. Luke would come back to the aerodrome and excitedly tell everyone about it, but no
word would Wehner say on the subject.
"Wehner hovered in the air above Luke while the latter went in for the balloon. If
hostile aeroplanes came up, Wehner intercepted them and warded off the attack until Luke
had finished his operations. These two pilots made an admirable pair for this work and
over a score of victories were chalked up for 27 Squadron through the activities of this
team."
To say that Frank Luke was a loner who didn't need anybody on the night he became
America's Ace of Aces would be to ignore one of military history's legendary friendships. The day
following their spectacular night show, the two men went souvenir hunting together in the trenches
and villages near the front lines. For the 27th, as well as most of the other squadrons, the successful
conclusion of the St. Mihiel offensive warranted a day off. Frank had always wanted to capture an
31
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
enemy airplane with machine guns intact to send home as mementoes of his service in France. As the
two scoured the battle torn countryside, they located a bombed-out house containing the bodies of a
dozen Germans and two machine guns. Like kids, Luke and Wehner loaded the guns in their car to
return to Rembercourt. There they cleaned and polished their trophies and shipped them to Paris to
be held for them.
Shortly after five o'clock on the evening of Wednesday the 18th, the American infantrymen in
the trenches heard the sound of two airplane engines. Looking skyward, they noticed two lone Spads
crossing the lines and heading into enemy territory. The tempo seemed to pick up on the ground, and
all eyes strained towards the east in anticipation of what they all knew was coming. High above Luke
and Wehner could not hear the excited shouts of encouragement or see the waves of the weary
soldiers. Instead, their attention was focused on Three Fingers Lake, the largest body of water in the
area and a position the Germans had fiercely held since the earliest days of the war. With the
doughboys driving them ever backward, the Boche had hoisted two important balloons carefully
placed near the lake where they could easily observe the American troop movements and report back
to the military planners on the ground.
While Wehner remained hidden high above, Luke went into a dive on a balloon tethered above
a swampy area at the northwest edge of the lake. Echoes of heavy anti-aircraft fire rolled across the
countryside as Luke pointed his Spad at the first target, never wavering as deadly missiles swarmed
around him. At the last minute before it would seem his plane would disappear into the side of the
Drachen, Luke opened fire and banked away for a second pass,
then a third. Rickenbacker wrote, "Three separate times he dived
and fired, dived and fired...constantly surrounded with a hail of
bullets and shrapnel, flaming onions and incendiary bullets."
Suddenly the eruption of the volatile gasses mushroomed into the
heavens and Lieutenant Luke banked, leveled off, and pointed his
Spad east towards the second target.
To the west Luke noted six German Fokkers rushing to
cut him off, but chose to withdraw by way of the second balloon
in hopes of destroying it with a casual burst as he passed. Flying
east towards his target, the six Fokkers managed to flank Luke to
the south as he boldly dove at the second Drachen as the ground
crew frantically tried to winch it down. Luke's success could not
be missed...the lights of the exploding German sausage being
witnessed all the way back to the American trenches. And then
the six Fokkers were on him supplemented by three more that
had slipped in from the north to catch him in a classic crossfire.
Whether by crafty design or by simple opportunity, the German fighter pilots had drawn the
two American Aces into a well-laid trap. When Wehner dove to the rescue of his partner, he failed to
see the three Fokkers that broadsided him from the north. In a moment the thrill of victory turned to
horror as Luke watched his partner's Spad roll over, and then begin to fall, flames issuing from the
its fuel tank. And then, suddenly, Lieutenant Frank Luke did become a madman.
At the moment the intrepid Frank Luke should have finally said "enough" and broke for
home, instead a rage built up inside of him at the loss of his one friend. Banking his Spad, he hurled
himself with abandon at the three Fokkers, both guns filling the heavens with deadly missiles of
death.
32
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
Diving on the enemy plane to the left, Luke
fired until it burst into flames and dropped from
the sky. The other two enemy fighters were on his
tail, and zipped past with their own machine guns
blazing. Luke ignored the hail of death, banked
and dove in on the second enemy Fokker. In his
rage the fusillade was both intense and accurate.
In the space of ten seconds, the Balloon Buster had
destroyed two enemy fighters and sent the third
running for home. His wrath still unabated, Luke
banked again to seek out the remaining six
Fokkers. They too were gone fading into the east.
In frustration, Luke scanned the horizon.
North of Verdun he could see allied anti-aircraft
fire in the twilight, indicating there was a German
plane somewhere over the Allied sector. Luke
banked and headed for the action, heedless of six
more Fokkers that dashed to the rescue of their low-flying Halberstadt. The two-seater was an
observation plane taking photos of the American positions at low altitude.
Luke zoomed past five French Spads, leaving them to deal with the Fokkers, as he dove on the
German observation plane both guns firing incessantly. The large enemy airplane shivered against
the pounding, then nosed over and plummeted to the ground. Luke was out of fuel and quickly
switched to his ten-minute reserve tank, coasting into the forward advance field at Verdun. The field
itself was under the command of Jerry Vasconcells, and it was there Luke spent his first tortured
night after the loss of Joe Wehner. The victory was hollow in the face of his great loss, and Frank
Luke would never be the same again.
That night General John J. Pershing receive a telegraph that read:
"Second Lieutenant Frank Luke, Jr., Twenty-seventh Aero Squadron, First Pursuit
Group, five confirmed victories, two combat planes, two observation balloons, and one
observation plane in less than ten minutes."
It was an accomplishment almost unprecedented in the history of aerial combat.
Thursday morning Major Hartney himself drove out to pick up Lieutenant Luke and bring
him home. Knowing well the young man would be fighting the weight of emotion brought on by the
loss of his friend, Hartney asked the stable and reliable Eddie Rickenbacker to join him. (Hartney
also took along the Group's YMCA girl, Mrs. Welton).
They found Luke in a morose state unsatisfied with his incredible record of combat. His first
question was, "Has Wehner come back?" Rickenbacker and Hartney just looked at each other in
silence. Frank Luke had known the answer even before he'd asked the question. Still hoping against
hope, the two men who had lost friends of their own, personally drove Frank to military headquarters
in Verdun to see if any word of Wehner's fate had been uncovered. There was no word of the missing
Ace, now credited with six kills (some records list him with only five, omitting the very plane he
received the DSC for destroying on September 15.) For his part in the September 16 triple play that
had been witnessed by so many, Wehner did receive a second posthumous Distinguished Service
Cross.
33
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
While at Verdun HQ, Luke was informed that not only had his previous night's five kills been
confirmed, but that three earlier victories had also been confirmed. The man from Arizona was
credited with knocking down 14 enemy balloons and airplanes in only eight days. "The history of war
aviation, I believe, has not a similar record," wrote Rickenbacker in Fighting the Flying Circus.
"Not even the famous Guynemer, Fonck, Ball, Bishop, or the noted German Ace of
Aces, Baron von Richthofen, ever won fourteen victories in a single fortnight at the front.
"In my estimation there has never during the four years of war been an aviator at the
front who possessed the confidence, ability and courage that Frank Luke had shown
during that remarkable two weeks."
That night the entire 1st Pursuit Group held a dinner in honor of Frank Luke, now a reluctant
hero. When Major Hartney introduced him and asked the young lieutenant to say a few words, Luke
stood quickly to his feet and simply quoted the father of one of the squadron's fallen comrades, "I'm
having a bully time." Then he sat down amid a round of laughter, forcing a smile he really didn't feel
in his heart. Frank Luke was a changed man.
Somewhere in the two days following his 14th victory and Joe Wehner's death, the Army sent
a photographer to Rembercourt. The pictures probably comprise the best recollection the world
would have of the Balloon Buster, and the most accurate look into his soul. Traveling into the
countryside near Verdun, the wreckage of the Halberstadt that had been Luke's last victory was
located. It was the only one of Frank's victims to ever fall inside friendly lines. There, Frank Luke
posed for what is perhaps his most famous photograph. A closer look at his face reveals not the smile
of a victorious hero, but the haunting gaze of a tortured soul.
Conspicuous by its absence in any of the written records by Hartney, Rickenbacker and
others, is the reaction of Luke's commander Alfred "Ack" Grant. It is safe to assume that Grant
never overcame his personal dislike for Frank Luke and resented even more the successes that
endeared him to Colonel Mitchell and Major Hartney. The brewing clash of personalities would
resurface again.
34
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
For the moment, Major Hartney could see that Frank Luke was near the breaking point. At
the dinner in the Ace's honor, Hartney presented Frank with the most coveted prize in the Group—a
seven-day pass to Paris. While Luke languished alone with his thoughts in the French capital, the
entire world was learning of his exploits. Headlines in the September 21 New York Times read:
11 GERMAN BALLOONS
HIS BAG IN 4 DAYS
Lieut. Luke Also Destroyed Three Airplanes in the Same
Period
USES INCENDIARY BULLETS
On One of His Flights the American Downed Two foes on a
Few Gallons of Gasoline
"The Last Straw"
Not even the magic of Paris could soothe the tortured soul of Lieutenant Frank Luke, and he
returned from his leave early, probably much to the consternation of Lieutenant Grant. Ack had been
at a loss as to how to deal with Luke for weeks. He was convinced the Arizona Balloon Buster had no
respect for authority, no regard for orders, and was bent on becoming a one-man show in the air. At
least with Luke in Paris for a week, the problem had a temporary solution. Luke's early return was
not entirely a welcomed one.
While Luke had been gone, the ever-steady Vasconcells moved his B-Flight to the advance field
at Verdun. On September 26, the day after B-Flight's arrival, the Allied forces opened their Marne
offensive. It was to be a push to drive the Germans out of the Argonne Forest and ultimately lead to
the end of war within six short weeks. Eddie Rickenbacker had done his part by knocking down three
planes the previous day, the same day he also became commander of the famed Hat in the Ring
Squadron. Despite his impressive record for the day, Frank Luke's position as Ace of Aces was intact,
and Rickenbacker's intent according to his own autobiography had not been to compete with the
Eagle Squadron's leading pilot so much as to compete with the entire squadron. Prior to that date,
thanks to Frank Luke, the 27th Pursuit Squadron was the top squadron in the 1st PG by six victories.
Almost since the inception of 1st Pursuit Group, under the leadership of the great Raoul Lufbery, the
94th had always led the pack. Rickenbacker was determined to see his squadron reclaim their
position.
Frank Luke was back for the opening day of the offensive, flying out with Lieutenant Ivan
Roberts, one of his few friends from the early days before the Arizona Boaster had been transformed
into America's greatest hero of the air. It was Luke's first combat mission since the death of Joe
Wehner seven days earlier.
While looking for balloons, Luke spotted a formation of five Fokkers near Consenvoye and
Sivry and attacked. Though he claimed one victory and flamed a second, neither was ever officially
credited to his already impressive tally. Ivan Roberts never returned from the mission. The last time
Luke had seen his new wingman, Roberts had been tangling with two Fokkers on his own. The loss of
two wingmen in two consecutive combat missions, both counted among his very short list of friends,
was the final straw in the fragile psyche of Frank Luke. Never again would he fly in formation with or
35
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
endanger the life of another American pilot. In Frank's own mind, though he might be the greatest
curse on enemy aircraft along the Western Front, he was a jinx to any Allied pilot who flew with him.
Returning to Rembercourt Frank thought about his new policy to only fly solo from that point
on, fully aware that his vow would in all probability result in the loss of his wings or perhaps even a
court martial at the hands of his by-the-book squadron commander. Bypassing the chain of
command, Luke went directly to Major Hartney requesting permission to transfer to Vasconcells'
field near Verdun where he would operate independently...and alone. Hartney agreed to discuss the
matter with Grant, and Luke returned to his squadron to await the decision.
Sometime on the 28th, Frank ordered his Spad gassed and armed though no mission had been
authorized. After flying to Vasconcells' field, he scanned the horizon waiting for the German Drachen
at Bethenville. The balloon was by now notorious having appeared brazenly for two days while
avoiding the guns of all Allied pilots. Luke himself had earlier stated that he would give his fellow
pilots a shot at the belligerent enemy orb; and if they couldn't get the job done, he'd do it himself.
Technically AWOL (absent without leave), and in what might have been considered a stolen Spad,
Luke crossed the lines and made short work of the sausage that had eluded all other balloon hunters
for nearly three days. In that unauthorized mission, Luke was also credited with the destruction of a
Hannover CL near Monthainville. The tally was sixteen kills, and growing—unless Ack Grant could
put a stop to his rebel pilot. In a final act of defiance, Luke landed to spend the night at Cignones field
before returning to Rembercourt the following day to file his combat report.
Epithet for a Gunslinger
The events of September 29 became muddied with the telling and
the retelling of the legend of Frank Luke mired more perhaps by
Hartney's efforts to spin the tale in a manner that reflected less his
undermining of Alfred Grant's authority as commander of the squadron,
and Grant's own efforts to play down his personal jealousy and dislike of
Luke.
Just as the death of Lieutenant Roberts had been the final straw
for Frank, the independent young Ace's unauthorized flight of September
28 was the final straw for Ack Grant. When at last Luke showed up in the
afternoon at Grant's headquarters, the squadron commander exerted his
authority. "Where the hell have you been?" he shouted.
"There's a war on, Captain," Luke responded with a bit of arrogance. "I've been out doing my
job."
Alfred Grant blew up. "Listen to me hot shot, don't swagger in here and brag to me. Maybe
you're the greatest thing flying since wings. In the air you may be better than the birds, but down here
you are the lousiest officer I've ever seen. Down here you stink! Until you learn to act like a man, instead
of a spoiled child, you don't fly. YOU ARE GROUNDED! Understood?"
"Yeah," Luke grunted, flippantly tossing his combat report on the desk as he turned to leave.
"By the way, I got you another balloon." Then in yet another show of defiance, Lieutenant Luke
walked to the airstrip, fired his Spad, and headed for Vasconcells' field.
36
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
As quickly as Luke's Spad lifted off, Grant was on the field phone to Verdun. "Jerry," he said
when he had Vasconcells on the line, "I've grounded Luke. He's on his way up to the field now. I want
him arrested when he gets there. That's RIGHT! You hold him, I'll send someone else up to bring his
plane back."
"What happens now?" Grant's adjutant asked when the commander hung up the phone.
"That damn Luke has to learn this isn't his own private war," Ack responded, knowing he was
caught in a precarious position. He had just grounded the American Ace of Aces, the man who had
single-handedly made the Eagle Squadron one of the most publicized flying units of the war. "I'm
recommending him for the Distinguished Service Cross," Grant continued. "Then, I'm going to see that
he's court-martialed." (Some published stories after the war substituted "the Medal of Honor" for
"the Distinguished Service Cross" when recalling Grant's statement that day, but a Medal of Honor
for Frank Luke was the last thing on Grant's mind. When at last Grant did write the
recommendation, it was indeed for the DSC and not the Medal of Honor.)
When Luke landed at the advance airfield near Verdun, a grim-faced Lieutenant Vasconcells
met him. "You're under arrest, Frank," he struggled against his own emotions to announce. "I'm
sorry, that's straight from Grant. I've got no choice."
The tension was broken only by the sound of an incoming Le Rhone as it settled nearby. Major
Hartney had chosen this day to visit Vasconcells' field to review the progress. As he approached the
two fliers, Luke seized the moment. "Glad to see you sir. I was just telling Jerry here, there's three
drachens near Verdun. I've been watching them the last couple days, and I'm sure I can nail all three of
them if you'll authorize a flight."
Eagerly Luke sketched out his plan as Hartney nodded, and Vasconcells remained quiet about
the fact that Luke was under arrest. When Luke finished, Hartney just shook his head in amazement.
Military maneuvers were carefully crafted, weaving threads of intelligence, the guesswork of experts,
and the education and experience of proven leaders into a well-planned strategic offensive. Once the
plans were made, the commanders briefed their lieutenants, who in turn passed the word on down the
chain of command to the men who would carry out those plans. With Frank Luke everything was
reversed.
Luke laid it out simply, like plotting a drive on the football field. "You set up a block here, you
run down the field, you toss the ball....and TOUCHDOWN!" Once he had mapped it out the intrepid
junior officer briefed the commanders...Frank Luke strategy and chain of command all ran the
opposite direction. And amazingly, it worked.
"Okay," Hartney finally said. "You want those three balloons, go for it." Luke smiled. "Frank,
one thing though...."
"Yes sir?"
"I don't want you going out until dark. Wait until the sun drops, then do it the way you always
have. Good Luck."
Luke was impatient to get going. Hartney had set a takeoff time for nearly six that evening. At
5:40 the group commander was warming his own aircraft up for the return to headquarters when he
noticed Luke already in the cockpit, his propeller starting to turn.
"Highly exasperated I reached out of the cockpit and grabbed Vasconcells by the
arm," Hartney recalled. "Go over and pull him out of that ship and tell him if he doesn't
obey orders I'll stop his flying and send him to the rear."
37
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
"In a moment Luke's propeller stopped and Vasconcells made him get out of his ship.
Luke looked at me sheepishly, grinning. I shook my fist at him. Frank knew he couldn't
get away with it. The Le Rhone caught and I was off down the field for Group
headquarters.
"That gesture, a shaken fist, was my parting with Frank Luke."
Fifteen minutes later, in keeping with Major Hartney's timetable, Frank Luke was airborne
and heading east. As he neared the enemy lines, he dropped low over the American trenches. Weary
foot soldiers were quick to recognize the lone Spad, waving and shouting their encouragement. Near
an American balloon company, Frank sent the Americans scurrying for cover as he leaned out of the
cockpit and threw something to the ground. Circling for a moment, he waited while the curious
soldiers ventured out to retrieve the brick he had dropped. It carried a handwritten note that read:
"Watch those three Hun balloons along the Meuse. LUKE."
Every eye along the front turned eastward where three German Drachen hung boldly in the
fading twilight, then back at the legendary lone Spad as it began to gain altitude and enter enemy
territory. Minutes later a cheer went up all along the American lines as the explosion of the first
German sausage lit the heavens.
Though the first kill had looked surprisingly easy, it had not been. Perhaps as many as ten
Fokker D-7s had seen him cross the lines and dove in to intercept him. Any hope Frank Luke had
entertained of reaching the first balloon before enemy fighter cover reached him quickly vanished.
Witnesses on the ground later recounted a five-minute aerial dogfight, one lone American in a
French-made Spad against ten German Fokkers in the flickering flames of a burning Drachen. It was
also reported that in the battle Luke shot down two of the Fokkers before his own Spad, riddled with
enemy machine gun fire and trailing smoke…began its slow spiral towards the ground.
The Fokkers broke off as they watched the doomed Spad fall, turning in search of additional
prey. With the enemy fading in the distance, Luke struggled with the controls, leveling off just 50
yards above the ground. Amazingly, he and his airplane had recovered from their lethal dive. Luke
banked carefully on one wing; canvas now
shredded, and pointed the nose of his Spad at
the second balloon over Briere Farm.
Archie continued to break all around
and the skies were full of flaming onions and
flashing, ground-fired machine-gun tracers. On
the edge of his peripheral vision Luke noticed
the movements of two airplanes shadowing him.
That would be Joe Wehner and Ivan Roberts,
lurking above to protect him from German
Fokkers.
Eyes intent on the second Drachen, he
ignored all else to hold down the triggers of
both his Vickers 11mm's and stitch the
balloon's side with hot incendiaries. As he did,
38
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
he felt his own airplane shudder under a hail of bullets, then rocked back in his seat as something
slammed against his chest. The Drachen erupted around him, hot gasses searing his face and
momentarily allowing him to forget the pain in his shoulder. Breaking through the cloud of flaming
hydrogen, the shadows were still there and continuing to pour a steady stream of bullets into the side
of his Spad. "Why are Wehner and Roberts shooting at me?" He wondered, and then...
Joe and Ivan were dead. They'd fallen in the previous days demonstrating their loyalty to the
Balloon Buster. Pain stabbed back in his shoulder as he reached towards the instrument panel to wipe
away oil...and blood. Luke was hit, and hit bad.
Again he banked turning towards Milly where one more black Drachen was being hurriedly
hauled towards earth by its frantic ground crew. Heedless of his pain or the now sputtering sounds of
his airplane engine, he ran the gauntlet of continuous enemy fire. Holding down the triggers of his
own guns, he swooped low on the third balloon as its crew tried in vain to bring it safely back to its
nest. Again gasses exploded and the night sky lit up with the telltale signature of the American Ace of
Aces...three balloons in less than fifteen minutes. Back at Vasconcells' field the fireworks began,
lighting the airstrip inside Allied lines to beacon the American hero home.
Luke was already flying dangerously low after diving to nail the third balloon before it could
be hauled into its nest. The lack of altitude now worked in his favor, hiding him from the enemy
airplanes that had nearly ended his remarkable career. Streaking towards home, he felt the warmth
of his own blood filling the lining of his flight jacket, and could see the sparks flying from the
ruptured exhaust of his engine. The odds had finally caught up with Frank Luke, and he was in deep
trouble. But he was still breathing, his Spad was still flying, and he still had bullets in his
machineguns. Buzzing low over the village of Marvaux, he saw a troop of German soldiers along a
trail that was in fact, the city's main street. Tipping his nose ever so slightly, Luke opened up as he
passed over them, smiling as he saw half-a-dozen enemy soldiers fall.
And then Luke himself was falling. His last act of defiance in the face of death had sapped the
Spad of any remaining ability to continue. In the distance he saw a line of trees just beyond the
outskirts of the village and a small field perhaps large enough to put his crippled airplane on the
ground. With the last of his ebbing strength, he fought the stick, leveling off as he fell and rolling to a
landing across the muddy pasture. Behind him he could hear the shouts of the German patrol he had
just fired on in Marvaux. Cradling his badly wounded shoulder, he forced himself out of the cockpit
and ran for the tree line, working his way to a nearby creek. Dehydrated from the unstemmed flow of
blood, Luke tried to gulp down the tepid water to give him strength for what lay ahead.
Suddenly the enemy was upon him, surrounding him from a distance and calling for his
surrender. Reaching down with his good hand, Frank Luke drew his service pistol and gave them his
answer. He had always said he would never be captured alive.
He wasn't! As quickly as Lieutenant Luke's pistol spoke in reply to the surrender demands,
the enemy patrol riddled his body. Triumphantly, the Germans carried the shattered body of the
American Ace of Aces back to Marvaux, stripping it of everything but the cheap wristwatch Luke
wore on his left arm. There they dumped the body in the bed of an open manure wagon, refusing to
let the townspeople even cover it. When at last the Germans had exacted their revenge, they dumped
the body in an unmarked hole.
Throughout the night fireworks continued to light the sky near Luke's home field, a vain
attempt to beacon the warrior home. The legend of Frank Luke wouldn't die even when he failed to
return. Over the weeks that followed, stories circulated that the man who was perhaps the greatest
39
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee B
Baalllloooon
nB
Bu
usstteerr
flier of World War I was hiding out with the French pilots among whom he had so often before found
some semblance of friendship and respect. The Army carried him as "Missing In Action" for three
months, and not until six months after his death, when stories circulating around Marvaux prompted
recovery and identification of Luke's body (identification was confirmed by his watch), was all hope
for Luke's survival put to rest. It was then also, for the first time, thanks to the reports of the villagers
of Marvaux, that the story of Luke's last valiant battle on the ground became known.
Back in Phoenix, Arizona, however, the truth was already known. On a September morning in
1918 Tillie Luke walked out the front door of the big house at 2200 W. Monroe. It was well out of
season for the lilies that normally bloom in the spring and yet, there they were in all their splendor—
blooming in the place where a year earlier Frank Luke had planted them before rushing off to his
football game.
Blooming in the shape of a Cross!
FOOTNOTE:
Lieutenant Grant was faithful to his promise, submitting
Lieutenant Frank Luke for the Distinguished Service Cross. In
1919 the award was upgraded, and for his final flight on
September 29, 1918, during which he engaged eight enemy
Fokkers, destroyed three balloons, strafed a German column of
infantry, and then landed and evaded capture until killed in
action, Lieutenant Frank Luke was awarded the Medal of
Honor.
Today, when one visits the Arizona State Capitol, you cannot
miss the statue of a World War I airman standing alone beneath
the Flag of the United States of America for which he fought. It
is a home state tribute to the greatest airman of World War I,
perhaps in fact, the greatest American Ace who has ever
lived—Lieutenant Frank Luke.
The Balloon Buster
40
For the
Men on the Ground
Lost Battalion of WWI
Like the knights of old, the new Knights of the Skies were fiercely independent, notably
courageous, and admirably chivalrous. Such chivalry was evident in their respect for the greatest
among them, whether friend or foe. The impressive military funeral the British, French and
American fliers gave their most dangerous enemy, the infamous Red Baron, illustrates that these men
respected the qualities of skill, cunning, courage and aerial ability in even those they sought daily to
battle with and destroy.
Also like the knights of old, these Knights of the Skies served with great empathy for the less
fortunate, ever standing ready to defend them against all odds. It was to become a tradition that
would mark the valiant service of American aviators, as well as those of other nations, through many
wars to follow over the next century.
By the twentieth century dragons were known to be mythological, but modern weapons had
advanced to the point that the ancient Knights of the Roundtable might have easily confused the big
guns of the artillery or large tanks belching streams of deadly fire as a new breed of fire-breathing
dragon. Damsels in distress may have been a rarity on the battlefields of the Western Front, but as
pilots took off from their aerodromes each day to fly over the trenches in search of enemy planes, it
did not take them long to realize that there was no shortage of distress. Perhaps one of the best
glimpses of the impact the sight of ground warfare had upon the minds of an aviator, can be found in
an account of 27th Aero Squadron Commander Major Harold Hartney's visit to the front lines with
soon-to-be Ace of Aces, Frank Luke.
In the days after the August 1 air battle that cost Hartney 6 planes out of an 18-plane patrol,
he assumed his dubious task of visiting the front lines to search for survivors or salvageable aircraft
from the battle. In his subsequent book Up and at 'Em, he described some of the events of that trip:
The first time I really took much of an interest in him (Lieutenant Frank Luke) was about three
days after I had lost six of my officers and Don Hudson had shot down two Rumplers carrying four men
on Aug. 1, 1918. I had already been up to the lines to see if I could find any of my boys. That first day I
could not get any farther than Villers Cotterets, not far from our small advance airdrome, although
farther north, and had to return by foot and freight train via Paris.
A couple of days later Luke came to my tent and said, "Major, Lt. Clapp (Luke's flight
commander) says its all right for me to go up with you this morning if you can take me."
Page 41
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
I shall never forget that journey. Frank, one enlisted man, and I went along in my Packard. On
this trip he talked freely, of his days on the plains back home, of incidents of his training, (and) of his
ambition to be an outstanding flier. He was extremely serious always.
Walking to the top of a hill we found the two German planes Hudson had brought down. The two
pilots and their observers were still there, their faces black, the summer sun getting in its rapid work.
One of them had on very light patent leather low shoes. This impressed Luke. "Wonder where he was
the night before," he murmured. Rumor had it among the ground troops that one of the Germans was a
girl, but this was not true.
Three hundred yards farther we came to
the top of another knoll and looked down the
other side, a smooth space of about a hundred
acres. Never have my eyes rested on such a
sight. May they never again behold one like it.
The hill was literally covered with dead men,
side by side, head to head, little or no space
between, practically all of them American
doughboys. They had died in droves charging
German machine gun nests left behind to cover
the retreat. Right in front of us were a German
and an American who had actually pierced each
other with their bayonets and neither bayonet
had been withdrawn.
Frank stooped over and picked up some un-mailed postal cards fallen from a pocket of one of
the dead boys. The one on top was addressed to his mother out in Iowa.
"Leave them there," I said. "That American padre over there is busy picking up such things to
send back to the next of kin."
Carefully and reverently, Luke replaced the cards in the pocket of the dead Yankee.
"Boy!" he exclaimed. "I'm glad I'm not in the infantry. They haven't a chance, have they Major."
No one can say for certain what impact Frank Luke's visit to the front lines had on his
subsequent rise to become America's Ace of Aces. Luke certainly would not have become the great
Balloon Buster had he NOT seen that battlefield early on, driven to attack them by the sheer fact that
they were the greatest challenge to any airman. But perhaps to some degree, upon seeing the
devastation thrown against soldiers of the ground, and in the knowledge that observation balloons
contributed materially to such carnage, it gave him an added determination. We do know that during
his brief stint as the Balloon Buster, he became a friend and hero to the infantrymen on the ground.
Of a truth, ground combat was no more dangerous than aerial combat. One of the best ways
for a young man to become a combat casualty was to become an airman. But when the dogfight was
over and the tracers had ended, the victorious pilot could fly back to his aerodrome to eat in a mess
hall and sleep in a tent, while the infantryman struggled to sleep through a miserable night in a rainsoaked trench or "funk hole."
The sheer brutality of combat in World War I is perhaps most evident in the casualties
sustained. During World War II some 16 million Americans served, suffering more than 1 million
casualties, 408,306 of which were battle deaths over four years. During the three year Korean War
42
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
nearly 55,000 Americans were killed in action, and during the 14-years of American combat action in
Vietnam, more than 58,000 Americans were killed in action.
While the American Expeditionary Force (AEF) arrived in Europe in June 1917, there was
little combat action for the doughboys until the German offensive in the spring of 1918. From the
closing days of May until the Armistice on November 11, U.S. Forces suffered more than 100,000
battle deaths and more than 200,000 wounded in action. That translates into more than 300,000
casualties among a force of 1.2 million soldiers in a period of only six months.
After decisive victories at Cantigny, ChateauThierry and the Belleau Wood to halt the Spring
Offensive and push the German forces backwards, the
1st US Army under General John J. Blackjack
Pershing launched the St. Mihiel offensive on
September 12. Within 24 hours the German salient on
the right bank of the Meuse River fell, eliminating a
long-standing threat to the Allied line. More than a
half-million
American
soldiers
and
airmen
participated in the encounter. At the cost of 7,000
casualties they captured 16,000 Germans, 443 artillery
pieces, and created a new threat to the enemy
stronghold at Metz.
The results of these four major actions as well as British, Australian and French ground
fighting primarily, in the north of France, had pushed the Germans all the way back to their first line
of defense. In the north, this virtually impregnable system of trenches, bunkers, and barbed wire
barricades was known as the Hindenburg Line. Built in 1916-17 under Paul von Hindenburg and his
Quartermaster General Erich von Ludendorff, the well-fortified line stretched from Arras in the
north to St. Quentin and eastward into Belgium. The dense Argonne Forest that lay between the
Aisne and Meuse Rivers further extended this line of defense.
The Meuse-Argonne Campaign
Though labeled a "forest," the Argonne
could probably be more appropriately called a
"jungle." Stretching from the Belgian frontier to
Verdun, it comprises a region of northern France
about 44 miles long and with an average width of
10 miles. Elevations average over 1,000 feet, but
this average is difficult to compute because the
area is ruggedly laid out in a series of deep valleys
and sheer cliffs that rise to become high
mountains. The entire region is heavily forested
over a blanket of dense brush.
Throughout three years of warfare,
German forces had supplemented the natural
barrier of the Argonne with elaborate concrete
43
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
and steel bunkers, some so advanced as to contain electricity and modern furnishings. Machine-gun
emplacements had been built up with concrete and timber to withstand the most formidable of
assaults, and then carefully camouflaged to enable them to catch any advancing foe by surprise. The
valleys and ravines were strewn with barbed wire, logs, and other man-made obstacles. When the
Spring Offensive failed, the German forces were able to retreat to an area into which only a foolish
enemy would dare to advance.
On September 22, following the highly successful St. Mihiel Offensive, General Pershing
reluctantly moved his 1st Army into the Argonne sector. Four days later the American line, consisting
of the Ist, IIId, and Vth Corps, stretched nearly 20 miles from Regneville-Sur-Meuse to La Harazee in
the Argonne Forest above the Biesme River. Nine divisions formed the front line with three held in
reserve. West of the Aisne River and on to the East of the doughboys were French troops, now under
U.S. Command, poised to attack the German fortress. Opposing them was the German Fifth Army
with eight divisions, part of the German Third Army, and enemy commanders had at least eight
divisions in reserve.
With British and Australian forces attacking the Hindenburg line in the north while French
forces assaulted the middle, the AEF was divided between the two sectors. Pershing wasn't happy to
have more than one million doughboys involved on two lines separated by some 60 miles, but followed
orders to poise the forces under his command to enter the Argonne Forest. Allied military planners
hoped that this autumn offensive would continue to push the Germans, still reeling from their earlier
losses, out of their sanctuary before winter set it. If that could be accomplished, the Allies would
mount their own Spring Offensive the following year and hopefully bring the war to an end. Even the
most optimistic tacticians would never have dreamed that in six weeks the campaign would be so
successful as to result in Armistice on November 11.
Phase One
The great Allied offensive that ultimately ended the war within six weeks began on the
morning of September 26, and was actually conducted in three phases. The first phase (September 26
- October 1) drove a salient about 7 miles deep into enemy positions in front of the Hindenburg line.
The one blemish on the first four days of advance was in the Argonne region, where the 1st Army
struggled not only against the German forces, but also against the rugged terrain and inhospitable
weather.
On the left flank of the 1st Army's front along the Argonne was the 77th
Infantry Division, better known as New York's Own. Organized at Camp Upton,
Yaphank, New York on August 25, 1917, most of its 23,000 men were citizensturned-soldier as a result of the Selective Service Act of the same year. Ultimately,
the Draft would call to service 2.5 million men between the ages of 18 and 30
during World War I. As such, the men who were holding the left flank of the
American assault on the Argonne Forest were former Manhattan taxi drivers,
Bronx tailors, Brooklyn factory workers, Wall Street executives, and first
generation emigrants.
The bright blue patch bearing the image of New York Harbor's most famous lady, the Statue
of Liberty, earned the division another nickname that would endure through World War II. The 77th
Infantry became known as the Liberty Division and was the first Army division to arrive in France in
the quest to shine the light of the torch of liberty in war-torn Europe.
44
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
While the Liberty Division held the left flank of the First Army's
assault, its component 308th Infantry Regiment held the left flank of the
Division. First Battalion, 308th Infantry, 77th Infantry Division was
commanded by 33-year-old Major Charles Whittlesey, a most unlikely
citizen-soldier.
Born in Florence, Wisconsin, the bespeckled Whittlesey graduated
from high school in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, where his classmates voted
him "the third brightest man in the Class of 1905." After high school
young Charles attended Harvard Law School, graduating in 1908.
Whittlesey was practicing law in New York when he was called to active
duty in August 1917 and ordered to report to Camp Upton. After three
months of training and an OCS (Officers' Candidate School)
commission, he was sent to Europe where he first served with
Headquarters Company of the 308th. When a three-hour artillery barrage signaled the start of the
Meuse-Argonne offensive at 2:30 a.m. on September 26, Major Whittlesey prepared to lead his
battalion of citizen soldiers into the German lair. In the process the 1st Battalion, 308th Infantry
Regiment, 77th Infantry Division would lose its official identity to become forever, and erroneously
labeled:
The Lost Battalion of World War I .
The First Pocket
At 5:45 a.m. the 308th Infantry began the ground assault in their area of the Argonne region
near the town of Binarville. To their right were the rest of the 77th Division and the bulk of Pershing's
1st Army. On the left flank were the 38th French Corps and the 368th Infantry of the 92nd (Rainbow)
Division. During the first day's advance, the 1st and 2nd Battalions crossed a large number of enemy
trench systems. For the most part, resistance was light except for Company A which encountered an
enemy force about a mile southwest of Binarville, resulting in 8 Americans killed and 23 wounded. As
night fell, the men of the 308th dug in and tried to keep warm against the oncoming chill of winter. To
facilitate the advance into the Argonne, the infantrymen had been ordered to travel light, leaving
behind their winter garments and wool coats.
Of that first night of the offensive, Major Whittlesey later wrote, "We found mineral water in
bottles in the German dugouts, so it might have been worse." The 308th had advanced a quarter-mile
during the day, achieving the Corps objective, a marshy area north of the German third line of
trenches. Unknown to them during their advance, as they had moved dangerously into enemy
territory, their own left flank had been unprotected. The 368th Infantry had been withdrawn, and
further flanking cover would fall to the French.
The advanced resumed at 1 p.m. on September 27 with Whittlesey's First Battalion leading the
way. Company A again ran into a deadly hail of fire that decimated their ranks, resulting in 12 men
killed, 18 wounded, and 4 missing. In the first two days of fighting, the 205-man company was
reduced to 144 doughboys led by a single surviving officer. Casualties mounted among the other
companies as well, and 2nd Battalion under Major Ken Budd was rushed to the front of the American
lines.
45
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
At regimental headquarters during that day, Colonel Prescott was
relieved and command of the 808th Infantry Regiment was transferred to
Lieutenant Colonel Fred E. Smith, a likable leader who had entered the service
from Bartlett, North Dakota. Smith had previously ingratiated himself to the
men of the regiment by smuggling in a quantity of grape marmalade, which he
sold to the men at cost to provide some dessert for their otherwise bland diet of
field rations.
By nightfall, despite increased enemy resistance, the 308th had
advanced nearly a quarter of a mile further into enemy territory with orders
to continue at 5:30 a.m. the following morning.
Despite the orders to continue the advance, September 29 dawned with some good news. The
first field rations in two days arrived, even as some units were moving out. As the half-starved men
turned to welcome the needed breakfast, German observers noted the activity and opened fire in what
the veterans of the regiment later called the "Cruller Barrage." The commander of Company B
recorded in his official report: "Bacon, butter, bread, and a one pound cannon barrage from the
Germans, which wounds Corporal Spahr." Despite the irony of being shelled upon receiving their first
ration detail in two days, the day would only get worse.
Moving into an ever more-dense forest, the advance companies found themselves frequently
separated and confused. Enemy trench mortars halted the advance of the assault for hours, and
Company A suffered two more soldiers killed, eleven wounded, and one man missing. Company D
had been reduced to but two fighting platoons; and enemy resistance throughout the region had
wreaked such a toll on the 308th in the first three days that beyond the three battalion commanders
and Major Whittlesey's adjutant, no battalion officers remained. Noncoms were forced to lead entire
companies of infantrymen, now devoid of company-grade officers, and every unit was suffering from
being under strength for the task at hand.
By nightfall the 1st and 2nd Battalions realized that the Germans had filled their exposed left
flank, and communications had been cut off to Headquarters. Major Budd of the 2nd Battalion
watched as elements of B and E Company came under fire in an exposed ravine from an enemy
machine gun and ordered their withdrawal while covering the retreat with his pistol. Most of his
doughboys settled in near a railway in the valley to dig funk holes to try and survive the night.
Companies A, C, F, and H had advanced under Major Whittlesey to an area only a half-mile
southeast of Binerville before digging in for the night. Despite the chill, the men welcomed the rain
that came that night, many of them having gone without a proper ration of drinking water for nearly
four days. By daybreak the rain had become a curse, filling the funk holes and turning the trenches
into a field of mud.
From the night of September 28 until October 1, most of the First and Second Battalions were
well ahead of the rest of the advance—dug in to find shelter from the now heavy enemy fire, and
suffering from a lack of rations and ammunition. To make matters worse, their runner lines were cut
off by the German infiltration, requiring them to communicate with headquarters by carrier pigeon.
Though the subsequent isolation of October 3-7 would mark them the Lost Battalion and their
tenuous position labeled The Pocket, survivors later spoke of The First Pocket (the position from
September 29 - October 1) and The Second Pocket, the later incident. History has often confused the
two separate incidents.
46
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
Runner Lines and Carrier Pigeons
As in any war, communication was essential to the advances of any unit during World War I.
Before the advent of radio communication, transmissions of tactical information between headquarters
units was left to telegraphed messages, or even more rudimentary means. Military units on the advance,
as was the case with the leading battalions of the 308th Infantry, could not reasonably establish
telegraph lines back to headquarters, so messages were normally passed through RUNNER LINES.
As the infantry commander moved his front lines forward, runner posts were established at
intervals to relay messages from the commanders at the front to the headquarters in the rear, much as a
track team passes the baton in a relay race. It was an effective means of two-way communications
unless, as happened during the night of September 28, the enemy was able to surround the advance
element and break the runner line.
Even more rudimentary was the backup method of communication,
sending messages by carrier pigeon. An advancing unit during World War I
often carried some of these small birds, trained to fly back to their coop upon
release. When a message couldn't be sent by runner line, the field commander
would write his message, fold it neatly into a small canister attached to the leg
of one of his pigeons, and release the bird to fly home.
Back at the pigeon's coop an intricate system of wires were rigged to
sound a buzzer any time a bird returned home. The coop keeper would
remove the message from the canister, and then pass it on by messenger or
telegraph to the appropriate headquarters.
On the morning of September 29, Major Budd and Major Whittlesey sent four such carrier
pigeons with messages to headquarters. One of them summed up the situation:
"Our line of communication with the rear still cut at 12:30 p.m. by machine guns.
We are going to clean out one of these guns now. From a wounded German officer
prisoner, we learned that there is a German Company of 70 men operating in our rear,
to close up the gap we made yesterday. We can of course clean up this country to the
rear, by working our companies over the ground we charged. But we understand our
mission is to advance, and to maintain our strength here. It is very slow trying to clean
up this rear area from here by small details when this trickling back of machine guns
can be used by the enemy. Can line of communication not be kept open from the rear?
We have been unable to send back detail for rations and ammunition, both of which we
need very badly."
Back at headquarters Lieutenant Colonel Smith read the message from Whittlesey and Budd
with mixed emotions—concern for their tenuous situation surrounded by enemy forces, and
admiration at their determination to comply with orders to continue the advance and trust the
reserve elements to mop up their now enemy infested rear. Quickly he assembled a small detachment
of ten men, two officers, and some runners to carry messages. With them the element carried
ammunition to resupply the beleaguered forward battalions, and the regimental commander himself
led them to the anticipated rescue.
47
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
The soldier acting as a guide for Smith's squad-sized relief force believed he was leading the
element directly into the forward element's position, when in fact he became confused and wandered
deep into the enemy-infested left flank. The first sign of trouble came when a German machine gun
opened up from a distance of only 50 yards.
Shouting for his men to take cover, Lieutenant Colonel Smith ordered his men to fall back and
take cover, while boldly drawing his pistol to fire on the enemy gun crew. Hot lead opened a hole in
the regimental commander's side and he staggered for a moment, severely wounded, then regained
his footing. Despite the pain, he continued to fire at the enemy position until most of his party had
reached safety.
Realizing the hidden enemy gun posed a dangerous threat to his command, Lieutenant Colonel
Smith refused first aid for his wounds. Working his way to a hand grenade dump he armed himself,
then returned in full view of the enemy to single-handedly attack the menacing position. Before he
could locate it, enemy fire again tore into his body. For his courageous leadership that day,
Lieutenant Colonel Frederick Smith was subsequently awarded a posthumous Medal of Honor, the
first of five for the men of the 308th Infantry Regiment, and the second to be earned by a member of
the Liberty Division. (Further north in the attack on the Hindenburg Line, nine other American
soldiers earned Medals of Honor on this day. To the south of where Lieutenant Colonel Smith's body
lay, an eleventh Medal of Honor was earned in support of the offensive into the Argonne Forest when
Lieutenant Frank Luke destroyed three enemy balloons before vanishing into history.)
Back in The First Pocket, Majors Budd and Whittlesey struggled to maintain the morale of
their now starving battalions in the face of almost certain doom. One of their company commanders
refused to let the situation ruin his sense of humor. Captain George McMurtry enticed his men with
suggestions of: "How would you like to have a good thick rare steak mothered in onions and some
French fried potatoes?"
One month shy of his 41st birthday at the advent of the MeuseArgonne offensive, Captain George McMurtry could well be described as
an "old war horse". Born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, he was a Harvard
graduate when at the age of 22 he enlisted in the Army at New York to
serve in Troop D of Lieutenant Colonel Theodore Roosevelt's famous
Rough Riders, with whom he made the legendary charge on San Juan
Hill during the Spanish-American War. As a young enlisted man,
McMurtry became a career soldier who worked his way up through the
ranks, then obtained a commission when the Army established its first
Officer Candidate Schools in May of 1917. Described as a big, burly,
Irish-American with a ruddy face who seemed to always be of good
cheer, McMurtry was one of the most experienced officers of the 308th
Infantry Regiment who easily acquiesced to the orders of those above
him despite his greater degree of military experience.
Captain McMurtry's sense of humor and overt optimism was sorely needed during the threedays of survival in The First Pocket. Relief finally arrived on the afternoon of September 30 when
Captain Delehanty and Lieutenant Conn guided Company K through down a narrow path to bring
supplies to the beleaguered forward elements of Major Whittlesey and Major Budd. It was the same
day that Major Budd departed for the General Staff College at Langres, and Captain McMurtry was
assigned to command 2nd Battalion, 308th Infantry. Major Whittlesey later wrote:
48
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
"Lt. Taylor came up with a lot of rations and a big carrying detail. Looked 'practically
O.K.,' as George McMurtry put it. And everybody ate! That night I went back to Regl.
Advance Hdqrs.-which had been moved forward in the woods. It was the blackest night
I've ever seen and I had to be passed on from reserve post to post holding the hand of each
successive guide. And I'll never forget going into the Hqrs. dugout and getting warm for
the first time, and seeing Frank Weld's genial face. Cocoa, cigars. Then back to the Bn.
again, which I found with great difficulty in the darkness.
"Orders were to advance at daybreak."
Advance they did, directly into the enemy fire and more tragedy. Lieutenant Scott led
Company A in one assault becoming one of nine men killed during the day. By nightfall no living
officer remained to command the company, and of the 205 men who had comprised Company A when
the assault began on September 26, only 106 remained.
Phase Two
The first phase of the offensive against the German lines in the Western Front closed on a
highly successful note. In heavy fighting the British, Australians, French, and American soldiers in
Northern France had breached the foreboding Hindenburg line and stood poised to break it
completely. The only dismal reports reaching Allied headquarters seemed to be those coming from
the Argonne region. Phase Two (October 4 - 16) was set to begin. General Robert Alexander,
commander of the 77th Infantry Division, had decided it would begin with his doughboys already
turning the tide in the enemy-infested forest. He ordered a three-prong assault directly into the
middle of the Argonne with the 308th Infantry Regiment pushing through a gap in the German lines
on the left flank of the American front. "My orders were quite positive and precise," he wrote in his
official record of the Argonne-Meuse operations for the 77th Division. "The objective was to be gained
without regard to losses and without regard to the exposed condition of the flanks. I considered it most
important that this advance should be made and accepted the responsibility and the risk involved in the
execution of the orders given."
At 10 a.m. on October 2 Major Whittlesey
received his orders. Together with McMurtry's
2nd Battalion, he was to proceed through the gap
in the German defensive line towards the ravine
along the Charlevaux Creek and take up a
position below the east-west La Viergette-Moulin
de Charlevaux road and the railroad track that
paralleled it. Orders were precise; the objective
was to be taken that day, regardless of casualties,
and regardless of whether or not the anticipated
protection on the left flank by the French forces
materialized. Remembering the earlier tragedy
when flank support broke down and his
doughboys were trapped for three days in The
First Pocket, Major Whittlesey protested:
"Well, I don't know if you'll hear from us again."
49
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
October 2, 1918
As specified in his attack orders, Major Whittlesey placed two companies (D and E) under
Lieutenant Paul Knight on the west end of the ravine as a containing force for the left flank. At 12:30
p.m. he then committed the rest of his force to the fulfillment of his battle orders.
The element that would later be called "The Lost Battalion" was not really a battalion at all,
but a composite of three separate battalions and two machine gun companies. George McMurtry's
2nd Battalion entered the valley below Charlevaux Mill under the command of Major Whittlesey,
giving him six companies of infantrymen from the 308th (Companies A, B, C, E, G, and H) for the
attack, with Companies D and E in their position of containment. Supplementing the initial advance
were nine machine guns from Companies C and D of the 306th Machine Gun Battalion. Despite the
manpower of three different battalions in his composite force, Whittlesey's command was well below
strength for a normal infantry battalion, and he entered the ravine with fewer than 700 men.
Slowly the American force wended its way along either side of the ravine behind a heavy
artillery barrage and an advance line of scouts. Along the route Whittlesey placed two-man runner
posts every two hundred yards, to relay messages to and from regimental headquarters. Resistance
was relatively light and one patrol from Company D captured an entire company of German Hessians
without a fight; the prisoners were marched back to the American rear guard. But when resistance
WAS encountered, the results could be devastating. The already battered A Company assaulted one
small hill and lost 90 men in less than thirty minutes of fighting. Only 18 men of the once 205-man
company remained to enter The Second Pocket with Major Whittlesey.
After crossing Charlevaux Creek via a
small footbridge, Major Whittlesey began
placing his survivors beneath the road that was
their objective. The battalion had reached its
goal for the day by 6 p.m. and needed to dig in
for the night. Whittlesey wisely selected a deep
gash 300 yards long and 60 yards deep in the
steep slope beneath the road. It was this gash,
surrounded by heavy forest and dense brush,
which would become known as The Second
Pocket. Little did anyone realize that it would
also be his home for the next five days. For too
many men under the command of Major
Whittlesey and Captain McMurtry, it would also
become their cemetery!
The scholarly lawyer from New York certainly selected his position well, placing his command
post in a funk hole in the center of the position and sharing it with Captain McMurtry. His machine
guns were set up on either flank, and when the men had dug their own funk holes in the hard shale,
they settled in for an evening meal of field rations. Quickly word spread that two of the companies
had been marshaled forward so quickly they had been unable to draw their rations. Generously, and
on their own initiative, the men of the other companies volunteered to share with those who had none,
despite the order that had sent them into their present position with only one day's rations.
50
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
October 3, 1918
((D
Daayy 11))
Morning dawned after an uneventful but chilly night in the Argonne, as the men huddled for
warmth in the absence of tents, blankets, or even heavy coats. Beneath the first rays of light, Major
Whittlesey set in motion his runner posts, passing back to headquarters more than a kilometer away,
news that he had reached his objective and advising of his condition and position.
Regimental headquarters already was aware of much that had happened the previous day,
realizing that 1st and 2nd Battalion had entered the ravine below Charlevaux Mill after breaching the
gap in the German line. Colonel Cromwell Stacey, who had replaced Lieutenant Colonel Smith after
his death, also understood what Major Whittlesey didn't yet know. The two battalions from the 308th
Infantry had been the ONLY American units along the entire 1st Army offensive line to break
through the German defenses, leaving them alone behind enemy lines. On the evening of October 2,
support units had been dispatched throughout the sector to support this advance American element.
All had met heavy enemy fire, and ultimately only one small element succeeded in breaking through.
That unit was the 97 men of Company K, 307th Infantry under a young Lieutenant named for a
legendary American military hero.
Named for Civil War hero and Medal of Honor recipient Nelson
Appleton Miles, Nelson Miles Holderman was himself destined to distinction.
Entering military service as a member of the California National Guard, the
Nebraska native had served in 1916 during the Mexican Border Campaign.
When the United States entered World War I, he had risen through the ranks
to the position of lieutenant in Company L, 7th California Infantry Regiment.
He and his entire company were subsequently assigned as replacements to
Company K, 307th Infantry Regiment, 77th Infantry Division. From the
moment of his arrival at The Second Pocket early on the morning of October 3
until October 7, he and his 97 soldiers would be the last Americans to safely
enter or leave the ravine along Charlevaux Creek. During the night of
October 2-3, the enemy had discovered the breach in their lines, filled the gap,
and then surrounded 554 Americans.
An hour before Lieutenant Holderman arrived in the pocket, Whittlesey had dispatched
Company E under Lieutenant Karl Wilhelm to attack enemy positions west of the ravine and guide
Companies D and F forward from their blocking positions. As yet the commander was unaware that
his forces were surrounded and trapped, or that his runner lines had been broken. At 8:30 a.m.
German artillery began to fall but with little damage, as the pocket was well protected by a reverse
slope. During the bombardment, two small patrols were sent to recon the right and left flanks.
Twenty minutes after the barrage began, the as-yet-undisturbed major dispatched the first of his
carrier pigeons to the rear with a simple message:
"We are being shelled by German artillery. Can we not have artillery
support?"
Shortly after the first pigeon was released, the bad news began arriving. Both reconnaissance
patrols returned to advise Whittlesey that they had seen enemy patrols on both flanks and had been
51
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
unable to contact any friendly units. At 10 a.m. the survivors of Company E returned from their early
morning mission to link up with the blocking force to the west. After departing the pocket and scaling
the western slope of the ravine a large enemy force had engaged the company. Only 18 men under
Lieutenant Leake had managed to get safely back to the pocket to advise the commander that the
enemy had fortified the area to the rear of the advance line. Minutes later one of the men from the
nearest runner post arrived to report that enemy fire had wiped out at least two posts, and the runner
line was broken. At 10:45 Major Whittlesey sent his second pigeon back to headquarters with a
solemn message:
"Our runner posts are broken. One runner captured. Germans in small
numbers are working to our left rear about 294.6-276.2. Have sent K Company,
307th, to occupy this hill and open the line.
"Patrols to east ran into Germans at 295.1-176.3 (6 Boches). Have
located German mortar at 294.05-276.30 and have sent platoon to get it.
"Have taken prisoner who says his company of 70 men were brought in
here last night to 294.4-276.2 from rear by motor trucks. He says only a few
infantrymen here when he came in. German machine gun constantly firing on
valley in our rear from hill 294.1-276.0.
"E Company (sent to meet D and F) met heavy resistance, at least 20
casualties. Two squads under Lieutenant Leake have just fallen back here."
Whittlesey and his men weren't lost in the traditional definition of the term. They knew exactly
where they were, as did their command headquarters. Unfortunately for all of them, the Germans
also knew exactly where they were. Even the wire service editor who later coined the term "Lost
Battalion" acknowledged he had never meant to imply that the battalion was confused about its
location, but rather that the battalion was "done for... in a hopeless situation." This latter definition
was all too close to the truth of the matter.
The Lost Battalion
Roll Call - October 3, 1918
308th
Infantry
1st Bn HQ and Runners
Company A
Company B
Company C
2d Bn HQ, Scout Platoon
Co E
Co G
Co H
Medical Detachment
306th MG Bn
Company C
Company D
13
40
307th Infantry
Company K
98
Total Strength - 554 Men
52
13
18
54
85
52
21
56
101
3
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
At last fully aware of their desperate position, Major Whittlesey and Captain McMurtry held
council in the funk hole they shared, then personally passed their orders to their company
commanders: "Our mission is to hold this position at all costs. No falling back! Have this understood by
every man in your command."
As the afternoon wore on, sniper fire began raining on the pocket from all directions. In the
distant woods the surrounded Americans could actually hear the enemy officers calling roll as they
mustered their troops. And then they came, swarming the pocket from all directions. At 4:05 p.m.
Whitlessey dispatched his third pigeon and last message of the day:
"Germans are on cliff north of us in small numbers and have tried to
envelope both flanks. Situation on left very serious.
"Broke two of our runner posts today near 294.7-275.7. We have not been
able to reestablish posts today.
Need 8000 rounds rifle ammunition, 7500 chau-chat, 23 boxes M.G. and
250 offensive grenades.
"Casualties yesterday in companies here (A, B, C, E, G, H) 8 killed, 80
wounded. In same companies today, 1 killed, 60 wounded.
"Present effective strength of companies here, 245.
"Situation serious."
Whittlesey's report of 245 effective soldiers reflected all that remained of the more than 400
men of the 308th that had entered the pocket the previous day. With slightly more than 150 men of
the machine gun companies and Lieutenant Holderman's company, his force had fallen below 400
effective fighting men, and reflected a 25 per cent casualty rate in the first twenty-four hours alone.
To make matters worse, the men had eaten the last of their rations during the afternoon, and
the vicious attack late in the day had taken a toll on the supply of ammunition. Fortunately his men
had repulsed the enemy on all sides, despite heavy casualties. Over the days to follow the enemy
would keep the Lost Battalion under his guns but did not again mount as heavy an infantry assault on
the position. Perhaps the German commander understood that for the American soldiers trapped in
the pocket above Charlevaux Creek, time was the German army's best ally.
October 4, 1918
((D
Daayy 2
2))
The weary men of the Lost Battalion welcomed the first rays of sunshine after their second
frigid night in The Pocket. There had been little enemy action during the preceding hours of
darkness, but to say the night had been a quiet one would have been to deny the cries of anguish from
the many wounded. These put forth a heroic effort to maintain silence. Captain McMurtry had
passed one private who had been shot through the stomach and paused to ask how he was doing.
Gritting his teeth against excruciating agony, the young doughboy replied, "It pains like hell,
Captain, but I'll keep as quiet as I can."
Under cover of darkness, Major Whittlesey had dispatched several scouts with orders to try to
break through the enemy cordon and reach the regimental headquarters. As daylight dawned a few of
53
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
these scouts returned to the pocket, wounded. Those who did not return were not heard from again
and were counted among the missing.
False hopes were raised early on when a dawn scout patrol crawled through the marsh south
of the pocket, only to be turned back by heavy enemy fire from the high ground. Though deterred
from their mission, these reported that enemy activity seemed to be diminishing. Major Whittlesey
appraised regimental command as such with his first pigeon of the morning, released at 7:25 with the
message:
"All quiet during the night. Our patrols indicate Germans withdrew
during the night. Sending further patrols now to verify this report.
"At 12:30 and 1:10 a.m. six shells from our own light artillery fell on us.
"Many wounded here whom we can't evacuate.
"Need rations badly.
"No word from D or F Companies.
"Whittlesey, Major, 308th Inf."
There was no mess call on this morning all rations having been consumed the previous day.
The wounded were suffering the most among the men, but even those still unscathed by the intense
enemy fire of previous actions were succumbing to the stress of more than forty-eight hours of
continuous activity that precluded rest or sleep, the numbing effects of the cold nights without shelter,
and the gnawing agony of their empty stomachs. Rising above their hunger and fatigue, those who
could still walk turned to the sad task of burying their dead before the afternoon sun could begin its
own morbid work on the bodies that littered The Pocket.
The burial detail was soon halted by an enemy trench mortar to the northwest, and Whittlesey
sent out a large patrol that succeeded in climbing to the top of the ridge just in time to repulse an
enemy force that was positioning itself to lob grenades into the pocket below. At 10:55 Whittlesey
released one of his two remaining pigeons to advise headquarters:
"Germans are still around us, though in smaller numbers. We have been
heavily shelled by mortar this morning. Present effective strength (A, B, C, E, G,
H, COS.)-175; K CO. 307-45; Machine Gun detachment-17; Total here about
235.
"Officers wounded: Lt. Harrington, Co. A; Captain Stromme, Company
C; Lts. Peabody and Revnes, M.G. Battalion, Lt. Wilhelm, E Co., missing.
"Cover bad if we advance up the hill and very difficult to move the
wounded if we change position.
"Situation is cutting into our strength rapidly. Men are suffering from
hunger and exposure; the wounded are in very bad condition.
"Cannot support be sent at once?"
Support was being sent and reinforcements had been struggling to reach the Lost Battalion almost
from the moment it entered The Pocket, only to be turned back by the heavy German concentration
around the ravine. The 3rd Battalion, which had been held in reserve and constituted almost all that
remained of the 308th Infantry Regiment, had repeatedly thrown itself against the German defensive
54
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
line. On the morning of October 4 the battalion's K Company had seen
its advance halted by a well-placed enemy machine gun.
First Sergeant Benjamin Kaufman gathered a small patrol to
locate and destroy the well-concealed position. Moving in the direction
from which the enemy fire emanated, he was separated from his patrol
and continued alone until a bullet shattered his right arm.
The line of fire that had severely wounded him had also marked
the enemy position. Despite his pain, First Sergeant Kaufman advanced
alone, throwing grenades with his left arm and then charging into the
enemy with an empty pistol until he had scattered all of the enemy gun
crew but one man, a prisoner with whom he returned to friendly lines
along with the enemy gun. For his valiant action he was subsequently
awarded the Medal of Honor.
The inability of the regiment, or for that matter the entire division, to reach the Lost Battalion
with direct support left only one alternative—indirect support. This began arriving on the afternoon
of Day 2 in The Pocket when American artillery shells began to fall across the enemy infested ridge to
the southeast. The trapped Americans welcomed the boom of the heavy shells at first, and then
became concerned as the rounds began to creep slowly down the slope. Then, as if to add insult to
injury, one of the rounds landed in the pocket, to be followed by another and another. The men of the
Lost Battalion took shelter in their funk holes, only to find the intense friendly fire burying some men
alive as the holes collapsed under the explosive might of American artillery. Of equal concern was the
devastating manner in which the explosions destroyed the trees and dense brush that had afforded the
pocket camouflage from the enemy gunners. Across the small perimeter, hot shards of shrapnel flew
to inflict even more casualties among the badly weakened composite battalion.
An Unlikely Hero
Major Whittlesey's last carrier pigeon was a true war veteran named
Cher Ami, French words meaning "dear friend." The Black Check Cock
carrier pigeon was one of 600 birds owned and flown by the U.S. Army Signal
Corps in France to carry important messages from the front lines. Already the
pigeon had flown 11 important missions in the American sector around
Verdun. Now Major Whittlesey scribbled out what might well be the most
important mission Cher Ami would every carry. It was brief and to the point:
"We are along the road parallel to 276.4.
"Our own artillery is dropping a barrage directly on us.
"For heaven's sake, stop it."
American artillery rounds continued to fill the air in and above The Pocket and had been
joined by a German trench mortar. Into this beehive of deadly missiles, Major Whittlesey released
Cher Ami and the last hope of his battalion. Stunned by the concussions around him, Cher Ami flew
erratically, and then lighted in the lower branches of a tree. With hope fading, the doughboys yelled
encouragement to the small bird, and then urged him to flight with some well-placed rocks.
55
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
At last the pigeon spread his wings and began to rise from the ravine. From hidden positions
along the slope, German machine gunners directed a fearsome volley towards Cher Ami, knowing the
small bird would be carrying important communications from the American commander below.
In funk holes desperate doughboys held their breath, then groaned in despair as they watched
their important messenger take a deadly hit and then begin a slow spiral towards the ground.
Somehow the little bird managed to spread his wings and level out, and then rise again to fly over the
rim of the valley and beyond the range of enemy bullets. All they could do was hope and pray.
Twenty-five minutes later the buzzer sounded at the pigeon loft at Division Headquarters. An
American Signal Corps officer peered in to see which of the birds had arrived. There, lying on his
back and covered with blood, lay Cher Ami. The badly wounded pigeon had been blinded in one eye
and shot in the breast leaving a hole the size of a quarter in his breastbone, from which dangled the
few remaining tendons of his leg. Still attached to the nearly severed appendage was the silver capsule
containing Major Whittlesey's message, which was promptly forwarded on to headquarters. Minutes
later the deadly artillery barrage halted. Cher Ami had somehow survived to fly, badly wounded,
through the hail of enemy fire. In less than half-an-hour he had covered 40 kilometers to save the lives
of more than 200 Americans. For his final mission of World War I, Cher Ami was awarded one of
France's most honored medals, the French Croix de Guerre with palm.
Back in The Pocket, Major Whittlesey breathed a sigh of relief. His men were exhausted,
starving, and many had been badly wounded. The loss of 30 more Americans to the errant fire from
their own artillery had been as demoralizing as it had been deadly. A flicker of hope was ignited late
in the afternoon when the sound of an American airplane was heard high over the ravine. Whittlesey
instructed his men to set out two large, white, marking panels so that the pilot could note the exact
location of the pocket. The boost in spirit renewed the fighting vigor of the Lost Battalion, enabling
them to turn back a determined enemy grenade attack before darkness fell.
By now ammunition was sorely depleted, and the three medical aid men had run out of
bandages for the wounded. Despite the knowledge that with the advent of night the cold would again
set in, the healthier doughboys removed their leggings so that bullet holes, shrapnel tears, and
amputations could be bound up. Among the wounded was Lieutenant Holderman, suffering the first
of what would eventually be three wounds in three days.
There were no rations and it had been at least thirty hours since any of the men in The Pocket
had eaten. Water too was running out. Under cover of night Whittlesey dispatched patrols with
canteens to draw water from a small pond below The Pocket. In the darkness the thirsty doughboys
occasionally heard a tinkering sound like a bell, indication that a German bullet had struck the
canteens and probably the brave soul who bore it. A few made it back with fresh water, but most
were never seen again. What water was obtained was given to the wounded.
October 5, 1918
((D
Daayy 3
3))
Burial of the dead commenced with dawn on the third day. It was a slow, laborious task by
men so weakened by hunger and lack of food or water they could barely walk; but with grim
determination they bent to the duty of at least providing their comrades some dignity in death.
Throughout the day the sound of additional airplane motors could be heard, and occasionally
the men would catch fleeting glimpses of the American biplanes circling high above the ravine. From
56
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
time to time a small bundle attached to a long streamer would be tossed from the open cockpits,
messages of hope for the beleaguered men of the Lost Battalion. All of them fell far afield of The
Pocket, many of them dropping among the Germans. Major Whittlesey had chosen his defensive
position well, hidden deep in the side of the sheer slope and protected from enemy artillery by the
reverse slope. The terrain that sheltered him from the enemy, however, also hid him and his men
from the eyes of the American observers overhead.
At 10 a.m. an American artillery barrage was launched against German positions, creeping
across the ravine and then settling with effective determination on the ridge to the north from which
the enemy had launched daily attacks. The implied message for the Americans under Whittlesey and
McMurtry was: "We know where YOU are, and we know where the Germans are." To the optimistic
few remaining in the command, it was proof positive that Cher Ami had somehow made it through
the enemy fusillade to deliver his important message.
The Germans had placed a machine gun to cover the
drinking hole below The Pocket, from which they quickly rained
deadly fire on anyone approaching to fill the canteens.
Reluctantly, Major Whittlesey sent orders that no more efforts
would be mounted to recover water from the hole. It was futile,
and it was deadly.
After more than forty-eight hours without food, men
foraged among the brush for leaves, roots, anything to take the
edge from their now aching stomachs. Lieutenant Holderman
received a painful leg wound, and Captain McMurtry carried
the stick from a potato masher (grenade) in his back. Both
leaders ignored their pain to continue rounds among their
survivors, giving words of hope and encouragement, and urging
them to continued resistance against periodic sniper fire and
occasional attacks throughout the day.
Before the wounded that succumbed were buried, bandages were stripped from their broken
flesh to be reused on other wounded who still clung to life. The filthy blood-and-puss soaked bandages
were a certain shortcut to deadly gangrene, but there was little choice.
All along the American front line, the plight of the Lost Battalion was well known, though the
details were certainly not understood. They had been the only American unit along the Argonne to
breach the German defenses, and now they were paying the price for their success. Colonel Stacey
had repeatedly thrown his 3rd Battalion against the enemy in an effort to reach Whittlesey, only to
see the one remaining battalion of the 308th Regiment nearly decimated. He requested to be relieved
rather than order them back into the morass and was replaced on October 5th by Brigadier General
Evan Johnson and then Captain Breckenridge. All along the front, other American units of the 1st
Army fought fiercely against the enemy defensive line in hopes of breaking the stalemate and
somehow relieving the pressure on the Lost Battalion.
Responding to telegraphed news reports of the battalion of Americans in the Argonne Forest, a
copy editor back in the United States penciled in the word "lost," and the erroneous title was born.
Spanish-American War veteran and former Pueblo (Colorado) Chieftain reporter Damon Runyon
picked up on the title and began using it in his own news stories wired back home. By now a leading
American War Correspondent, his stories perpetuated the label and thus ensured that it would stick
for succeeding generations.
57
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
Struggling to survive in a small pocket in the Argonne Forest, the "Lost Battalion" was
becoming a sensational story. Needless to say, reports of their situation were read and well known to
the German forces that surrounded them. Major Whittlesey was writing a new chapter in World War
I history. On the cold, rainy night of October 5 the new United States Army Air Service was poised to
write a new chapter in history as well.
Help From Above
October 6, 1918
((D
Daayy 4
4))
The 50th Aero Squadron
Not all the pilots of World War I aviation were flamboyant, one-man fighting forces. The glamour
boys were certainly the men who took to the clouds to dogfight with enemy airplanes, record a tally of
victories, and claim the title "Ace." Of no lesser importance however, despite the rather mundane nature
of their work, were the pilots who flew to watch friendly troop movements, observe and report on enemy
positions, and map terrain for those planning the tactics of ground warfare.
One of these observation units was the 50th Aero Squadron. Mustered at Kelly Field on August
6, 1917, the squadron was working under the 130th Field Artillery and flying out of its aerodrome at
Remicourt near Verdun. The squadron adopted the image of a Dutch girl, painting it on the sides of their
DH-4 airplanes.
The squadron conducted its missions from two-seat biplanes designed by British Captain
Geoffrey de Havilland and designated as the DH-4. The American version was a hardy airplane, well
constructed behind a powerful 400-hp Liberty engine with a top speed of 128 miles per hour. Two
forward firing, synchronized Marlin machine guns and two swivel mounted Lewis machine guns provided
both offensive and defensive fire power. The pilot flew in the forward cockpit with his observer behind.
Between the two open cockpits, directly in the line of fire from attacking airplanes or ground fire, lay the
fuel tank. It was perhaps, the only major design flaw in the sturdy airplane, but so fatal a flaw that the
men who flew it labeled the DH-4 the Flaming Coffin.
The tenuous situation of the Lost Battalion resulted in requests for support from the 50th Aero
Squadron. Initially the aircraft flew observation or dropped messages; but on the morning of October 6 the
squadron's DH-4 engines warmed for something previously unheard of in military aviation. On this day
pilots of the 50th Aero Squadron would attempt the first airdrop in the history of U.S. military aviation in
efforts to resupply the battered and starving men tucked helplessly into a pocket of the slope above
Charlevaux Creek.
58
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
Lt. Harold Goettler
and
Lt. Erwin Bleckley
First Lieutenant Harold Goettler banked the wings of his DH-4 and pointed it towards the
foreboding terrain of the Argonne Forest. The 28-year old Chicago native had enlisted in the Aviation
Section of the U.S. Army fourteen months earlier, earning his wings and joining the 50th Aero
Squadron in France less than two months earlier. Behind him sat Second Lieutenant Erwin Bleckley.
During the same month in 1917 that Goettler had enlisted in the Army, Bleckley had been
commissioned a second lieutenant in the National Guard of his own home state of Kansas.
Lieutenant Bleckley had arrived in France in March of 1918 as a member of the 130th Field
Artillery. When the new US Army Air Service sent out a call for artillery officers willing to volunteer
for observer's school at Tours, Bleckley had raised his hand, earned the single right wing of an
aircraft observer, and joined the 50th Aero Squadron on August 14.
Goettler had piloted his first combat mission during the opening of the St. Mihiel Offensive on
September 12 with Bleckley seated behind him. Over the following weeks the two men operated as a
team in the air, performing their usually mundane observation missions in the region. Today, things
were different. The DH-4 carried a number of small, tightly bound parcels. The mission was to fly
into the enemy's lair within the Argonne forest, drop low across the ravine bisected by Charlevaux
Creek, and drop the badly needed supplies to the waiting arms of a lost battalion of doughboys below.
From the heights of the heavens, the rugged mountains and valleys of the Argonne Forest
began to loom ahead. Goettler eased up on the stick and dropped the nose of his airplane to descend
lower. Soon small white clouds could be seen coming from the trees as the enemy turned his weapons
on the advancing DH-4. With a sharp eye, Goettler located the ravine through which the Charlevaux
Creek wended its way; parallel a dirt road and railroad track. Enemy bullets swarmed past his head
and tore through the canvas and plywood body of his airplane, but Lieutenant Goettler ignored the
danger to reduce airspeed as he dropped even lower into the Argonne. Behind him Lieutenant
Bleckley scanned the broken forest for some sign of the Lost Battalion.
Though the general location of Whittlesey's pocket was known because of the messages sent
out by carrier pigeon, the forest and the terrain hid the desperate doughboys from view. In moments
the DH-4 was climbing out the other side of the ravine, and no sign of the American force had been
noted.
Glancing to either side, Goettler noted the torn canvas of his airplane's wings. He had taken a
brutal beating on the first pass, but the sturdy de Havilland had weathered the storm, and no rounds
59
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
had found the airplane's Achilles heel between the
two cockpits. Determined to deliver the badly needed
food and ammunition, the intrepid pilot banked for
a second pass. Coming in even lower this time, he
was dangerously exposed to not only ground fire
below but to ground fire from the high sides of the
ravine towering above him. He was virtually caught
in a deadly cross fire from three directions, from
both sides of the ravine as well as from overhead.
Still he ignored the threat, reducing airspeed and
flying at nearly treetop level while Lieutenant
Bleckley leaned from his exposed rear cockpit to
drop the neatly tied parcels in the general vicinity of
the dirt road, where they knew Whittlesey's men
waited.
The first pass of Goettler's DH-4 had been
five hundred feet above the valley floor. On the
second pass he had dropped to a dangerous 300 feet,
while enemy fire literally ripped his airplane to
shreds. Having dropped parcels but not having located Whittlesey's pocket, he banked for a third
pass, this time skimming treetops at less than two hundred feet. Bleckley continued to drop parcels
until the last of them had fallen into what he hoped was the range of Whittlesey's men. With wind
whipping through the thin wires that held their DH-4 together, the two men returned to the
aerodrome. There were more than 40 holes in the airplane, two of them large gashes ripped by large
pieces of enemy shrapnel. While mechanics worked feverishly to repair the aircraft, other pilots of the
50th Aero Squadron flew out on similar missions.
Throughout the afternoon the ravine was filled with the roar of the big 400-hp Liberty engines
and the crash of small arms and machinegun fire. Fourteen missions were flown before the afternoon
was spent. Two DH-4s were shot down and crashed in no-man's land, and a third limped back to the
aerodrome with its bloody pilot struggling to keep his airplane aloft long enough to reach safety. As
shadows began to creep across the eastern horizon, dozens of small bundles lay scattered across the
ravine, but no pilot had as yet made visual contact with the Lost Battalion. They could only hope that
their best guesses had placed the bundles near enough that some could be recovered.
The mechanics had finished making temporary repairs to the battered DH-4 of Lieutenants
Goettler and Bleckley, and the two men volunteered to make one more trip to the ravine before
darkness fell. Lieutenant Goettler planned to fly even lower than before, intentionally drawing enemy
fire in hopes of locating the hidden pocket by simple process of elimination. Then Bleckley would be
able to drop the packages directly into the midst of the starving soldiers. "Sir," Goettler informed
Lieutenant Dan Morse before taking off on the final flight of the day, "Erv and I have decided we're
going to find that bunch of doughboys or die trying."
Half an hour later, Major Whittlesey, Captain McMurtry, Lieutenant Holderman, and the
demoralized men of the Lost Battalion witnessed one of the most amazing air shows in history. From
a distance they heard the roar of yet another Liberty engine as the DH-4 approached. Slowly the roar
grew louder, drowning out even the crash of the heavy enemy barrage. Wings vibrating against the
laws of aerodynamics, struts whining against the whipping wind, Lieutenant Goettler was running the
60
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
gauntlet so low at times it seemed the large DH-4 would actually touch ground. Fighting the stick, the
airplane would rise just in time to clear a tall tree, and then drop on the other side to scour the terrain
for any signs of the Americans. From time to time as he skillfully navigated the ravine, Goettler
strafed enemy positions with his forward Marlin machine guns. Behind him, Lieutenant Bleckley
ignored the whine of enemy fire zipping past his exposed torso to carefully sketch out the enemy
positions. By mapping these, it was becoming much easier to locate the one spot in the ravine devoid
of incoming fire. That had to be location of The Pocket.
Nearing the far side of the ravine, Goettler pulled back sharply on the stick to clear the slopes,
then banked for a second pass. To run the gauntlet again seemed sheer suicide, but perhaps with one
more pass he could enable Bleckley to finish his map and pinpoint the Lost Battalion. Shadows were
starting to creep across the floor of the ravine and the DH-4 dropped into the valley of death one
more time. The forest literally blinked with the flashes of tracer rounds, and a pall of spent
gunpowder hung low to obscure the terrain. Still Lieutenant Goettler stayed his course.
Enemy machine gun fire shattered the windscreen, and then the instrument panel
disintegrated before Lieutenant Goettler's eyes in a hail of incoming bullets. Behind him Lieutenant
Bleckley's Lewis gun fell silent and the young soldier, formerly of the Kansas National Guard,
slumped in his seat. With blood flowing unchecked from his ruptured body, Goettler pulled back on
the stick, gripping it tightly lest it slip from his bloody hands, and headed over the ridge to the west.
Moments later the battered airship pancaked with a loud crash in front of the French lines, and slid
sideways to a halt.
Surprised French infantrymen raced to the scene of the crash. "Ces aviateurs--ils sont morts!"
shouted the first to arrive..."Both aviators are dead!" Quickly they set about removing the bodies for
fear the airplane would burst into flames. The pilot was indeed dead, yet somehow the airplane had
"landed itself." The legend of the Lost Battalion was soon supplemented by the legend of the Ghost
Plane.
As the French pulled the body of Lieutenant Bleckley from the rear cockpit, they found he was
still breathing, though quite shallowly. Somehow the intrepid observer mustered the strength to press
a piece of paper into a nearby hand before he died. When the paper was neatly pressed out, it
contained the detailed map of enemy positions in the ravine and the most accurate estimate of the
Lost Battalion's location since they had entered the ravine.
61
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
For the incredible courage demonstrated that day by the
pilot of a lumbering DH-4 and his back-seat observer,
Lieutenants Bleckley and Goettler were awarded
posthumous Medals of Honor. In the air, no mission was
ever routine, and no aerial specialty mundane.
To the doughboys in The Pocket, the spectacle of multiple American airplane missions over the
ravine on this fourth day of isolation brought a much-needed boost in morale. The sight of the falling
bundles, which all knew would contain food, ammunition and medical supplies, was greeted with
great hope by men who had been without food for three days and had almost passed the point of
further hope.
So exhausted and weak from hunger were the survivors still remaining, that they could no
longer muster the strength to bury their dead. From time to time the men would attempt to toss a few
handfuls of dirt over an exposed corpse, or cover it with brush, but for the most part the bodies
remained exposed where they fell.
Despite the glazed eyes and blank expressions that marked soldiers beyond further endurance,
patrols had to be dispatched to reconnoiter the immediate area and report back on enemy troop
movements and positions. Whittlesey selected some of his healthier soldiers and sent them in small
groups to attempt to break through the enemy in an effort to reach headquarters. Three soldiers
finally succeeded, the first men to leave the pocket since the morning of October 3. The rest of the
scouts sent out were never heard from again.
The hope inspired by the sight of packages falling from the American DH-4s likewise quickly
vanished. Virtually all of the bundles bearing the badly needed rations, ammunition and bandages fell
beyond The Pocket, some tantalizingly close, but still within the area controlled by the Germans.
From time to time a hunger-crazed soldier would try to reach one of the nearest bundles, only to be
shredded by enemy machine gun fire as his comrades watched helplessly.
At 5 p.m. that evening the Germans mounted another heavy attack on the position. Over
twenty minutes the doughboys expended what was nearly the last of their ammunition to repulse the
drive. On the battalion's right flank Lieutenant Holderman watched as two men from the machine
gun company in his sector fell to the enemy fire. Though twice wounded and suffering intense pain, he
braved the frenzy of incoming grenades and rifle fire to move forward and carry the two back to
safety. Then he went back to recover the gun lest it fall into the hands of the enemy. Holderman was
himself wounded yet again.
The indomitable Captain McMurtry was now twice-wounded himself, and fashioned a crutch
from a tree branch to enable him to move from funk hole to funk hole to direct the fire of his men,
distribute what little ammunition remained, and to shout words of encouragement. Two officers from
the machine gun companies were killed, and only two of the machine guns remained of the original
nine. It mattered little that these two were operational, no crews remained alive or unwounded to man
them, and between the two guns there remained only five boxes of ammunition.
62
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
Somehow the battered unit rose to the level inspired by its intrepid leadership, and turned
back the enemy attack after nearly a half-hour of intense fighting. In the fading twilight some of the
men crept to nearer German bodies to strip them of rifles and bullets to replenish the nearly depleted
American armory. Then darkness again settled in. It was the battalion's fifth night in the 4-acre
pocket, and the fourth without food, shelter, or even overcoats. In the cold the wounded cried out in
moans of agony they could no longer suppress. Beyond, in the dense forest, the weary men of the
Liberty Division could hear the laughter of their enemy. The Germans had recovered many of the
dropped parcels and dined heartily on bacon, bread, and even chocolate. The taunts and laughs of the
enemy as they gorged themselves on the rations so sorely needed by the Americans cause hope and
morale to sink to new lows.
Dehydrated soldiers, now crazed for lack of water, occasionally ventured back towards the
stream beneath the pocket. Each was met with a hail of enemy gunfire, and the ranks of the living
were reduced again. The situation had become so bad Captain McMurtry passed orders among the
men that, "I'm going to shoot the next man that leaves his position to get water."
No longer did Major Whittlesey measure the degeneration of his command in terms of days.
Each hour wounded men died and unwounded men grew weaker. For the Lost Battalion, the end was
more than near...it was imminent!
October 7, 1918
((D
Daayy 5
5))
Under orders from Major Whittlesey, no attempt was made to bury the dead on the fifth day.
It was critical fore every man to conserve what little strength remained in order just to defend the
position. Patrols were again sent out, but these returned quickly after meeting intense enemy fire.
Earlier reports during the night that the Germans had started pulling back appeared to be totally
false.
Near 10 a.m. that morning, another patrol of eight soldiers left the pocket. Eighteen-year-old
Private Lowell Hollingshead later wrote that the patrol left after a sergeant indicated that Major
Whittlesey had requested eight volunteers to try and break through enemy lines and reach battalion
headquarters. Other reports later stated the eight men had left their funk holes in the early morning
darkness, and on their own initiative, in a desperate effort to recover some of the food bundles that
had fallen the previous day. Whatever the reason, eight weary doughboys found themselves slowly
picking their way through the forest behind a full-blooded Indian from Montana that they had
delegated to guide them out. Later Private Hollingshead marveled at how the young Native-American
had picked their route, avoiding the most dangerous trails and carefully guiding them towards safety.
But there was to be no safe route; Germans surrounded the entire ravine.
Private Hollingshead dropped to he ground and pressed his body as low into the dirt as
humanly possible at the first sounds of incoming machine-gun fire. Bullets kicked up dirt all around
him, and ahead he watched as bullets ripped apart the head of the soldier ahead of him. "This is the
last," he thought as the fusillade continued to rake the position, and fell into what he later described
as "a sort of coma or daze". His mind had literally shut down.
Reality returned when a German soldier walked within six feet of the prostrate doughboy,
leveling his Luger at the American's head. "Kamerad," the haggard young American shouted. It was
the only German word he knew.
63
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
"He slowly lowered his gun, but it seemed several lifetimes to me and I can never tell you
all the thoughts that passed through my mind in that brief space of time. I do however,
distinctly remember that my first thoughts were of my Mother, Dad and home and then a
review of my kid days and a multitude of thoughts too numerous to mention flooded
through my mind....The German lowered his gun (and) he smiled a great big smile, and
what a lovely German he was. As he stood there in his gray uniform fully six feet tall, his
smile seemed to broaden and broaden then he started walking toward me. I suppose the
reason his smile is still in my mind is because it was so unexpected, as I had been taught to
hate and expect fearful things from the Germans should they ever capture me.
"The German stepped over to me and started talking in his own language and pointed
at my leg. I half turned and looked to where he was pointing and saw blood spouting from
my leg near the knee. For the first time I realized I had been hit. Then the other Germans
appeared and began looking at my comrades and I knew then how they had fared. Of my
seven Buddies I found four had been killed outright and all the rest wounded. Our Indian
guide was one of those who had been killed. With this realization a sickening sensation
came over me and I thought to myself, 'this is not real, it is just a dream'."
After sending a runner to German headquarters to advise their commanders that four
Americans had been captured, instructions arrived detailing a guard detail to bring the Americans to
the HQ. Three of the wounded doughboys were wounded so badly they were carried out on stretchers.
With his arm around the shoulders of one of his captors, Private Hollingshead was the only prisoner
able to walk, or at least limp, to the unknown destination.
As they group neared the enemy headquarters, the prisoners were blindfolded for the last few
hundred yards of the journey. When the blindfold was removed, Private Hollingshead found himself
inside an enormous dugout in the side of a hill. The command bunker was completely furnished,
divided into small rooms, and had wooden floors. The most elaborate room had a modern sofa,
several chairs, a phonograph record player, and an elaborate carved wooden table on which sat a
typewriter. There a well-dressed German officer greeted him. In contrast to the condition under
which he and his fellow soldiers had lived over the previous week, Private Hollingshead was stunned.
"For the first time," he later wrote, "I had a deep feeling of resentment."
"How long since you have eaten?" the German officer inquired in perfect English.
"Five days," Hollingshead replied.
"Poor devil, you must be starved," the enemy commander stated.
"I certainly am!" came the response.
The German officer ordered food for his starving prisoner and proffered a cigarette from the
case on his table, and had a doctor treat the man's leg wound, while Hollingshead wolfed down the
first food he had tasted in five days. "While I was eating," he recalled, "Prinz (the German
commander) and two other officers started asking me questions about our outfit, but finding it of no avail
as I was still hungrily gulping down the food and between bites told them I was too busy to talk to them."
While the young private was eating, his leg wound began bleeding again, and the surgeon
returned to stop the bleeding. Then the interrogation, if one could call it that, began in earnest. There
64
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
was no torture, no electrical shock treatment, none of the dramatic sparring of warring factions the
term "interrogation" implies.
"What state are you from, Private?"
"Ohio," Hollingshead answered.
"Oh yes," stated Prinz, "I have been there to Cincinnati."
The German commander took his field glasses and walked to the doorway, motioning for
Hollingshead to follow. "Look out there along the ravine. Can you see the rest of the men from your
unit?"
Peering through the powerful binoculars, Hollingshead was surprised at how easily the
American position could be seen through the glasses. "I'm sorry sir," he lied. "I can't see much of
anything over there. I guess I'm just a little mixed up in my directions."
Lieutenant Prinz laughed, then instructed the weary American soldier to lie down on the couch
and rest. It was an hour or two past noon; and as Hollingshead tried to relax, he could hear the sound
of the typewriter on the table as the German commander began composing an important message to
the American commander.
Lieutenant Prinz paused at the typewriter from time to time as he contemplated his
composition. It was carefully drafted in perfect English. The man who commanded the German 76th
Infantry Reserve Division that had so effectively maintained the gauntlet around the "Lost
Battalion," had in fact, lived in the United States before the war. For six years he had operated his
own business in Seattle, Washington, returning to Germany when World War I broke out.
By mid-afternoon the message had been completed. Prinz awakened Private Hollingshead and
asked him if he would deliver the message to his commander in the ravine. Hollingshead asked to
read the letter first, which was allowed. Throughout the earlier questioning he had been careful to
reveal nothing that would harm his comrades and had conducted himself honorably as a prisoner.
Realizing he was now being asked to deliver a request for surrender, he at first balked. Only when the
letter had been redrafted to reflect the reluctance of the private to comply, did Hollingshead finally
acquiesce.
Back in The Pocket the men that remained had miraculously weathered another day of nearly
constant enemy sniper and machine gun fire. It was nearing 4 p.m. when mysteriously the hillside
grew quiet. The men holding the left flank strained their eyes against the dense brush, wondering if
the sudden cease-fire was the calm before a storm...prelude to an attack that would finally overwhelm
their position. Something moved in the tree line. Tired eyes did their best to focus, as something white
appeared to move slowly towards the pocket. Finally at the edge of the clearing they could see a
soldier in an American uniform, limping on the cane that enabled him to hobble slowly towards them,
while holding high a stick to which was tied a white cloth of truce.
(After the war Private Hollingshead wrote of the cane Lieutenant Prinz had given him: "That
cane is still one of my dearest treasures.")
When at last Private Hollingshead reached the perimeter of The Pocket, he was passed down
the line to the funk hole Major Whittlesey shared at the center with Captain McMurtry. Lieutenant
Holderman was summoned to join the other two commanders for this new development. Reaching
into his pocket, Hollingshead withdrew a neatly folded, white sheet of paper and handed it to
McMurtry, then came to attention before his commanders. McMurtry read the letter, then passed it
over to Major Whittlesey. The neatly typed surrender demand was addressed to:
65
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
Commanding Officer
Second Battalion, 308th Infantry
Sir:
The bearer of this present, Private Lowell R.
Hollingshead has been taken by us. He refused to give the
German Intelligence Officer any answer to his questions,
and is quite an honorable fellow, doing honor to his
Fatherland in the strictest sense of the word.
He has been charged against his will, believing that he
is doing wrong to his country to carry forward this present
letter to the officer in charge of the battalion of the 77th
Division, with the purpose to recommend this commander to
surrender with his forces, as it would be quite useless to resist
any more, in view of the present conditions.
The suffering of your wounded men can be heard over
here in the German lines, and we are appealing to your
humane sentiments to stop. A white flag shown by one of
your men will tell us that you agree with these conditions.
Please treat Private Hollingshead as an honorable man. He
is quite a soldier. We envy you.
The German Commanding Officer
The offer was difficult to refuse, worded with polite reasoning and
couched in praise for the American effort. The legend of the Lost Battalion as
written in the media and retold in the years after the war was sensationalized
with Major Whittlesey's purportedly defiant response: "Go To Hell!" Such is
the way with a legend; it grows with the telling and retelling. The story of the
Lost Battalion was so incredible the facts really needed no embellishment. Such
a response from the quiet mannered scholarly lawyer from New York would
have been quite out of character. The fact of that moment is that NO response,
either verbal or written, was made.
No response was necessary.
Major Whittlesey DID immediately order the white panels that had
been set out to mark his position for American aircraft removed, so as not to
be mistaken for a sign of surrender by the Germans. Some later reports quoted
Captain McMurtry as responding: "We've got them licked or they wouldn't
have sent this." It is doubtful that this account is any more accurate than the
erroneous reports of Whittlesey's own defiant response, though such a
statement would certainly been quite in keeping with McMurtry's personality
and character.
66
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
Perhaps the most accurate record of the Lost Battalion's days in The Pocket was the unit
history written shortly after the war by L. Wardlaw Miles and based upon reports from Major
Whittlesey and Captain McMurtry, among others who were present. Wardlaw recounted:
A private expressed, in one exclamation, the answer of the entire command to the German
letter. He asked one of the officers if it was true that they had been called upon to
surrender. He was told that the rumor was correct.
"Why, the sons of _______!" he said as he pushed back his helmet.
In the trenches and funk holes, men who had been too emotionally drained and physically
exhausted for five days, spoke for the first time. Into the forest they hurled a chorus of defiance...."If
you Germans want us, then come and get us!"
THEY DID!
The lack of an answer from the American commanders was an answer in and of itself, perhaps
more profound even than the fabled "Go To Hell!" Within half an hour the Germans launched their
heaviest attack yet. Grenades fell from above with greater accuracy than the bundles dropped by
American aircraft the previous day. Driven only by their anger at the surrender demand, and
perhaps by the knowledge that they were doomed and had nothing left but to take as many enemies as
possible with them to their grave in The Pocket, the doughboys fiercely repulsed the enemy for more
than twenty minutes. Then, as the shadows deepened over the ravine, the enemy fire halted. Stillness
fell across the Argonne broken only by the mournful cries of the wounded.
In their funk hole at the center of the American position, Major Whittlesey and Captain
McMurtry looked at each other apprehensively. The sudden stillness on the heels of the vicious attack
was as ominous as it was eerie. It was a few minutes after 7 p.m. that a shadow moved swiftly towards
them. The two officers gripped their weapons tightly as they watched the quick moving shape
approach. It was a breathless runner with a stunning message. An American officer and a few
doughboys had just entered The Pocket from the right flank. They were men of the 307th Infantry,
Lieutenant Holderman's regiment. "The officer wants to see the commanding officer," the runner
whispered.
Quickly Major Whittlesey followed the runner back to the right flank. Standing before him
was Lieutenant Richard Tillman and a few of his men. The officer informed Major Whittlesey that
Companies A, B, and M of the 307th Infantry Regiment had entered the ravine and waited in the
trees only a few yards distance.
At last, the Lost Battalion had been found!.
October 8, 1918
((D
Daayy 6
6))
After Lieutenant Tillman met with Major Whittlesey, the three companies from the 307th
Infantry Regiment were guided into The Pocket to reinforce the Lost Battalion. The enemy forces,
now aware of the successful breach of their defensive line by other American units, began
withdrawing throughout the night. Within an hour of the relief, rations were passed through the lines
67
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
and to the starving men who ate for the first time in five days. Along with the rations came medical
supplies and improved medical attention to the wounded.
At dawn more rations arrived along with new reinforcements. Under Lieutenant James
Halligan, the unit's senior Chaplain, the incoming soldiers buried the dead. Ambulances arrived
along the Charlevaux road above The Pocket, and the wounded were quickly transported to field
hospitals. By mid-afternoon Major Whittlesey assembled all those who remained alive and able to
function, and the remnants of the composite unit marched slowly back to Regimental Headquarters.
Their ranks numbered only 194 men from the more than 700 men who had started the assault and the
554 men who had been trapped in The Pocket five days earlier.
Upon being relieved after the five-day ordeal
above Charlevaux Brook, Major Whittlesey was
promoted to Lieutenant Colonel. He was promptly
submitted for the Medal of Honor, and in turn
recommended both Captain McMurtry and
Lieutenant Holderman for Medals of Honor as well.
Whittlesey and McMurtry's awards were announced
on December 2, 1918.
Following the November 11 Armistice, many of
the doughboys returned home in time for Christmas,
Lieutenant Colonel Whittlesey himself arriving back
in his home state for the holidays. On Christmas Day a
ceremony was held on Boston Common, and the
Medal of Honor pinned to the tunic of the mildmannered New York attorney. It was the first Medal
of Honor of World War I to be presented to a member of the United States Army. Lieutenant
Holderman's Medal of Honor was announced in War Department Orders two years later.
The story of the Lost Battalion became perhaps the most talked about and written about event
of World War I, growing more sensational with each retelling. Sadly, the bare facts alone were
sufficient to inspire. Americans have always sought for heroes, and Charles Whittlesey was hesitantly
thrust into that role. But, as surely as we need heroes to inspire us, a sad fact of human nature is that
heroes also inspire jealousy and often resentment. Yesterday's hero, all too often, becomes today's
whipping boy.
Lieutenant Colonel Charles Whittlesey was honorably discharged from the United States
Army the day before his Medal of Honor was announced. He attempted to return to the practice of
law, but the legend of the Lost Battalion would not let him go. There were rumors and innuendo that
Whittlesey was himself, personally responsible for the tragedy. Some pointed to the minor error in the
map coordinates he had sent back by carrier pigeon, others claimed the unit had been trapped only
because the Major had overzealously pushed his soldiers ahead of all others. The fact that Major
Whittlesey had simply followed orders to the letter, no more and no less, or that the general location
of The Pocket was well known in headquarters, could not stop these sad rumors.
In 1921 the reluctant hero boarded the S.S. Toloa, a vacation liner to Cuba, to escape the war
that wouldn't end for him. During the voyage he penned a letter bequeathing the original copy of the
German surrender request written by Lieutenant Prinz to his friend, George McMurtry. He left his
Cross of the Legion of Honor to his closest friend, former classmate at Harvard, and law partner J.
68
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
F
Foorr tth
hee M
Meen
n oon
n tth
hee G
Grroou
un
ndd
Bayard Pruyn. On November 27, 1921, Charles Whittlesey finally completed his escape from The
Pocket of a steep slope in the Argonne Forest when he leaped from the rail of the S.S. Toloa and
vanished forever in the vastness of the Atlantic Ocean.
George McMurtry also returned to civilian life, becoming a solid rock of hope for the men of
the Lost Battalion as they attempted to put the war behind them and get on with their lives. Until his
death on November 22, 1958, he personally funded regular reunions for survivors of the Lost
Battalion.
Lieutenant Nelson Miles Holderman returned to his home state of California, rejoined the
National Guard, and was appointed a colonel. In 1926 California's governor appointed Holderman
Commandant of the California Yountville Soldier's Home, where he continued to serve veterans until
his death on September 3, 1953.
In 1919 Cher Ami, the carrier pigeon that had carried the last message out of the pocket, died
from his multiple war wounds. Over the next two decades the little bird became a legend in his own
right—taught about and remembered by school children throughout the United States. His name
became as familiar as those of Eddie Rickenbacker and Sergeant York.*
*
Last year (2001), nearly a century after the men of the 307th and 308th Infantry Regiment made their heroic stand in The Pocket, the
most written about battle of World War I was recreated for a new generation of Americans by the Arts & Entertainment industry. From
Major Whittlesey to Lieutenant Prinz, these heroes of American history are still remembered in the made-for-TV movie titled The Lost
Battalion. Cher Ami is remembered in the movie as well.
69
Captain
Eddie
Rickenbacker
America's Ace of Aces
Eddie Rickenbacker watched as four Spads taxied across the field, engines revving, as they
slowly lifted into the afternoon skies to fly out over the battle lines. Easing his lean frame into the
open cockpit of his own airplane, he increased fuel to the powerful engine and listened to it hum.
Moments later the commander of the 94th Aero Squadron was himself airborne and following his
other four planes at a leisurely pace. It was Rickenbacker's third flight of the day on this 30th day of
October. Before noon he had flown two uneventful patrols.
Now he tagged along behind a flight led by Lieutenant Kaye, who was filling in as flight leader
for the hospitalized Reed Chambers. Two of the young American pilots in Kaye's flight were rookies,
and Rickenbacker had elected to tag along to watch how Kaye fared as a new flight leader.
On this mission Lieutenant Kaye's flight was assigned to patrol the lines between Grand Pre
and Brieulles at the unusually low level of just 2,000 feet. Rickenbacker kept well to the rear and
about a thousand feet higher. This gave him an unobstructed view to gauge Kaye's tactics, and an
advantageous point from which to spot any enemy aircraft that might try to slip in behind the four
Spads below.
After two uneventful passes between the two towns, Lieutenant Kaye maneuvered his flight
for a third pass when Rickenbacker noticed two enemy Fokkers flying low from inside Germany, as
if to slip in on the unsuspecting American patrol. From his higher elevation, Rickenbacker had so far
gone unnoticed. Kaye's patrol was flying west across their sector with the two Fokkers creeping up
on their tail. The combat-wise squadron commander turned his own Spad eastward, winging well
into Germany to angle back in behind the hunters.
The attack came more quickly that Rickenbacker had anticipated, the Fokkers slipping in
behind the formation to open fire. Rickenbacker was now well inside German air space, too far from
the attack at this point to intervene. Fortunately, as the enemy pilots pulled the triggers of their
machineguns, Kaye spotted the threat and turned his flight south towards the aerodrome and home.
Page 70
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
Enemy tracers flew past the rear airplane piloted by Lieutenant Evitt, one of the two rookies.
Rickenbacker could only trust the flight commander to quickly evade and bring his patrol safely
home. There was also some comfort in the fact that the other experienced pilot in the group was
Lieutenant Harvey Cook, one of the few remaining aces in the 94th Aero Squadron.
The German pilots were good; Rickenbacker had to admit to himself from his distant vantage
point. In a daring display of aerial prowess and courage, the two enemy pilots flew directly into the
flight that out-numbered them two to one. Lieutenant Kaye remained focused, refusing to break up
his formation and continuing to lead a beeline deeper into France and the landing field. After that
first attack, the German pilots broke off and turned towards Grand Pre. Rickenbacker smiled. His
pilots were safe and the German pilots were flying in a path that might well lead them directly into
his own gun sights.
But for the two distant Fokkers, Captain Rickenbacker had the skies to himself as
afternoon turned into evening. Well inside Germany, he continued his own lone-wolf patrol, a habit
that had served him well. Early on he had learned from a great leader of the 94th Aero Squadron,
the legendary Ace Raoul Lufbery, that solo flights relieved a commander of the distractions of
responsibility for his other pilots. Lufbery put it this way:
"There's a hell of a lot of difference in going out alone, no matter what the odds are against
you, and in going out as a member or a leader of a group of pilots who may or may not be as
good as you are. It's a great responsibility to shepherd these pilots out and get back home
safe. I prefer to fight alone, on my own."
Flying solo missions had enabled Major Lufbery to achieve an incredible record of victories
and made him one of the most famous pilots of World War I, as it also had for Lieutenant Frank
Luke of the 27th Aero Squadron. Both of those great pilots were gone now, and it seemed their
mantle had fallen on the shoulders of Eddie Rickenbacker.
Rickenbacker had known both men, loved one and grudgingly admired the other despite his
personal flaws. The differences between two of the greatest American pilots of the war were both
obvious and blatant. Lufbery had come to the 1st Pursuit Group as one of the few experienced
combat veterans, having flown with the Lafayette Escadrille. Already an Ace, he was worshipped by
his men and treated with great respect. Luke had come to the Group a rookie, loud and irreverent,
and quickly made himself the most hated man in his squadron. About the only thing the two
legendary fliers had in common was the tendency to fly highly successful, lone-wolf missions over
enemy territory. Strangely, another difference between them was that Lufbery had been admired for
his courage in these missions; Luke had been criticized for not being a "team player."
There were however, a few other similarities between the two men:

Both men had achieved far beyond any other American pilot, Lufbery netting 17 victories and Luke 18.
(The closest any pilot other than Rickenbacker would come to their impressive tally was Lieutenant
George Vaughn with 13.)

Both men had ventured repeatedly beyond the lines to engage the enemy often; Luke had earned only
one victory over friendly lines and Lufbery claimed none. All other destroyed aircraft had landed
behind the lines, and one could only estimate how many similar victories had gone unverified because
they had not been witnessed by other pilots or allied forces on the ground.

Both Lufbery and Luke had held, for a time, the title Ace of Aces, and

Each had bequeathed that title to another when they died in action.
71
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
Rickenbacker shifted in the seat of his Spad, now well inside the German lines, and tried to
make himself comfortable as the cool evening wind whipped through his open cockpit. Captain Eddie
Vernon Rickenbacker was now America's Ace of Aces, a title that had historically brought with it
two things: worldwide fame, and death. The title was one the young man from Columbus, Ohio, had
accepted after the loss of Frank Luke exactly one month earlier—with some reservation: "I wanted it
and yet I feared to learn that it was mine."
The history of all previous men who held that title had certainly been deadly. Of the seven
pilots who had earned the distinction, only Rickenbacker and Lieutenant Edgar Tobin (who held the
title for two days after the death of Lieutenant David Putnam and before Rickenbacker pulled ahead
of him), were gone, three of them in deadly aerial combat and Frank Luke as a result of his death on
the ground after being shot down.
World War I
American Ace of Aces
From:
(1918)
To:
(1918)
May 19
May 19
May 22
May 22
Jun 17
Jun 17
Sep 12
Sep 12
Sep 15
Sep 15
Sep 18
Sep 18
Sep 29
Sep 29
WWII
Name
Hometown
Victories
Maj. Raoul Lufbery
Wallingford, CT
1Lt. Paul Baer
Fort Wayne, IN
Lt. Frank Bayliss
New Bedford, MA
1Lt. David Putnam
Jamaica Plains, MA
1Lt. Edgar Tobin
17
KIA
9
WIA/POW
13
KIA
12
KIA
6
San Antonio, TX
1Lt. Eddie Rickenbacker
Columbus, OH
1Lt. Frank Luke
7
18
Phoenix, AZ
Capt. Eddie Rickenbacker
Columbus, OH
KIA
26
On this next-to-the-last-day of October, Eddie Rickenbacker's claim to the title Ace of Aces
was beyond dispute, based on an incredible record of 24 victories in the air. As squadron
commander, he could have further protected that role by staying at the aerodrome and fighting the
war from a desk. It was a practice he refused to adopt. Captain Eddie, as he preferred to be called,
wouldn't ask any of his pilots to do anything he wouldn't do. "Never did I permit any pilot in my
squadron," he later wrote, "to exceed the number of hours flying over the lines that was credited to me
in the flight sheets."
None did!
72
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
Nor was the intrepid squadron commander content to sit on his record of victories, despite the
fact that no other American pilot was even close. He was keeping a cautious eye on the two Fokkers
that had earlier attacked Lieutenant Kaye's flight and plotting yet another aerial dogfight.
This one almost looked too easy. Skimming along over their own friendly lines at barely 1,000
feet, the Fokkers were heading directly towards Rickenbacker, who watched them from a slightly
higher elevation. They passed him less than half a mile to the east, never noticing the American Spad
with the now famous "Hat in the Ring" emblem painted on the side, lying in wait.
Rickenbacker watched the two enemy
airplanes pass leisurely beyond him in the distance,
then dipped over, swung around, and opened his
engine wide as he zoomed in from their rear. The
pilot in the trailing Fokker didn't even know he was
under attack until a stream of twenty rounds
slammed broadside full into the center of the
fuselage. After that single burst, Rickenbacker
released the trigger. It had been enough, and he
watched as the German airplane began spiraling
slowly to the ground 1,000 feet below. As he watched
Victory #25 plummet from the sky he noticed for the
first time the brilliant, bright-red nosepiece on the
enemy Fokker. There was increased satisfaction in
the realization he had just outwitted a pilot from the
famed von Richthofen Flying Circus.
Before the American Ace could turn his guns on the remaining enemy plane it had dived for
the protection of the enemy held terrain below. To follow him to the ground so deep in Germany
would be suicide, and Eddie Rickenbacker, though seemingly fearless, had a zest for life. Content
with one more victory, he nosed upward to escape the hail of Archie (anti-aircraft fire) he was sure
would follow and headed his Spad for home.
It was already getting dark as Rickenbacker neared the small village of St. George. Two more
miles and he would cross the lines and be inside friendly territory for what would certainly be a
quick and relatively safe flight to the aerodrome. Passing high over the town he looked down and was
surprised to see a Drachen, one of the dreaded enemy observation balloons that had been the death
of all too many American pilots, including Frank Luke. This balloon was still in its nest, which meant
Allied observers probably were not even aware of its presence at St. George. With dawn the enemy
would allow the balloon to rise into the sky to spy across the lines and direct deadly artillery fire on
advancing American infantrymen.
In what he later described as a sudden impulse, Rickenbacker kicked over his rudder and
aimed his nose-mounted machineguns into the side of the Drachen by flying directly at it. As he flew
within 100 feet of the large gas-filled bag, he stitched it from nose to tail with his guns, pulling away
73
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
to climb for another pass only at the last moment. The second pass wasn't necessary. As he nosed
upward for altitude, a sudden flash of heat chased him upward, illuminated in the darkening skies by
brilliant flashes of yellow and orange. It was victory #26 for America's Ace of Aces.
It would be his last, not because another man would replace him after a deadly crash, but
because twelve days later World War I came to an end.
As a pilot Captain Rickenbacker embodied all of the best to be found in men like Raoul
Lufbery and Frank Luke, then blended it into his own unique character. During World War I he
possessed all of the fierce independence and unorthodox military bearing that marked fighter pilots
as a different breed. In the years after the war he came to illustrate the maturity and stability those
young fighters could grow into as our Nation's young Army Air Service matured to become the U.S.
Air Force.
If ever there lived the epitome of the term "All-American Hero," it
surely would have been .....
E
Ed
dw
wa
ar
rd
dV
Ve
er
rn
no
on
nR
Ri
ic
ck
ke
en
nb
ba
ac
ck
ke
er
r
74
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
"It is not old-fashioned to wave and love the flag of our country
or to worship God in heaven. Let us acknowledge and be grateful for
the blessings of freedom that God has given us. Let us dedicate our
lives to the perpetuation of the American principles of freedom with
confidence. Let us stop and analyze ourselves to find out what life
means to us.
"Let us therefore pray every night for the strength and guidance
to inspire in others the gratitude, the love, the dedication that we owe
our beloved country for the sake of our posterity.
"Then, and only then, can we say when the candle of life burns
low
"--Thank God, I have given my best to the land that has given so
much to me."
Little Eddie
When Eddie Rickenbacker wrote at the close of his 1967 autobiography how much his country
had given him—he was a hero, a successful entrepreneur, and a wealthy man. It was not these things
to which he referred, however. Rickenbacker was a self-made man, working hard to achieve
everything he came to do or possess. The United States of America had afforded him very little
beyond the one thing that made all the difference. Eddie Rickenbacker had been given
OPPORTUNITY.
Born Edward Rickenbacher on October 8, 1890, in Columbus, Ohio, he was
the third of eight children (one child died) of William and Elizabeth Rickenbacher
who had immigrated to the United States from Switzerland. William built his own
construction company working hard to support his growing family, but there was
never a surplus of anything in the Rickenbacher household. William constructed
the family home himself on the outskirts of Columbus, but there was no electricity,
indoor plumbing, or heat. Young Eddie grew up in poverty, helping his mother
and siblings to tend the garden that surrounded the house to provide the basic
necessities of life.
There was little in young Eddie's early days to indicate he would some day become one of our
Nation's all-time great Americans. He later admitted that he smoked at the age of 5, and started his
own neighborhood gang shortly thereafter...called The Horsehead Gang. Of course a neighborhood
gang in 1890s Columbus, Ohio, was not the same kind of organization one finds today. While the
mischievous group of youngsters did engage in some nefarious activities such as breaking all the
globes of the gas-burning street lamps along Miller Avenue, the organization was more of a loose-knit
fraternity of young boys seeking to find their own brand of adventure.
Eddie later often recounted how, at the age of eight, he and his Horsehead Gang had
improvised their own "roller coaster" by riding a steel cart down the 100-foot incline of a local gravel
pit. Quickly Eddie learned that adventure comes with danger and often pain. The cart flipped, then
rolled over the young boy, bruising him from head to toe. One wheel cut his leg to the bone. It was
Eddie's first scar and his first brush with death.
75
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
Eddie's entrepreneurial prowess also emerged at an early age. He entered the world of
business even before he started school, primarily, he later admitted, to earn money to buy Bull
Durham tobacco so he could smoke like his older brother William. His first job consisted of selling
bones (they were ground up for fertilizer) and other junk to a neighborhood collector. Eddie
approached his first job with the same critical eye and capitalistic nature that years later enabled him
to build an airline. As his business grew he enlisted other neighborhood kids, paying them a
percentage to bring him the collectibles and then selling them to his own middleman.
As the collection grew, Eddie pondered ways to more easily move his stock from place to place.
At the age of 9 he saw his first automobile, which set in motion the search for his own vehicle. He
found the solution one day while watching a lady push her infant around in a stroller. Shortly
thereafter Eddie developed his own pushcart, a wide board that moved easily over a frame containing
four rubber-tired baby-carriage wheels. With this he could easily cover large areas to find and collect
bones for the business. Years later when a more mature Rickenbacker shared the story of this early
vehicle with businessmen from the Chevrolet Company, the idea was revived and America's Soap Box
Derby was born.
"What a wonderful childhood we had! Of far greater value than mere riches was the
opportunity to work together, play together, learn together and produce together, all under
the loving yet strict Old World guidance of our parents.
"How many children in America today, I wonder, are blessed with the opportunity to
see the food they eat develop from tiny seeds placed in the moist spring earth? We little
Rickenbachers enjoyed that privilege to the fullest extent."
"My father died when I was twelve years old.
"I didn't have to be told what we were up against. The day after my father's funeral I
didn't go to school--I went to work.
"The night he passed I changed from a boy to a man."
Becoming a Man
The last words Eddie had heard from his father were, "Eddie, you're a lucky boy to be born
when you were. There are a lot of new things in the making, and you ought to be ready to have a hand in
them." On the following day William Rickenbacher suffered the accident that put him in a coma and
caused his death a few days later. He was buried in an unmarked grave at a local church cemetery.
Young Eddie was determined to have a hand in things, beginning with the support of his large
family. The problem, he realized, would be getting his mother to consent to his leaving school to take
a job. The solution was one that would serve him well throughout his life: "The only answer to that
was to get a job first, THEN to ask for permission."
In 1904 child labor laws forbade the employment of children unless they were 14 years old and
had finished the eighth grade. Eddie lied about his age and school experience, and went to work. It
76
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
was six 12-hour night shifts at the Federal Glass Factory, but after one week Eddie came home with
his pay...three dollars, and handed it intact to his mother. He later said it was the proudest moment of
his life.
The frugality that marked Rickenbacher's later life was evident in his early days. Every
evening he walked two miles to work at 4:30 p.m., then walked home after his twelve-hour shift. To
have ridden the street car would have cost a nickel, and the Rickenbacher household needed every
penny. During his lunch breaks, young Eddie learned the art of intricate glass blowing from other
employees and used his time to create glass flowers to take home for his mother.
After a few weeks of night work, Eddie left the glass factory for a day job at the Buckeye Steel
Casting Company. His workday lessened by one hour and his pay increased to six dollars a week,
every penny of which went home. Quickly young Eddie matured, losing interest in the Horsehead
Gang and spending his free hours fixing up the family home. And though the family income came
almost exclusively from the weekly paychecks he earned, Eddie never thought of it as his own money.
He was thrilled every Sunday during the summer when his mother gave him a quarter of his own,
hard-earned money to enjoy a street car fare to Olentangy Park where the remaining 20 cents would
buy him three amusement rides and a box of Cracker Jacks.
Eddie worked for three months at the casting company, and then moved on to a job capping
bottles at the local brewery, and then a job putting heels on shoes. The latter position not only
provided the family income, but gave the fourteen-year old boy a new trade that enabled him to
improve the repairs he had been making for years on the shoes of his brothers and sisters.
When winter weather halted Eddie's Sunday trips to the park, be began using his free Sunday
afternoons and twenty-five cent allowance for a more personal purpose. Eddie had always been
interested in art, but the small allowance wasn't sufficient for any real art training. So Eddie turned
towards sculpture, working for a local cemetery monument maker. At first all he did was polish the
stones with water and sandstone, but along the way he learned some of the techniques in the process
of engraving. Of all the accomplishments in his long life, the one that he said gave him the most pride,
came during this period. Eddie carved out a large, white marble stone with the image of a Bible on it,
the word "FATHER" at the top and an inscription below. Today in a small church cemetery in
Columbus, Ohio, visitors to the grave of William Rickenbacher can still see the greatest
accomplishment of our Nation's greatest aviator of all time.
In his first two years of manhood Eddie Rickenbacher matured rapidly through hard work,
frugal living, and a deep sense of personal responsibility. Along the way he developed an inner
character that would enable him to become the All-American hero. His philosophy was simple:

If it needs to be done, do it FIRST, and then ask for permission.

Success comes through hard work.

When you don't enjoy your work, find something else to do. "If I didn't like what I was doing or
if another pursuit offered greater challenge or advantages, I acted immediately, without fear of
the future. I have never been afraid to quit."

No one owes you anything. Eddie, despite the family's poverty, the tragic loss of his father, and
the difficulties of his day, never felt his family, his community or his country, owed him
anything.
77
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
"I have worked hard and lived under pressure since I was a boy; I always have, and I
always will.
"Procedures do not make the man. Only the man himself can make himself what he is,
by taking full advantage of the excellent raw material supplied to him by God."
Fast Eddie
Eddie Rickenbacker is often remembered as a man with a
fascination for fast cars and airplanes. The view is rather shortsighted.
Eddie's interest wasn't in the vehicle so much as it was with the power
that propelled it. Perhaps this should serve those who remember Eddie as
an example to remember the man, not so much for what he did, but for
the character that drove him to become all that he became, and to achieve
all that he accomplished.
By the time Eddie was fifteen years old the internal combustion
engine had become the focus of his attention. A serious accident laid
Eddie up for several weeks, a period without work and without pay that
might have caused a lesser man to pity his misfortune and fall into
despair. For Rickenbacher, by his own admission, it was the most fortunate accident of his life.
During those long weeks of introspection, Eddie Rickenbacker began putting direction to his future.
When he had recovered enough to return to work, it was with a pay cut. For seventy-five cents a day
he became an employee of Evans Garage, one of the city's first automotive repair businesses.
That same year Eddie enrolled in the International Correspondence School in Scranton,
Pennsylvania, rising at 4 a.m. to complete his studies before going off to work. He wrangled a job at
the nearby Frayer-Miller auto factory that was turning out one car a month, and soon a chain of
events was set in motion that would make Eddie Rickenbacher a household name.
In 1906 Eddie rode with Lee Frayer in the Vanderbilt Cup Race on Long Island. By the time
he was nineteen years old he was a full-fledged racing driver, facing off against some of the most
famous drivers of his day. In 1910 Rickenbacher placed first in eight races in Omaha. The same year
he experienced his first racing accident at Red Oak, Iowa. In the years to follow, he would survive
many more. In 1911 Eddie was a relief driver for Lee Frayer at a 500-mile race being held at
Indianapolis, a track to which he would return again and again; a track he would one day own.
When Eddie wasn't racing he was tinkering with engines and selling cars. By 1914, 20 miles an
hour was considered fast and dangerous on the highways. That same year Eddie Rickenbacher was
driving a Blitzen Benz over the sands of Daytona Beach to set a world record 134 miles per hour.
From 1906 until he ended his career as a race driver in 1916, Rickenbacker was the
frontrunner against names like Ralph De Palma and Barney Oldfield. He attributed that success to
his knowledge of engines, an understanding that helped him coax the very best out of each. Eddie
could simply listen to an engine and diagnose its problems or gauge its potential. It was an ability that
served him well not only as a driver, but later, as a pilot.
The flashy young race driver found two new elements in his sport. The first was a middle
name. Eddie had always thought the name "Edward Rickenbacher" was a little plain. He liked the
look of the letter "V" and inserted it as a middle initial, then coined the name "Vernon" to go with it.
78
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
The other thing racing gave Eddie was a great sense of sportsmanship. Despite his enviable
record, he quickly realized he couldn't win EVERY time. Rather than lose his temper when things
went wrong, he came to grips with the reality that you win some times, you lose some times. But
whatever the outcome, you continued to smile.
"Try like hell to win, but don't cry if you lose."
"Who does not prefer to meet a person who is smiling?"
"Always conduct yourself as a gentleman. If you do not, you not only reflect discredit
upon yourself, but also upon automobile racing, the means by which you earn a
livelihood."
"Here in America failure is not the end of the world. If you have the determination,
you can come back from failure and succeed."
"I have often been asked how I managed to maintain my sanity, much less resist a
feeling of bitterness and vengefulness during the ridiculous and frustrating experience
that befell me in the winter of 1916-1917. All I can say is that the good Lord gave me a
sense of humor, and somehow I held onto it."
The German Spy
The summer racing season of 1916 ended with the
advent of winter, and the poor son of Swiss immigrants had
enjoyed his best year yet, earning an incredible salary of
$35,000 a year. The name "Rickenbacher" was recognized
in virtually every home in America. As the 26-year old
racing celebrity boarded the St. Louis for an Atlantic
crossing to England, he had no idea just how many
problems his famous name could create abroad.
On the uneventful voyage he met two friendly men who went to great lengths to engage Eddie
in conversation, a pleasant diversion from the long crossing. The unsuspecting racecar driver was
totally unprepared for the conversation that would engage him upon debarking at Liverpool.
"Rickenbacher," groused an English sergeant at customs. "What's your name?" Eddie was
caught totally off guard, especially since the sergeant had just called him by name, but he patiently
repeated it for the man. "What is your purpose in England?" the interrogation continued.
Rickenbacher started to explain his trip was for the purpose of purchasing British racing cars,
but was interrupted. After a fiery battery of questions, the American tourist was taken to a nearby
cabin where he found the two gentlemen who had engaged him in so much conversation during the
voyage. The British agents had a dossier on the American race car hero with the Germanic sounding
name, that traced his ancestry all the way back to Germany. Rickenbacher was forced to remove all
his clothing, which was then searched thoroughly. When at last the agents were convinced he carried
nothing dangerous, he was allowed to dress and then was returned to the ship. He was being denied
entry into England, which was by now very much at war with Germany.
Rickenbacher was allowed to leave the ship on Christmas Day, but only under the watchful
eyes of two British agents. It was the beginning of a "cat and mouse" game that marked his entire
visit to England, and then followed him home.
79
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
Before Rickenbacher came home when the United States entered the war early in 1917, he
spent most of his time watching the airplanes of the Royal Air Force flying past his hotel window from
their field near the Brooklands Speedway. During these days of inactivity, Rickenbacher became
increasingly fascinated with the concept of aerial combat, and wished he could himself mount an
airplane to fight among this new breed of warrior.
On February 3, 1917, Germany declared unrestricted submarine warfare on the high seas, and
all American citizens abroad were given five days to leave. Rickenbacher, who had already been
repeatedly interrogated, strip-searched, fingerprinted and registered by British Intelligence,
submitted himself to another two-hour interrogation before he was finally allowed to sail for home.
Upon boarding the ship he encountered an old friend who asked him, "Eddie, have
you heard the news? We've got a big German spy on board. That's why the boat is
delayed."
"Yes," Rickenbacker said with a laugh that was not entirely sincere, "That big
German spy--that's ME!"
Despite his shoddy treatment by the British, Rickenbacher firmly believed that the United
States had ample reason and responsibility to commit itself to the war in Europe. On the return
voyage home he developed the political position he would espouse upon arrival: "The Three M's-Men, Money, Munitions," for the liberation of Europe.
He also thought often of the airmen of the RAF he'd seen in London, and developed his own
philosophy on the importance of air power. Racecar drivers knew engines better than anyone, and
were well acquainted with risk. Rickenbacher's idea was to suggest an American squadron of combat
aviators, composed of volunteer racecar drivers. He was sure his circle of friends would quickly fill
every available slot.
In the weeks before the United States declared war on Germany on April 6, 1917, Eddie
Rickenbacher was quick to urge his country to action in speeches wherever he went. Ironically,
everywhere he traveled, he was followed by a shadow. The British government was still concerned
about their German spy. The cat and mouse game became increasingly annoying, and Eddie was
rapidly loosing his sense of humor with the situation. He traveled to Cleveland. So did his shadow.
Returning home to Columbus, Eddie would walk down the street, only to see the reflection of the nottoo-distant Intelligence agent in the store windows. On to Dayton, Chicago, and then out to the West
Coast the man and his tail traveled. While in Los Angeles Rickenbacher had finally had enough.
While walking down the street one afternoon, Rickenbacher deliberately baited his tail into
close proximity, and then ducked into an alley. The agent followed too close on Eddie's heels to duck
when the German spy stopped suddenly and turned on him. "When is your government going to learn
that I'm not the Crown Prince of Germany?" Rickenbacher demanded.
"I was just going to tell you," the agent responded, "my government is now satisfied that you are
all right. Thank you for the ocean voyage and the wonderful trip across your continent." And with that,
the agent bowed and faded in the distance.
If the British government was frustrating to Eddie Rickenbacher, so too could be the military
establishment of his own country. Eddie was excited about the prospects of an American aero
squadron composed of former racecar drivers. Already he had found a list of eager volunteers that
included a Who's Who of the race track, men as well known and widely respected as the famous
Ralph DePalma. Rickenbacher took his idea to the top, Brigadier General George D. Squier who
80
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
commanded the Army's Signal Corps, the branch
responsible for aviation. Rickenbacher laid out his case
for the squadron, and then was stunned by the response.
"We don't believe," stated one officer, "that it would
be wise for a pilot to have any knowledge of engines and
mechanics. Airplane engines are always breaking down, and
a man who knew a great deal about engines would know if
his engine wasn't functioning correctly and be hesitant
about going into combat." It was typical of the strange and
twisted logic traditional Army officers would employ for
the next two decades as military aviation fought for its
place in the affairs of the world.
For his own part, Rickenbacher was determined to become an American fighter pilot; despite
the fact that he had also learned in his meetings with the Signal Corps that the Army only recruited
college graduates twenty-five years old or younger. (Rickenbacker had only attended school through
the 7th grade, and was now nearly twenty-seven years old.) Never in his distinguished lifetime could
such obstacles hold back Edward Vernon Rickenbacker. Somehow, we would find a way.
"Opportunities? They are stored in abundance wherever we look. They are waiting to
be tapped by anyone with imagination, imagination backed by faith in our freedom of
enterprise and fortified by the courage to try."
Rickenbacher, the Pilot
Eddie Rickenbacher was ready for opportunity when in May he got the call informing him of
the secret sailing of the first American soldiers for the shores of France. With only 24 hours to make
his decision he turned his back on a $35,000 a year racing career to be among the first American force
that would comprise the Three M's he'd spent weeks promoting. He sailed from New York as a
Sergeant, assigned to duties as a driver, not the flier he longed to become. But he also knew that
opportunities often started with a small door, which opened to
greater entrances. With the same brash determination that
motivated him to seek a promotion to Sergeant First Class on his
first day, he would find a way to get into Army aviation.
John J. Pershing's Expeditionary Force arrived in France on
June 26th, and Eddie Rickenbacher dutifully performed his role as a
glorified chauffer. Contrary to the colorful media reports of the day,
he never drove for General Pershing himself. He did meet and drive
for another American officer that Eddie came to love and respect,
and whose influence certainly helped Eddie achieve his goals. The
first time Rickenbacher met Colonel William Billy Mitchell who
commanded the Army's Air Service, the officer's car had broken
down. Quickly the engine-wise Rickenbacher had the Colonel back
on the road; and thereafter, Mitchell frequently requested
Rickenbacher as a driver. When the time was ripe, Rickenbacher
approached the Colonel with the subject of his desire to be a pilot.
81
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
"Eddie," Mitchell asked him, "do you really want to fly?"
"Yes, sir," Rickenbacher responded. "Anybody can drive this car. I'd appreciate the
opportunity to learn to fly."
"I'll see what I can do," the great pioneer of American aviation promised.
A few days later Rickenbacher received orders to report for the physical exam required for
pilot training. The doctor who examined Eddie was an old friend who not only pronounced him
physically fit to fly, but wrote down Rickenbacher's birth date as October 8, 1892. On paper at least,
the would-be pilot was now under the Army's age limit of twenty-five. It was a magic number for
Eddie. Seventeen days of training and twenty-five hours in the air netted him pilot's wings and a
commission as a first lieutenant in the U.S. Army's Signal Corps.
With shiny wings on his chest and a silver bar on his collar, Lieutenant Rickenbacher now had
to keep his part of a bargain that had helped him get into pilot training. In September he reported for
duty as the engineering officer at Issoudun under the command of his old friend, Jim Miller.
The German spy suspicions never completely faded away. Indeed, shortly after arriving in
France, Rickenbacher returned to his billets one day to find his roommate rifling through his
belongings in search of anything that would expose the American soldier's loyalty to the Kaiser. At
Issoudun Rickenbacher recruited a transportation officer with the surname Spiegel. Ray Miller's
adjutant was a man named Wiedenbach, and Wiedenbach's assistant was named Tittel. The
Germanization of the field was complete when a new commander was assigned to the field to replace
Miller, a Major named Carl Tooey Spaatz.
Rickenbacher took great joy in the fact that the field at Issoudun was run by five American
officers named: Spaatz, Wiedenbach, Tittel, Rickenbacher and Spiegel. A few months later Eddie
wrote a letter to a friend back home; wherein, in a joking manner, he replaced the "h" in his name
with a "k." When word of that letter reached the American media, headlines proclaimed that the now
famous American Ace had changed the Germanic spelling of his name to snub the Kaiser. As a result,
the name Rickenbacher was forever changed to Rickenbacker...not only for himself but also for all
the other members of the Rickenbacher clan.
The shiny pilot's wings and duty as the Issoudun Field's engineering officer were not
fulfillment of Eddie's dream, but a stepping-stone to his ultimate goal of becoming a fighter pilot.
Throughout the fall of 1917, he watched the new pilots arrive at the field for training and longed to be
one of them. These pilots themselves had little use for the engineering officer, and Eddie
Rickenbacker endured to some degree the snobbish deference later experienced by Frank Luke.
Behind his back these young Ivy Leaguers joked about their Swiss-German engineering officer who
spoke with a thick accent and who had only a grammar school education. The five top officers at the
field were often referred to as "the five German spies," though certainly not to their faces.
Unlike Frank Luke who withdrew when he underwent such acrimony, Lieutenant
Rickenbacker took it in stride and maintained considerable respect for these young men who would
soon be going into battle. His respect for them, however, couldn't prevent a little revenge now and
then. The muddy airfield was strewn with rocks that often flew up to break the wooden propellers of
airplanes as they taxied across the field. One day Lieutenant Rickenbacker requisitioned a hundred
buckets and soon thereafter the field was filled with bright young college graduates bent over in the
mud to pick up rocks. The chore did little to further endear Rickenbacker to his young charges, but
their complaints were, in his own words, "music to my ears."
82
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
The Hat In The Ring Squadron
In January 1918 the first group of American pilots at Issoudun completed
their training and headed for gunnery school. Their departure was a sad moment
for Lieutenant Rickenbacker, not because he realized that this was the last step
before they would be thrust into combat, but because he was not going to be going
with them.
His pleas to Major Spaatz were fruitless. The commander of the field at Issoudun felt
Rickenbacker was too important to the work being done to train these new pilots. Once again the
impetuous Eddie Rickenbacker found his own means of creating opportunity. Battling a cold and
fatigued from his recent work, he was able to convince the school's surgeon that he was ill. After two
weeks of recuperation at the hospital, Rickenbacker returned to point out to Major Spaatz that the
field had run perfectly well without him.
"I'm onto your little game, Rickenbacher," Spaatz said bluntly. Then he paused, smiled and
continued, "If your heart's set on going to Cazeau (the location of aerial gunnery school), you're no
damn good to be around here. So good luck."
Two months later Rickenbacker reported for duty at the new 94th Aero Squadron under the
command of Major John Huffner. The 94th and 95th were the first all-American fighter squadrons to
reach the front lines and would certainly be the first to see combat action. Joining Rickenbacker as a
charter member of the group were pilots Douglas Campbell, James Meissner, Edgar Tobin, Edwin
Green, Hobart Baker, and Joseph Eastman. The excitement of the group was heightened by the
presence of one more officer, the legendary Major Raoul Lufbery.
On the morning of March 6, Major Lufbery announced the first flight and selected two eager
pilots to join him: Lieutenants Rickenbacker and Campbell. It was the first mission by American
pilots of an all-American fighter squadron over enemy lines. Fortunately, the mission was flown
without incident or combat...fortunate because the French Nieuport airplanes that took off from the
aerodrome at Villeneauve 15 miles from enemy lines were unarmed. The American fighter squadrons
had airplanes, but their guns hadn't yet arrived.
When the mission was complete and Rickenbacker and Campbell shared their experience with
the other excited pilots, they talked of all the German Archie they had seen, but not a single airplane
had shared the skies with them that morning.
"You sure there weren't any other airplanes up there today, Rick?" Lufbery asked with a
chuckle.
"Not a one!" Eddie replied.
"Listen," Lufbery said, not in contradiction but more like a father preparing his son for the
future, "one formation of five Spads crossed under us before we passed the lines. Another flight of
five Spads went by about fifteen minutes later, 500 yards away. Damn good thing they weren't
Boches. And there were four German Albatroses ahead of us when we turned back and another
enemy two-seater closer to us than that. You must learn to look around." Then Lufbery walked over
to Rickenbacker's plane and poked his finger through a hole in the canvas of a wing, then another in
the tail, and yet another that had been punched through both wings only a foot from the cockpit. The
83
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
lesson was not wasted on Rickenbacker or any of the other young pilots. They were fortunate to learn
from a veteran like Lufbery, and over the following weeks they continued to hang on his every word.
Two days later Rickenbacker's old friend Captain James Miller, commander now of the 95th
Aero Squadron, led the first full squadron patrol over enemy lines...again albeit, without armament.
Miller was forced by engine problems to land at Coincy and hitch a ride back to the aerodrome.
Returning on March 10 to Coincy, he picked up his repaired Nieuport and flew to Coligny to replace
it with one of the newer Spads. Flying his new airplane over the Rheims sector, he was attacked by
two German planes and shot down behind the lines, the first American casualty.
The following day Lieutenant Paul Baer of the 103rd, who would hold the title Ace of Aces
following Major Lufbery and before being shot down himself, shot down an enemy aircraft in the
same vicinity, giving the new American 1st Pursuit Group its first victory.
During this period while the men of the squadron were awaiting arrival of machine guns for
their Nieuports, the pilots often flew with their French counterparts just to gain experience. They
chaffed at the bit for the armament that would allow them to engage enemy planes and hid their lack
of weapons from the French who would have been horrified to learn the American aviators who
accompanied them couldn't fire a shot in combat. It was also during this period that the men of the
squadrons sought ways to distinguish themselves from each other.
As the men of the 94th Aero Squadron kicked about ideas for a Squadron logo or insignia,
Major Huffner suggested using the quickly
recognizable red, white, and blue stovepipe hat of
Uncle Sam. Flight Surgeon Lieutenant Walters
reminded the men of the custom of throwing ones
hat into a ring as a call to battle. Thus was born the
famous "Hat in the Ring" emblem, and former
architect Lieutenant Johnny Wentworth was tasked
with drawing it. Over the following days the new
logo began appearing on each of the airplanes of the
94th Aero Squadron. In late March and the early
days of April, the Hat In The Ring challenge gained
some teeth with the arrival, at last, of machine guns.
Armed and ready for war on April 7, the squadron
was moved to Toul, 18 miles from the scene of the
ground war.
For years American pilots had flown with the French as members of the Escadrille. Some of
them even became Aces. After the formation of the 1st Pursuit Group its pilots had flown allAmerican patrols scoring both victories and losses. But the first OFFICIAL COMBAT patrol ever
flown by the precursor to the United States Air Force occurred on April 14 when the newly armed
Nieuports of the 94th Aero Squadron took off from the aerodrome at Toul.
At 6 a.m. that morning Captain Peterson and Lieutenants Eddie Rickenbacker and Reed
Chambers took off for a two-hour patrol. Standing by at the field were Lieutenants Douglas Campbell
and Alan Winslow. Rickenbacker prowled the fog-shrouded skies looking for trouble, the bright red,
white, and blue emblem shining from the fuselage of his own Newport. To his disappointment, no
German pilot accepted the challenge, and he returned empty-handed. He was writing his after-action
report when the field phone rang. Two enemy airplanes were approaching Toul. Before he could don
his own flight suit and climb into the cockpit, Campbell and Winslow were airborne. Minutes later a
84
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
single-seat Pfalz crashed in flames near the aerodrome, victim to Lieutenant Campbell's guns.
Lieutenant Winslow drove the other enemy craft, an albatross, out of control and down to the ground.
They were the first two victories scored by an ALL-American Squadron and set the pace for the
historic events of the following months of the war.
The success of that day was further highlighted the following morning when Brigadier General
Liggett, Commander of the A.E.F.'s First Army, personally visited the men of the 94th Aero
Squadron. Joining him was the Chief of Army Air Service, Colonel William Billy Mitchell.
The excitement of that first combat patrol, coupled with the double victory of Lieutenants
Campbell and Winslow was quickly tempered by two weeks of frustration for Eddie Rickenbacker
and the other would-be aces of the 94th Aero Squadron. In the weeks before that first Hat In The Ring
victory, impatient weeks of waiting for machine guns for the squadron's Nieuports, Lieutenant Paul
Baer of the 103rd Aero Squadron claimed four victories. On May 21 the famed Red Baron was shot
down and killed, and two days later Lieutenant Baer got his fifth victory to become the first ace of the
American Army Air Service. (This distinction is often erroneously credited to Eddie Rickenbacker.)
In the matter of intra-squadron rivalry, the 103rd now had 14 victories compared to the 94th
Aero Squadron's two. Besides Lieutenant Baer's role as the first American Ace, Major William Thaw
of the 103rd had three victories and Captain James Hall had two.
On the same day Baer became an ace, Major Lufbery did his best to raise the score for his
squadron when he attacked an enemy bi-plane, only to return empty handed after firing just five
rounds. The 94th Aero Squadron's Nieuports had received their guns, but all too often the pilots still
found themselves flying unarmed. Time after time the guns jammed at the most inopportune
moments. This mechanical failure was second in severity only to the tendency of the canvas covering
the Newport's wings to shred when the plane was put into a steep dive. Both equipment handicaps
were frustrating; either could be fatal.
First Blood
A
Apprriill 2
29
9
The pilots of the Hat In The Ring Squadron poked their heads out the door of their quarters at
6:00 a.m. to check the weather. Since Major Lufbery's aborted mission six days earlier, it had rained
almost incessantly. For several days not a single mission had been mounted. Once again,
disappointment hushed the normal banter of the eager pilots over breakfast.
Shortly after noon the sun finally broke through the clouds, and hope mounted for some
activity. Rickenbacker was scheduled for an afternoon flight with Captain Hall who had been
transferred from the 103rd shortly after his second victory. The captain's experience and combat
record had impressed Rickenbacker, and he was excited to be teamed with the man who had become
a friend and mentor. They were standing by in their flight suits when, at five o'clock, a call came
through from French headquarters at Beaumont to alert the pilots at the aerodrome that an enemy
two-seater was heading their way. Five minutes later the two American pilots were airborne and
weaving among the scattered clouds looking for the intruder.
85
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
Rickenbacker spotted it first, a small moving speck in the distance. He dipped his wings
towards Captain Hall to get his attention, and then darted back and forth towards the enemy aircraft
to point his flight leader in the proper direction. The frustration continued to mount as Captain Hall
kept flying straight ahead towards enemy lines, instead of breaking off to pursue the distant invader.
Finally Rickenbacker broke away. He'd go after the enemy airplane alone.
Coaxing his engine to maximum speed, Rickenbacker sped closer towards the distant airplane,
carefully maneuvering his own bi-plane for maximum tactical advantage in the attack. The enemy
plane stayed its course, apparently unaware that it was now practically in the gun sights of the
American pilot. Rickenbacker smiled to himself. The French observers who had phoned in the report
had been wrong; it wasn't a two-seater. It was a large, three-seat plane with big guns pointing in all
directions.
Rickenbacker closed in, zooming upwards for the kill, his finger tensing on the triggers of his
own guns. The fuselage was directly in front of him. This was going to be all too easy. Squinting
across the nose of his Nieuport he prepared to release a deadly volley when his eyes noticed the
circular cocard painted under each wing. There was no wonder now why the big airplane hadn't been
concerned about his presence. It was a FRENCH airplane!
Rickenbacker cursed his folly as he veered away. No wonder he couldn't get Captain Hall to
break away. The veteran pilot must have realized the distant speck was an ally. Now he probably was
laughing his head off at Rickenbacker's rookie mistake.
Scanning the distant skies over the German lines,
Rickenbacker searched for Captain Hall. In the distance he could
see the unmistakable puffs indicating Archie beyond the lines. The
German ground forces were shooting at something in the air, and
that something could only be Captain Hall. Rickenbacker quickly
sped that direction. As the range closed he found his mentor calmly
doing acrobatic maneuvers over the German batteries, dodging
their sharpshooters and taunting them to waste even more
ammunition. Captain Hall was, in Rickenbacker's opinion, the
epitome of the American fighter pilot.
As Rickenbacker's Nieuport approached, Hall veered away
from the enemy fire to join his partner. Apparently he had been waiting for Rick to realize the error
of his earlier zeal and had been amusing himself more than a mile inside enemy territory with his
loops, barrels, side-slips and spins directly over the heads of the gunners on the ground. Now Captain
Hall changed direction and began climbing into the sun. Rickenbacker followed close behind,
surmising that the veteran had a good reason for the maneuver. Minutes later he realized his
assumption was indeed correct. An enemy scout was flying towards the duo's position, and this time
the sleek lines of a German Pfalz were unmistakable.
The enemy plane was on a course that would take it directly into the path of the two
Americans and Rickenbacker hung close to Hall, hidden by the fading sun to the west. When Captain
Hall put his plane into a dive on the Pfalz below, Rickenbacker wisely stayed above to cut off any
attempted retreat.
The enemy pilot saw Rickenbacker first and pulled back on the stick to begin a rapid climb for
battle. Suddenly Hall opened up with his own guns, and the German pilot realized for the first time
that the odds were two-to-one against him. He lost all heart for the fight and started to turn for home.
86
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
It was exactly what Rickenbacker expected—the move he had positioned his Nieuport to prevent. As
the Pfalz went into a steep dive, Rickenbacker was on his tail and lining up his guns. When he was
within 150 yards he pulled the triggers, sending a stream of deadly bullets into the enemy airplane's
tail. This time there were no jams as the machine gun hammered the Pfalz. Rickenbacker pulled out
of his dive and leveled to watch as the doomed enemy circled slowly out of control and crashed into
the forest below. Captain Hall had his third victory, Rickenbacker his first. More importantly, the
94th Aero Squadron had moved two notches closer to the 103rd Squadron's impressive tally.
World War I aerial victories were counted differently, depending upon which allied nation a
pilot flew for. The earliest pilots flew either for the French or the British. British pilots used
a fractionalized counting system (if two pilots shot down one airplane or balloon, each got
a half of the victory); while the French counted a downed airplane or balloon as a full
victory for each person involved. If two, 2-seater French airplanes (with both a pilot and
observer in each) combined to shoot down one enemy aircraft, each man in each plane
was credited with the victory (4 credits for one downed enemy).
When the U.S. Army Air Service began operation, its squadrons opted for the more liberal
French count. Under this method, the Pfalz shot down by Captain Hall and Lieutenant
Rickenbacker on April 29th counted as one victory for each. By extension then, it also
counted as TWO victories for their squadron.
During World War II the Army Air Corps reverted to the WWI British model of
fractionalizing each victory. Under that system, two pilots involved in a single shoot-down
would each get credited with a HALF victory.
In Pursuit of First Place
At the beginning of May 1918, all but one of the 19 American aerial victories had been scored
by either the 103rd Aero Squadron (14 victories) or the 94th Aero Squadron (4 victories). The only
Ace among them remained Paul Baer. Over the following thirty-one days the pilots of the Hat In The
Ring were determined to try to become the leading squadron in the new Army Air Service.
The month started on an ominous note when Major Lufbery and Lieutenant Rickenbacker
teamed up for the first mission of the new month. The only victory scored that day would be the loss
of an American airplane, not that of an enemy. When the engine on Lufbery's Nieuport failed, the
American Ace of Aces (he had achieved 16 victories with the Lafayette Escadrille), crashed and
rolled. Fortunately, the Major survived unscathed.
The following day Lieutenant James Meissner was flying with a three-plane patrol when he
and his comrades attacked three enemy bi-planes. Meissner netted the fifth victory for the 94th Aero
Squadron, but almost at the loss of his own life. Following his vanquished foe in a steep dive, the
entire left, upper wing of his Nieuport was stripped of its canvas while he was well beyond friendly
lines. Only Meissner's skill as a pilot enabled him to carefully nurse his airplane across the lines to
crash in friendly territory.
On May 3 Captain David Peterson and Lieutenants Chapman and Loomis engaged five enemy
scout planes. Loomis' machine guns jammed; though the intrepid pilot continued to engage the enemy
as if he were still armed in order to render some confusion to the dogfight. Captain Peterson scored
one victory, as did Lieutenant Chapman, though the latter victory was unconfirmed. Worse, before
the battle ended, Chapman was himself shot down. Later that same day, Lieutenant Winslow was
87
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
taking off for a mission when his engine failed causing him to crash. In the first three days of the
month, the 94th had scored two confirmed victories while losing two aircraft to mechanical failure
and a third to enemy bullets.
On May 5 the 1st Pursuit Group headquarters was established at Gengault, France where the
95th Pursuit Squadron arrived after aerial gunnery school, and the 94th Aero Squadron was moved
to the new aerodrome. From that date on the two squadrons remained together throughout the war,
and the competition for first place became a 3-way race between the two squadrons of the 1st Pursuit
Group and the 103rd Aero Squadron (3rd Pursuit Group).
Calamity continued to detract from the Hat In The Ring Squadron's efforts to overtake the
103rd for first place. Two days after moving to the aerodrome at Gengault, Captain Hall and
Lieutenants Rickenbacker and Eddie Green attacked three enemy scouts near Preny. Rickenbacker
destroyed a Fokker monoplane, though it wasn't confirmed or credited until six months later, and
Green shot down an enemy Pfalz that was never confirmed or credited. Captain Hall dove on an
enemy Fokker so intent on victory he did not notice the fabric stripping away from his wings. The
problem was compounded when a dud anti-aircraft shell further damaged his wing, and the popular
pilot and well-known American author crashed behind the lines. Wounded, he was taken prisoner. He
survived the war to write again, penning the popular book Mutiny on the Bounty, among others.
During yet another flight that same afternoon, Major Lufbery shot down an enemy scout plane
(unconfirmed). Returning from a mission, Lieutenant James Meissner hit a hole while taxiing across
the field and flipped his Nieuport over. By the day's end, none of the 94th's three victories had been
confirmed or credited, and the squadron had lost two aircraft and one veteran pilot. The 1st Pursuit
Group's 147th Aero Squadron also suffered its first casualty on this day when Private Henry Black, a
member of the ground crew, was struck by lightening and killed.
On May 8 Lieutenant Paul Baer of the 103d had a double
victory, destroying two enemy airplanes after a ten-minute
dogfight and boosting his tally to seven victories. The next day
the 94th Aero Squadron destroyed two more aircraft, but once
again it was THEIR OWN. Captain Kenneth Marr and
Lieutenant Thorne Taylor landed at the field from opposite
directions and in the confusion, collided head-on sending both
airplanes spinning. Fortunately both pilots walked away from
their shattered Nieuports.
The comedy of errors was not confined to the 94th. On May 10 the 147th squadron, which had
suffered its first casualty less then a week earlier to lightening, received its first type XXVIII
Nieuports. Upon landing, one of the new airplanes sank in a mud hole, destroying the undercarriage.
Two days later Lieutenant James Healy crashed on landing, destroying another of the new Nieuports.
Though injured, once again the pilot survived.
During that second week of May, many missions were flown; and enemy aircraft attacked.
Rickenbacker and two other pilots of the 94th engaged an enemy Fokker near Thiaucort on May 11,
but the results were inconclusive. On May 13 Lieutenant Campbell shot down an enemy single-seater
while well inside German territory. The victory went unconfirmed. Finally on May 15, things began to
improve. Captain David Peterson shot down two German bi-planes raising the 94th's tally to eight
(not counting Rickenbacker's unconfirmed victory of May 6), and becoming the first pilot in the 94th
to get a double victory in a single day. In the afternoon Captain Peterson, Captain Hall (MIA), and
Lieutenants Rickenbacker, Meissner, and Charles Chapman (KIA) were presented the French
88
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
Croix-De-Guerre for their earlier victories. After an impressive ceremony Rickenbacker joined Major
Lufbery and Colonel Billy Mitchell in a twenty-minute air show for the crowd. After the ceremony
the new hero of the 94th, Captain Peterson, was transferred to the 147th Aero Squadron. Two days
later he gave his new command its first aerial victory.
If the awards ceremony had been intended as an incentive, it certainly worked. When the
ceremony was over Lieutenant Meissner grinned at Rickenbacker and said, "I feel that 'Hate-theHun' feeling creeping over me. What do you say to going up and getting a Boche?" Rickenbacker was
more than ready, and the two took off shortly thereafter. They even found and attempted to engage
two enemy aircraft but returned empty handed at the end of the day.
On May 17 Rick went hunting enemy airplanes with a vengeance. Climbing to a chilly 18,000
feet he shook off his discomfort to circle the skies well inside the enemy lines, crossing into Germany
as far east as Metz. Patiently he clung to the ceiling as he scanned for a target. As the morning wore
on, so too wore Eddie's deliberate patience. Down to less than an hour of fuel, disappointment began
creeping in when at last he noted three German Albatrosses take off for a reconnaissance over the
French lines. Rick remained high above as the three aircraft spread out, then pushed the stick
forward to begin his dive on the trailing airplane. Without even checking his speed, he estimated that
the dive had granted him as much as 200 miles per hour (top speed for the Nieuports was close to 120
mph). Without wavering he kept the nose pointed at his enemy and, when at last the quarry noted the
hunter and went into his own steep dive, Rickenbacker stayed his course. Closing within 50 yards,
Rickenbacker pulled the trigger and watched a stream of flaming bullets pierce the enemy airplane's
back seat. The German pilot slumped over the controls and continued his dive to its conclusion on the
ground.
Determined to follow his victim towards the ground, Rickenbacker maintained his own dive to
the last minute, and then pulled back on the stick. There was a loud crash and for the first time he
became aware of his own precarious situation. Looking to his right he was horrified to see that all the
fabric of his upper wing had been ripped away. The Nieuport rolled to its side,
and then began its own tailspin to doom. The other two German airplanes dove in
to apply the coup de grace. Bullets whined around the cockpit as Rick fought the
controls. He didn't begrudge the enemy for attacking his already wounded
airplane, though he later said he was critical of their bad judgment in wasting
ammunition on a plane that was already destroyed. Perhaps at last the enemy
pilots recovered their good judgment, for with the Nieuport continuing to spin
earthward, they at last broke off contact to continue their mission.
Having dropped 15,000 feet in a matter of minutes, Lieutenant
Rickenbacker watched the ground spin dizzily towards him and wondered if he
would survive the crash only to have his broken body imprisoned by the
Germans waiting below. From less than 3,000 feet he could see people on the
ground, watching his certain demise. The stick fought his hand as he tried to
control the floundering Nieuport when, with a total disregard for the
consequences, he pulled open the throttle. The sudden burst of speed leveled the
airplane, and the rudder began responding to the stick. The enemy airplanes had
vanished in the distance. Now it was only Rickenbacker and his desperate
attempts to climb. It proved useless; with wind whipping through the barren
right wing he could only manage a semi level flight at low altitude. Then the
German Archie began, and explosions burst around him.
89
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
At less than 1,000 feet the Nieuport slipped across no man's land and into allied territory. With
the engine running wide open, Rick came in for a landing. The Nieuport pancaked to the soft mud,
destroyed beyond repair, but miraculously, Eddie Rickenbacker walked away. Almost as amazing,
the dead pilot of the Albatross he had nearly given his life to destroy had fallen across the stick of his
own in such a way that the doomed enemy plane had also glided across the lines to crash in France.
Eddie's victory was verified, his third downed airplane (his second confirmed kill).
Despite such problems, the tide was turning for the young American pilots. The day after
Rickenbacker's near-fatal combat mission, Lieutenant Doug Campbell attacked an enemy bi-plane
near Verdun. When the Hat In The Ring pilot's guns jammed after a few bursts, the intrepid airman
bluffed his way through a series of aerial maneuvers until he had cleared his guns to score his own
second victory. Campbell caught up to his friend Rick the next day when he scored his third, again
only after his guns jammed on the first assault and he had made a series of courageous maneuvers
while working to free up his weapons.
Unreliable engines, fragile wings, and temperamental machine guns made fighting the German
pilots difficult. The Nieuport 28 was fast and maneuverable, but its other drawbacks had caused the
French and British air services to reject it. The fact that these airplanes were then passed off on the
new United States Air Service reflects much of the greatest battle the early American combat pilots
faced, not aerial combat against armed Germans, but a political war for recognition in the traditional
halls of the U.S. military. American military war planners did not see air power as an important
factor. A squadron would be formed on paper, then wait for weeks for the arrival of airplanes cast off
by other air services, and then have to fly unarmed while awaiting a requisition of armament.
The French, the British, and the Germans worked hard to improve their airplanes, their
weapons, and their aerial tactics. American pilots were assigned to squadrons, provided cast-off
machines and materials, and expected to survive on their intrepid spirit alone. Before the war
Rickenbacker had been stunned by the Army's response to his attempt to build a squadron from the
ranks of racecar drivers. It had been scoffed at, largely because the Army felt a knowledge of engines
would be detrimental to a pilot and temper their zeal in battle or make them hesitant to fly if an
engine sounded less than up-to-par. Such sheer idiocy went even further and was more deadly.
Rickenbacker always claimed he was happy to see a parachute unfurl beneath one of his victims. His
war was against machines, not men. French and British pilots were also often known to have
parachuted to safety from a shot up airplane. American pilots didn't even HAVE parachutes.
"We air-fighters cannot understand why we cannot have parachutes fitted on our
aeroplanes to give the doomed pilot one possible means of escape from this terrible death.
Pilots sometimes laugh over the comic end of a comrade shot down in course of a combat.
It is a callousness made possible by the continuous horrors of war. If he dies from an
attack by an enemy it is taken as a matter of course. But to be killed through a stupid and
preventable mistake puts the matter in a very different light."
Eddie Rickenbacker
Fighting the Flying Circus
The tragedy that befell the 94th Pursuit Squadron on May 19 brought Rickenbacker face to
face with the parachute issue. While Doug Campbell was bagging his third victory, two German 2seaters were engaged in a dogfight near the aerodrome with two green American pilots. When it
90
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
appeared that the enemy aircraft would escape the novice Americans, it was more than Major
Lufbery could stand. The now famous pilot jumped into a nearby airplane and gave chase.
Lufbery made one round of the two machines as the ground crews
watched from the distant American aerodrome. Suddenly he veered away as
if to clear a jamb in his guns. Looping back into battle, enemy rounds raked
his airplane, puncturing the fuel tank. The ground crews watched in horror
as the flames spread, and Major Lufbery slid back along the fuselage of his
burning plane towards the tail. Moments later, from a height of about 1,000
feet, America's first Ace of Aces leaped from his nearly incinerated Nieuport.
The plane crashed in a field near a river, and it was later speculated that
Lufbery was trying to leap into the water from that height himself. Instead
his body plummeted to earth to fall on a picket fence. If the great Ace had
possessed a parachute, he might well have survived that day. The following
morning he was buried in the Aviators Cemetery at Sebastapol, France, with
full military honors.
At one point during the summer, Rickenbacker confronted a major at Air Service
headquarters in Paris regarding the parachute matter. He was told that the parachutes were too large
and heavy for the small fighters. Rickenbacker knew this was not true, the Germans had developed
parachutes small enough for THEIR pilots. "Rickenbacker," the Major finally stated coldly, "if all
you pilots had parachutes, then you'd be inclined to use them on the slightest pretext, and the Air
Service would lose planes that might otherwise have been brought down safely." It took all of Rick's
will power to keep his temper from exploding at that.
The death of Major Lufbery was a severe blow to the psyche of the men of all three active
American pursuit squadrons. Somehow the intrepid young men rose above it. To Lieutenant Paul
Baer of the 103rd was bequeathed the title American Ace of Aces, and on the day they buried an aerial
legend, Baer added to his own enviable record by achieving his eighth victory. The next day,
Rickenbacker got his fourth (third confirmed) and Baer shot down his ninth...and last, enemy plane.
Baer had been Ace of Aces for but two days before he was shot down, wounded, and captured. His
title, a deadly one to be sure, passed on to Lieutenant Frank Bayliss, an American pilot with the
French Escadrille of the Cigognes, Spad 3. Bayliss would achieve a total of 13 victories before he was
killed on June 17.
By the end of May the two squadrons of the 1st Pursuit Group were competing fiercely for
first place. The 95th Pursuit Squadron ended the month with fourteen victories, the 94th with
eighteen. On the next-to-the-last day of the month Rickenbacker got his fifth confirmed victory to
become the second American Ace of the war, and the following day Lieutenant Campbell got his fifth,
making the Hat In The Ring Squadron the only American squadron with two Aces. The 103rd Pursuit
Squadron of the 3rd Pursuit Group still held first place in the victory category with 21.
Despite all the problems with airplanes, guns and weather, in the first ten weeks on the front,
the three American Aero Squadrons had claimed 53 victories over the enemy.
During the month of June the action slowed down somewhat. For Rickenbacker, his sixth
victory (fifth confirmed) achieved on May 30 would be his last for three and a half months. The 103rd
kept its lead intact though only achieving three victories for the month. The 94th crept closer after
91
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
four victories though the 95th managed to muster only one. The new pretender for the crown
appeared to be the newly arrived 27th Aero Squadron. Recognizable for the eagle with spread wings
painted on the side of their Nieuports (claimed to have originated on the side of an Annhauser Busch
Beer Wagon), the Eagle Squadron managed thirteen victories.
By July 1 the 1st Pursuit Group's fourth squadron, the 147th, was ready for action. The tally
of aerial credits was as follows:
1st Pursuit Group
3rd P.G.
27th Aero
94th Aero
95th Aero
147th Aero
103rd Aero
6
23
15
0
24
NOTE: The numbers used in this and successive tables reflect the victory credits based upon Historical Study 133, which
was prepared by the US Air Force in 1966. As such, it lists victory credits for a given month that includes victories not verified
until later months, or after the war had ended. Historical records therefore, may show one squadron having led all others on a
particular date, when in fact on that date the pilots themselves may have been aware of a different set of numbers.
On July 2 a patrol of nine planes from the 27th Aero Squadron attacked nine planes of the
infamous Richthofen Flying Circus. Six pilots contributed to two downed aircraft, raising the Eagle
Squadron's tally by a dozen. The same day pilots from the 147th engaged in two separate actions,
netting six victories for the new arrival.
For more than three months the Hat In The Ring Squadron had been trying hard to overtake
the 103d, and trailed by only one victory going into July (since Rickenbacker's May 7 victory still
hadn't been confirmed, the recognizable difference on that date was actually a two-victory margin on
the books). On July 7 the 94th added five more victories to its tally, pulling into the lead for the first
time. It was the event the pilots of the squadron had worked so hard to achieve for months. The 95th
Aero Squadron had ambitions of its own, raising its tally to 18 on July 5, and then scoring two more
victories the following day.
The single victory scored by the 95th on July 10 still left the Kicking
Mule Squadron seven victories behind the 95th, but it was notable for a
different reason. The Fokker that was destroyed near Chateau-Thierry that
day fell victim to one of the most popular and well-known flight leaders in the
squadron. Lieutenant Quentin Roosevelt was the youngest son of former
President Theodore Roosevelt.
Quentin had arrived with the 95th Aero Squadron on May 6 when it
had joined the 94th at the forward aerodrome. Due to his famous name, the
squadron commander had made the young pilot a flight leader, even before
he had ever made a flight over the lines. Quentin protested, advising that his
lack of experience could be a danger to his men, but the squadron
commander insisted. It was a novelty to have the son of an American president leading a flight of
experienced fighter pilots.
The next morning Quentin and three of his men prepared to take off for their first mission.
Quentin called his pilots together and inquired who among them had the most experience. "As soon as
92
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
we leave the ground," Lieutenant Roosevelt informed his men, "the man with the most experience will
take the lead, and I will fall back into his position. They may be able to make me Flight Commander in
name, but the best pilot in my group is going to lead it in fact." And that was exactly how Quentin
Roosevelt operated until his death on July 14. During his tenure on the front, though ordered to the
role of flight leader by his superiors, not once did Quentin occupy that role in the air. His death, like
that of Lufbery, was a heart-rending tragedy for the entire American Air Service.
On the last day of July the 95th had a great day, earning seven victories and taking first place
among the squadrons. On the morning of August 1 the tally sheet read:
1st Pursuit Group
3rd P.G.
27th Aero
94th Aero
95th Aero
147th Aero
103rd Aero
29
28
31
26
27
The 95th's tenure in first place was short lived. August 1 was a disastrous day for the pilots of
the 27th. Six pilots were shot down in an action that made it one of the deadliest days in the air of the
war. Though the loss of six pilots demoralized the survivors and halted missions for nearly a week,
pilots of the Eagle Squadron did claim six victories of their own, eclipsing the lead of the 95th. For
nearly 2 1/2 months the 27th would continue to be the front-runner in victories, much of that time
thanks to Frank Luke. When at last the 94th would regain the lead it held for most of the month of
July, it would be primarily because of Eddie Rickenbacker.
For his own part Lieutenant Rickenbacker was quickly becoming the most popular pilot in his
squadron. From his first mission on March 6 until his last flight over the lines on November 11, he
logged more hours in the air than perhaps any other American pilot, certainly more than any pilot in
the 1st Pursuit Group. Through the period he engaged in 134 air battles by his own count, shot down
26 enemy planes, held the title Ace of Aces in two separate periods…and earned an unprecedented
NINE Distinguished Service Crosses.
In those months of combat he survived engine failures, shredded wings, sheets of flaming
Archie, and thousands of enemy bullets. He flew dozens of one-man volunteer missions behind enemy
lines, single-handedly engaged enemy flights that outnumbered him as much as seven-to-one, and
returned to the aerodrome repeatedly in aircraft so full of bullet holes and shrapnel punctures that
the aircraft was beyond repair. Amazingly, through it all, the intrepid airman was not even slightly
wounded one time. That amazing record is what made his series of hospital confinements during the
summer of 1918 so incongruous.
During June, Rickenbacker missed much of the action when a fever sent him to the hospital in
Paris. It was while writing a letter from his hospital bed that he innocently enough made the change
in the spelling of his name that made headlines and forever marked him as Rickenbacker instead of
Rickenbacher. He was finally released from the hospital on July 4 and went into Paris to celebrate.
The following day before returning to his squadron, he decided to visit the American experimental
supply aerodrome at Orly. It was a most fortunate decision.
93
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
For several weeks the American pilots had heard reports of a new French airplane capable of
speeds faster than their Nieuports. These were purportedly aircraft that could climb to higher
altitudes yet were durable enough to survive fast dives or tricky aerial maneuvers. Built by the Societe
pour L'Aviation et ses Derives, it became known as the SPAD; and sitting on the field at Orly were
three brand new ones. Rick noticed one had the numeral "1" painted on its side.
"Is this one of the new planes meant for the 94th Aero Squadron?" he
asked a mechanic, who affirmed that indeed it was. "Well, I'm with the
94th," Rick told him and, in his characteristic style of doing what needed to
be done first, then asking permission, he strapped himself in and flew it back
to his aerodrome at Touquin. To his delight upon his return, Major Kenneth
Marr who was now commanding the squadron congratulated him for
acquiring the sleek new airplane. He then assigned it to Rickenbacker. Rick
knew he could have perhaps, been court-martialed for his impulsive actions
that day. It had been worth the risk!
Returning to the air, Rick was thrilled with his new SPAD and its capabilities; but one old
problem and one new problem began to plague his efforts. The old problem was the continuing
tendency of the aircraft's machine guns to jamb. Much of this was due to improper sized shell casings.
Rickenbacker did his best to alleviate this by creating a die to measure each shell, and then personally
loaded his guns before each mission. As a fail-safe measure, he had his mechanic attach a leather
strap to a large wooden mallet, which he then hung around his wrist. Thereafter, when a shell hung in
his guns, he cleared it with a quick rap from the mallet. Most of the time it worked.
The new problem was more personal. Upon his return to the air Rick, began experiencing a
sharp pain in his ear. On July 10 he was sent back to Paris where it was lanced and didn't fly again
until the end of the month. Even then, the pain persisted and became worse. For days he continued to
ignore the pain, an often-difficult effort when it was compounded by the chill and pressure of high
altitudes.
On August 8 Rickenbacker shot down a Fokker but the victory was never confirmed. The one
piece of good news during the otherwise dismal month was that at last the entire squadron was finally
outfitted with the new SPADs. Ten days later the Mastoiditis in Rick's ear was so bad he couldn't get
out of bed. He was quickly sent back to the hospital and Eddie Green replaced him as flight leader for
that day's scheduled mission, flying SPAD number 1. Eddie regained his consciousness on Sunday
enough to recognize Captain Marr standing by his bed. Marr came to bring the sad news that Green
and Walter Smythe, perhaps Rick's closest friend in the squadron, had collided in the air and
plummeted to their deaths. It was yet another sad moment for Rick, more so in the knowledge that
had the men been allowed parachutes, both would probably have survived to fly again.
The tragedy of such needless losses, coupled with mechanical failures, lack of proper supplies
and support at the top, all made worse by the fact that during the month of August the entire 1st
Pursuit Group had only achieved ten victories, was driving morale low. During the last week of
August, Rickenbacker was recovering from his second ear operation when his friends from the
squadron came to visit him in the hospital. They shared with Rick how badly things were
deteriorating among the pilots and wished him a speedy recovery. They also told Eddie that when he
returned, they wished he would return as the commander of the 94th Aero Squadron. Eddie informed
that that if ordered to command the squadron, he would accept the position; but they might not like
the results. As commander he would be tough, demanding, and determined to make the squadron the
best in the American Air Service. It was the news his friends were hoping to hear.
94
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
St. Mihiel Offensive
The new Army Air Service had indeed been vastly
overlooked by most of the American Army's higher
command. There was, however, one highly placed ally, the
commander of the Air Service and Rick's friend Colonel
William Billy Mitchell. Mitchell had been the first American
to fly over enemy lines.
Though never credited with a
combat victory, he'd also spent his share of time away from a
desk and on the field at the aerodromes throughout France or in the cockpit of an airplane.
During the last week of August while Rick was recovering in the hospital, Colonel Mitchell was
eagerly trying to give his pilots a fighting chance to prove their full worth. Germany's spring offensive
had been crushed and the enemy routed. Now Allied war planners were setting the stage for the first
major offensive of the war involving the American Expeditionary Force. Mitchell had earnestly
promoted a campaign that would involve a combined air-ground assault, the first in history.
Ultimately the plan was approved and the flamboyant Air Service commander began assembling the
largest aerial armada in history: 700 fighters, 400 observation planes and 400 bombers. It was a
gamble, which, if it failed, would have confirmed the attitude of the traditional military commanders
that airplanes provided only a minor and insignificant role in the process of war. The ultimate success
of Mitchell's intrepid airmen during the months of September and October 1918 indisputably proved
the value of the Army Air Service.
Plans for the campaign that became known as the St. Mihiel Offensive were made with great
secrecy, but the men of the A.E.F. could sense that something big was in the offing. When all the
squadrons of the 1st Pursuit Group, now called the 1st Pursuit Wing, were moved to a forward
aerodrome at Rembercourt on September 3, everyone knew the tone of the war was about to change.
Learning of his squadron's move to the Verdun sector, Rickenbacker pronounced himself cured and
requested permission to rejoin the squadron. His ear was indeed cured, and never bothered him
again. Rick headed for Aviation Headquarters in Paris, from which he drove the staff car of Colonel
Mitchell to the aerodrome at Rembercourt. He arrived back in the field on September 11, the day
before the St. Mihiel Offensive was to begin.
Much had changed during Rick's brief absence. Major Carl Spaatz had transferred from the
94th to a new job as Chief of Staff for the 1st Pursuit Wing, now commanded by Major Harold
Hartney of the 27th. Lieutenant Alfred "Ack" Grant had assumed command of the 27th and had his
hands full with a boisterous young pilot named Frank Luke. Rick's good friend Jim Meissner had
assumed command of the 147th Aero Squadron.
The offensive began right on schedule at 5 a.m. the following day, the American artillery and
infantry hampered but not precluded from action by the rainy weather. The pilots, eager to enter the
fray and prove their value to the offensive, were not so lucky. One flight of eight airplanes from the
27th managed to get airborne after daylight, but most planes were grounded until afternoon.
Lieutenant Luke of the 27th managed to shoot down a German observation balloon, the first
confirmed victory of his soon-to-be impressive streak, but it was the only victory scored by any
member of the 1st Pursuit Wing.
Elsewhere American pilots faired somewhat better on the first day of the offensive, knocking
down 12 airplanes in addition to Luke's balloon. Lieutenant David Putnam of the 139th had held the
95
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
title American Ace of Aces since the death back in June of Frank Bayless. On September 12 Putnam
shot down his 12th enemy aircraft to increase his tally. It was his last victory, for before the day ended
Putnam was himself shot down and killed. Rickenbacker's tally stood at five confirmed victories so
Lieutenant Edgar Tobin of the 103rd Aero Squadron, 3rd Pursuit Wing who had six, temporarily
held the title Ace of Aces.
On Day 2 of the offensive the 103rd, operating under the 1st Pursuit Wing, destroyed seven
enemy planes, five of which were confirmed. They were the only victories of the day, but on
September 14 things began to happen quickly. The brash Frank Luke of the 27th knocked down two
more balloons while Eddie Rickenbacker pulled even with Ace of Aces Lieutenant Tobin when he shot
down a Fokker near Villey Waiville. It was Rick's sixth confirmed victory.
On September 15 Rickenbacker shot down his second Fokker in two days, becoming the
leading American Ace with seven victories. It was the same day the incredible Frank Luke shot down
three balloons to become an Ace in just four days, but no one would ever have expected such a run of
"luck" to continue. To the amazement of all, and to some degree to the chagrin of Ack Grant who had
to exercise authority over the free-thinking and sometimes rebellious Luke, Luke went out the very
next day to bag two more balloons and tie his record with that of the Air Service's leading ace.
Shortly after Rickenbacker was acclaimed the new Ace of Aces he had told his good friend
Reed Chambers: "Any other fellow can have the title any time he wants it, so far as I am concerned."
"Mingled with this natural desire to become the leading fighting Ace of
America was a haunting superstition that did not leave my mind until the very end
of the war. It was that the very possession of this title - Ace of Aces - brought with it
unavoidable doom that had overtaken all of its previous holders. I wanted it and yet
I feared to learn that it was mine! In later days I began to feel that this superstition
was almost the heaviest burden that I carried with me into the air. Perhaps it served
to redouble my caution and sharpened my fighting senses. But I never was able to
forget that the life of a title-holder is short."
Eddie Rickenbacker
Fighting the Flying Circus
Rick bore that burden, or at least shared that burden with Frank Luke, for one more day. The
St. Mihiel offensive ended on September 16, the day after Rick became America's leading Ace and the
same day on which Luke pulled even with him. American forces, well supported by Colonel Mitchell's
Air Service, pushed the German army more than 10 miles backward, leaving the enemy forces in
disarray. Mitchell himself was rewarded with promotion to Brigadier General.
Meanwhile, aerial action began to slow down in and around Verdun, but not enough to slow
the rampage of the intrepid Frank Luke. On September 18 Luke did something seldom accomplished
by any pilot in WWI or any war since...FIVE victories (three planes and two balloons) in a single day.
After destroying 12 aircraft in seven days he was the undisputed leading American Ace, a title
Rickenbacker was more than happy to pass on to him.
What did bother Rickenbacker was that, thanks to Frank Luke, the 27th Pursuit Squadron
was the leader among all of the Air Service's squadrons; a position Rick had always expected his own
Hat In the Ring Squadron to hold. While not necessarily sorry to see the burden of the Ace of Aces title
pass to another, Rick was determined to do whatever it took to see his squadron reclaim its role as
America's leading fighter squadron. By the unofficial tally at the time, the 27th lead the 94th by SIX
victories.
96
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
On September 24 Major Marr returned from Air Service Headquarters in Paris to advise the
men of his squadron that he had been ordered to the 2nd Pursuit Group as its commander. That
evening Lieutenant Rickenbacker called the 19 pilots of the Hat In The Ring Squadron together to
address them for the first time as their new commander. "I want no saluting," he told them, "no
unnecessary deference to rank. What I want is VICTORIES! We're all in this together, pilots and
mechanics. We need each other; and we're going to work together as equals, each man doing his job."
Rickenbacker further assured his pilots that he would lead them from the cockpit of an airplane, not
from a desk. He would lead by example.
Returning to his billets after similarly addressing his mechanics and ground crews, he wrote in
his personal diary:
"Just been promoted to command of 94th squadron. I shall never ask a pilot to go on any
mission I won't go on.
"I must work now harder than I did before."
Seven-To-One
S
Seepptteem
mbbeerr 2
25
5,, 119
9118
8
Lieutenant Rickenbacker had the early morning skies to himself as he winged his way on a
solo, volunteer flight east of the lines at Verdun. Foremost on his mind was his speech the night
before, and the responsibility he had set for himself to lead by example. After patrolling among the
clouds for a time, he suddenly noticed two large specks in the distance. Maneuvering his SPAD closer,
the specks became recognizable as large, German Halberstadt photographic planes. Flying protection
for them were five German Fokkers. Rick was outnumbered seven-to-one.
Heedless of the odds, Rickenbacker remained high above, hidden by the sun, until the enemy
formation had passed below. Then he pushed the stick forward and nosed down in a steep dive,
directly into the trailing Fokker. He noticed the enemy pilot turn his head as SPAD 1 closed the
distance but it was too late. Rick's finger was on the trigger, his aim true, and the Fokker was soon
spiraling towards the ground trailing black smoke.
The other four Fokkers panicked and the
formation was immediately splintered, allowing
Rickenbacker to continue his dive unfettered until he
was on the tail of one of the Halberstadts. Noses down,
the pilots of the photographic planes were diving for
safety as SPAD 1 followed them relentlessly. From
their seats behind the pilots, the observers of the
Halberstadts were firing backward at the American.
Rickenbacker dived beneath the nearest airplane, and
then zoomed up under its belly.
The enemy pilot appeared to be a wise veteran,
for he kicked his tail around to give his gunner a good
position from which to rain fire on the attacker. Rickenbacker broke off to dive, only to find the
second Halberstadt on his tail and a stream of bullets streaking past his face.
97
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
The three pilots dodged and weaved in their aerial joust, but Rick knew his time was running
out. Fuel was low and the four Fokkers were recovering from the initial shock and turning back
towards the battle. Rickenbacker maneuvered until the Halberstadts were only about 50 yards apart
and directly below him, and then side slipped to the right. The nearer Halberstadt shielded him from
the second, making the contest of the gunners a one-on-one battle. Rick leveled out, kicked his nose to
the left, and pulled the trigger. The nearer photographic plane passed directly through the stream of
bullets, and in minutes burst into flames and plummeted to earth like a falling comet.
With the four recovered Fokkers now diving on top of him, Rick opened his engine and began
a mad dash for home. The other pilots of the Hat In The Ring squadron had just finished eating when
SPAD 1 taxied to a stop. Their new commander had demonstrated his promise to lead by example
and earned a double victory before many of them had finished breakfast.
Scourge of the Sky
When the successful St. Mihiel offensive
had ended weeks earlier, the German forces had
been pushed 10 miles back to their last line of
fortifications along the Hindenburg Line and the
Argonne Forest. On the morning of September 26
the Allies launched the Meuse-Argonne Offensive
to dislodge the German forces from this last
region. In six weeks the success of this final
campaign was so successful that Germany was
crushed to its knees, and the war was ended. The
role of the Army Air Service in the success of that
offensive cannot be understated. Much of the
credit for swiftly ending the war must be given to
the brave pilots who flew deep into Germany to
bomb its cities and destroy its war machine. The
Kaiser committed much of his own air power to the task of shooting down these bombers before they
could reach their targets. The fighter pilots of the US Army Air Service met them head-to-head, flying
protection for the bomber pilots.
On the first day of the Argonne Offensive the 94th Aero Squadron was assigned its first-ever
balloon patrol mission. Rickenbacker himself led the six-plane flight that lifted off at 5:20 a.m. to
attack two different Drachens. To Rick's delight, despite the difficulty of bagging the large, wellprotected observation balloons, his pilots succeeded in destroying both. Returning to the field as dawn
was breaking, he was so absorbed in thoughts of pride in his pilots, he didn't notice the German
Fokker that shadowed him until the distance between the two was less than 100 yards. The German
pilot angled towards Rickenbacker as his machine guns opened up, and for a moment it appeared
that if neither pilot hit the other with his bullets, the two airplanes would certainly crash together. At
the last minute the German pilot dove and Rick was on top of him. A stream of flaming incendiary
bullets, loaded that morning for the balloon attack, quickly destroyed the Fokker. Meanwhile, Rick's
own SPAD began to shudder and shake from the effects of its own wounds. Carefully the Hat In The
Ring commander nursed his vibrating craft back to the aerodrome. Upon landing it was found that
one blade of the propeller had been completely severed by the Fokker's machinegun rounds. Once
again however, Rick walked away from a shot-up airplane without a scratch.
98
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
Lieutenant Frank Luke returned early from his well-earned leave in
Paris to fly again on the first day of the new offensive. On that day his
wingman was shot down, the second such tragedy that had befallen the great
American Ace, and one that prompted his decision to fly strictly lone-wolf
missions.
On September 28 Luke had another double victory, flaming his
eleventh balloon and his fourth airplane. On the same day, Eddie
Rickenbacker bagged his FIRST balloon, his eleventh confirmed aerial
victory.
On September 29 Luke flew a voluntary night mission against three
enemy balloons along the Marne River. By the time he was done, his victory
score stood at 18. In the eighteen days from September 12 to 29, despite the
fact that there was one week therein when he didn't fly, Luke had claimed more victories than even
the great Raoul Lufbery had in the entire war.
Those last three balloons were costly. Luke never returned, and once again Lieutenant Eddie
Rickenbacker had to deal with the inherent danger of being America's Ace of Aces.
The month of October was a good month for Hun hunting all across the Western Front. On
October 1 Rick got his second balloon and on October 2 he had a double victory, first destroying an
enemy Rumpler near Clery-le-Grand, then teaming with his good friend Lieutenant Reed Chambers
to shoot down a large Hanover. It was the first enemy airplane among Rickenbacker's fourteen
confirmed victories to land inside friendly lines, and Rick and Reed were quick to claim it as a war
trophy, painting their names on its side.
The following day Rickenbacker
shot down a Fokker and then teamed
with Lieutenant Coolidge to destroy a
large Halberstadt. The official tally was
up to 16. Like the famed Red Baron
whose presence in the sky had instantly
generated both fear and challenge in his
adversaries, Eddie Rickenbacker and
his now famous SPAD 1 had become the
American response to a German legend.
But, though SPAD 1 was proving
unstoppable to the Germans, the
autumn weather of northern France did
what nothing else could do. After the double victory of October 3 the Hat In The Ring Squadron was
stymied for five days. As the weather improved slightly on October 9, SPAD 1 was back at work and
the night skies were brilliantly lit by a burning Drachen, Rickenbacker's third balloon and his
seventeenth official victory. Captain Eddie Rickenbacker had finally equaled the record of his own
personal hero, Major Raoul Lufbery.
99
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
October 10 was notable for many developments:



On that day Eddie Rickenbacker claimed two more victories, surpassing both Lufbery and
Luke to become the most victorious airman of the war.
It was a day during which he learned a vivid lesson about the responsibilities of command
from the 147th's Lieutenant Wilburt White.
It was a day on which he witnessed an act about which he later wrote: "For sheer nerve and
bravery, I believe this heroic feat was never surpassed."
It was the day of ....
The BIG Dog Fight
The day's mission began as an effort to destroy two German balloons at Dun-sur-Meuse. The
94th Squadron fielded 14 SPADs from the aerodrome, taking off at 3:30 in the afternoon. To fly
protection for the pilots of the Hat In The Ring who were assigned the task of shooting down the two
Drachen, eight planes of the 147th flew on one flank with seven planes from the 27th covering the
other. It was one of the largest aerial armadas Captain Rickenbacker had ever seen as he climbed
several thousand feet above his pilots to observe the mission.
As quickly as the 30 airplanes passed the lines, they were met with heavy Archie; but the flight
leaders maintained their formations flying deeper into Germany until the first of the two balloons
could be seen floating in the distance.
Captain Rickenbacker scanned the distance and soon noted the approach of 11 German
Fokkers bearing down on the seven planes of the 147th, now separated somewhat from the rest of the
flight. Rick dipped his wings and dove to warn the pilots, noting as he did, the approach of another
eight Fokkers from the direction of Metz. He halted his dive to keep his altitude while he assessed the
situation and planned the best avenue of attack. When the first enemy flight passed beneath him he
noted the bright red noses that marked them as airplanes of the infamous Flying Circus.
When the enemy formation had passed
Rick dipped over and dove on the trailing
Fokker. His first burst of machinegun fire ripped
into the gas tank and the enemy airplane burst
into flames to plunge earthward. Rick noticed
the German pilot leap from the inferno and,
moments later, float safely earthward beneath
the canopy of his parachute. The American pilots
had heard reports of German pilots parachuting
safely from destroyed aircraft on the Italian
front, but this was the first time it had ever been
witnessed on the Western Front. Rickenbacker
watched the amazing escape for a moment, even
wondered pensively, "Why the Huns had all these
humane contrivances and why our own country could not at least copy them to save American pilots from
being burned to a crisp!" Then he resisted the temptation to watch the miraculous escape to its
conclusion, wished the enemy pilot well, and turned back into the foray below. There, an equally
incredible display was unfolding.
100
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
Nearly two-dozen aircraft dodged and weaved through the skies over Germany in a classic
jousting match by the Knights of a new generation, while an almost equal number was poised in the
distance for similar combat. What he saw next he later described as an "extraordinary spectacle in
midair...which in all my life at the front I have never seen equaled in horror and awfulness. The picture
of it has haunted my dreams during many nights since."
Lieutenant White was the perfect man to lead his
planes of the 147th in this unprecedented aerial battle.
He was experienced, an Ace with 7 victories, and a wellliked and admired leader. The mission this day would
be his last before returning to the United States to visit
his wife and two small children. Before going home
however, he had to see his young pilots safely through
one more battle.
The lead Fokker was lining up behind the tailing
SPAD in White's formation even as Rickenbacker
turned away from the scene of his recent victory. White
noted the threat to one of his pilots, came out of his own
swoop, and dove on the enemy. It looked to be too late
as the German prepared to open fire on the trailing
SPAD. White's airplane continued its course, two
airplanes approaching each other at more than 100
miles an hour. Before the German could pull the trigger
to flame the young pilot of the 147th, Lieutenant White
intervened. Never wavering, his own airplane slammed
into the German machine, telescoping both in a
grinding crunch of fabric and metal. As the spared
young pilot flew out of harms way, Lieutenant white
and his German counterpart crashed together in the
forest below.
Rickenbacker was not the only pilot in the air stirred and stunned by Lieutenant White's
heroic sacrifice to save a comrade. The horrible scene took all desire for the fight from the Germans,
and the remaining Fokkers broke away and headed for home. Rickenbacker banked and headed to
the other flank where the seven SPADs of the 27th Squadron were tangling with the eight Fokkers
from Metz. As he did, he noted one of his own airplanes had been hit as it dove on the targeted
Drachen. Rick raced to the rescue but it was too late. The hapless American did his best to control his
flaming airplane and somehow managed to make a rough landing in German territory.
Rick looked around briefly; and as he did, he noted another SPAD diving past him with two
enemy Fokkers on its tail. It was his good friend and Ace pilot Jim Meissner. For the third time in
nearly as many months, Rick came to the rescue of his old protégé, flaming one of the Fokkers and
forcing the other to turn away.
By the time the great dogfight over Germany concluded the pilots of the 1st Pursuit Wing
scored more than a dozen victories. For Rickenbacker the tally was now up to 19 confirmed victories,
more than any other American pilot of the entire war.
101
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
On October 19 Rickenbacker and several other pilots of the Wing were ordered to Souilly for a
grand and impressive ceremony. As a list of names was read Major General Mason Patrick, Chief of
Air Service, presented nearly two dozen awards of the Distinguished Service Cross. Lieutenants
James Meissner and Ralph O'Neill each received two awards. When Captain Rickenbacker's name
was called he was presented a Distinguished Service Cross with 4 Oak Leaf Clusters. Each oak leaf
represented an additional award of this distinguished honor--one award for each of his first five
confirmed victories in April and May. (The Fokker Rick had destroyed on May 7 remained
unconfirmed until November 16, 1918 so was still not counted among his list of victories.)
By the time World War I ended, Captain Rickenbacker would earn an unprecedented NINE
awards of the Distinguished Service Cross, a record that has never been equaled in U.S. military
history.
The ceremony of October 19 was inspiring, impressive, and moving. For Rick it was a moment
of great pride in his squadron, his personal record, and the new United States Air Service. It was also
a time of reflection and some sadness:
"I could not help thinking of the absent pilots whose names were being read out
but who did not answer, and for whom decorations were waiting for deeds of heroism
that had ended with their death. There was White, for whom the whole Group
mourned. What a puny recognition was a simple ribbon for heroism such as his!
There was Luke--the most intrepid air fighter that ever sat in an aeroplane. What
possible honor could be given him by his country that would accord him the
distinction he deserved.
"One thing was certain. The reputation of these great American airmen would
live as long as the comrades who knew them survived. Perhaps none of us would
ever live to see our homeland again. I glanced down the line of honor men who were
standing immobile in their tracks, listening to the last notes of 'The Star Spangled
Banner'! Who will be the next to go, I wondered, knowing only too well that with
ever fresh honor that was conferred came a corresponding degree of responsibility
and obligation to continue to serve comrade and country so long as life endured."
Eddie Rickenbacker
Fighting the Flying Circus
102
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
The Finish Line
Rick returned to the air as the war quickly wound to a close. On the ground American
Doughboys were pushing the German forces steadily backward, buying each yard of gained territory
with their blood, but emerging from each battle victorious. In the air the U.S. Army Air Service ruled
the skies, but not without casualties themselves. Like the men on the ground, every step forward came
at a great price.
On October 22 Captain Rickenbacker shot down an enemy Fokker near Clery-le-Petit, then
repeated that success the very next day over LeGrande Carre Farme. Four days later he flamed two
more Fokkers bringing his official record at the time to 22 victories (with two more that had not yet
been confirmed). On October 30 he engaged the two Fokkers of the famed Flying Circus over St.
Juvin, destroying one and sending the other scurrying home. Returning home he destroyed the
Drachen at Remonville to achieve his last aerial victory. It was enough...a valiant record by one man
of firm conviction and dedication to service.
On November 10 Captain Rickenbacker was awarded two more
Oak Leaf Clusters for his Distinguished Service Cross, these for his
victories of September 14 and the following day. Two more Oak Leaf
Clusters would follow, one for his September 25 double-victory when he
attacked alone against seven-to-one odds, the last for his victory the next
day.
Apprehension and some sadness hung over the ceremony that day
that also saw DSCs awarded to Reed Chambers, Douglas Campbell and
others of Rick's friends. Four planes from the 94th Pursuit Squadron had
been missing for nearly twenty-four hours, and Rick feared he had made
one of his worst errors as a squadron commander.
The weather during those early days of November had been terrible, continuous rain and
heavy fog that made flying difficult. Everyone knew that the war was quickly coming to a close, and
pilots were frustrated at their inability to get their flight time before the war ended. The previous day
three of Rick's pilots had virtually begged him to allow them to take off into a heavy fog to attack a
Drachen. Rick resisted at first, but their eagerness and their arguments finally persuaded him to
consent. As the three prepared to take off, Major Maxwell Kirby, a newcomer on the scene,
approached Rick. Major Kirby had never flown over enemy lines, but was scheduled to assume
command of a new group of Squadrons. Kirby wanted experience before taking his new position, and
requested permission to join the other three pilots. Rickenbacker grudgingly consented, then watched
with intrepidation as the four took off into the fog. That night he cursed himself when none of them
returned to the aerodrome. He was certain he had, at a time when peace was imminent, needlessly
sent four men to their doom.
Up to and immediately after the 10 a.m. decorations ceremony, no word had arrived regarding
the fate of the four Americans. Not until after lunch did Rick note SPAD 3, belonging to one of the
missing pilots, on the field. Optimism returned when he learned its pilot had been forced to land in
friendly territory to spend the night, but had managed to return home that morning. One of the other
missing pilots had phoned in with a similar story. Lieutenant Dewitt had crashed inside allied lines
the previous evening, but walked away safely and would return by car later in the day.
103
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
A short time later Major Kirby phoned in. His first flight over the lines had left him lost in the
fog, and he was forced to land at the first field he saw. That very morning, while Rick was receiving
his sixth and seventh awards of the DSC, Kirby had taken off from the distant field to return home.
En route he had again become lost in the fog. While searching for his way back he suddenly noticed a
Fokker flying almost beside him. Both pilots were surprised by the presence of each other and simply
stared for a moment. Then the German put his airplane into a dive and Major Kirby dove in behind
him, firing all the way. The Fokker crashed in the fog, and Kirby pulled up within 50 feet of the
ground to avoid the same fate. Later he claimed he "had scared the (enemy) pilot to his death."
Alan Winslow and Douglas Campbell of the 94th Aero Squadron claimed the first American
aerial victory of World War I on April 14. Major Kirby's victory on November 10 was to be the last
of The Great War. The Hat In The Ring Squadron had started the fight...and finished it.
On the morning of November 11 only one plane could be found in the skies near Verdun. All
flights had been grounded for weather, and the previous evening the word had reached the men in the
field that an armistice had been reached to end The War to End All Wars. Rickenbacker couldn't
resist one last flight however, and left the aerodrome at 10 a.m. Shortly before 11 a.m. he was over the
lines, looking below at German and American infantrymen huddled in their foxholes and trenches,
weapons poised and ready to fire on anyone foolish enough to encroach. As he winged over the
German troops at only 500 feet, some dared to shoot his way, but the fire was half-hearted.
"I glanced at my watch. One minute to 11:00, thirty-seconds, fifteen. And then it was
11:00 a.m., the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. I was the only
audience for the greatest show ever presented. On both sides of no-man's-land, the trenches
erupted. Brown-uniformed men pour out of the American trenches, gray-green uniforms out
of the German. From my observer's seat overhead, I watched them throw their helmets in
the air, discard their guns, wave their hands. Then all up and down the front, the two groups
of men began edging toward each other across no-man's-land. Seconds before they had been
willing to shoot each other; now they came forward. Hesitantly at first, then more quickly,
each group approached the other.
"Suddenly gray uniforms mixed with brown. I could see them hugging each other,
dancing, jumping. Americans were passing out cigarettes and chocolate. I flew up to the
French sector. There it was even more incredible. After four years of slaughter and hatred,
they were not only hugging each other but kissing each other on both cheeks as well.
"Star shells, rockets and flares began to go up, and I turned my ship toward the field.
"The war was over."
Eddie Rickenbacker
Rickenbacker, An Autobiography
104
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
Accee ooff A
Acceess
When the American Expeditionary Force returned victoriously from France it came home to
an adoring public with a plethora of admirable heroes like John J. Pershing, Douglas MacArthur,
Billy Mitchell, Charles Whittlesey, Sergeant York and Eddie Rickenbacker. During the war only
FOUR Medals of Honor were awarded. General Pershing ordered a review of lesser awards and
ultimately more than 100 Medals of Honor were presented over the next five years. On May 29, 1919,
in Phoenix, Arizona, Brigadier General Howard R. Hickok presented the posthumous award of the
Medal of Honor to the father of Lieutenant Frank Luke, making him the first Army airman to receive
the award. Three years later posthumous Medals of Honor were awarded to Erwin Bleckley and
Harold Goettler for their sacrifice on behalf of The Lost Battalion.
Captain Eddie Rickenbacker remained
perhaps the most decorated American in history
with NINE Distinguished Service Crosses. Two
years earlier he had left for war as America's
fastest and favorite racecar driver. He returned
home its most beloved and successful fighter
pilot, with 26 confirmed victories. He was feted
in parades, lauded in the news, and hailed for his
wartime success. For the kid who dropped out of
school in the seventh grade to work for three
dollars a week to support his mother and
siblings, it was a unique example of the
American Dream in action. But Rick was never
one to ask for a free ride, or to settle for the
success of the present. New challenges beckoned.
Rick's immense popularity resulted in many offers with financial considerations beyond his
wildest dreams. He could be a movie star, an executive, a politician...just about anything he wanted;
and he could command any salary he requested. Humbly, Rick declined each offer, opting instead to
write an account of his war days in Fighting the Flying Circus, and speak on a lecture tour. In 1920 he
returned to the automotive world, joining with partners in founding The Rickenbacker Automobile
Company and development of the first car in history with both front and rear brakes. "It was too
good a car," Rick later explained. "It introduced vibration dampers and four-wheel brakes to
America. But there was too little difference between what it cost us to build and the price for which
we had to sell it. So we folded up."
Folded up was putting it mildly. By 1927 Eddie Rickenbacker was 37 years old, flat broke,
unemployed and a quarter-million dollars in debt. Friends suggested Rick declare bankruptcy, but he
refused. He determined he would pay back his debts, no matter how hard he had to work.
"I was not ashamed and not afraid. Failure was something I had faced before and might
well face again. I have said it over and over: 'Failure' is the greatest word in the English
language. Here in America failure is not the end of the world. If you have the determination,
you can come back from failure and succeed."
105
Rick's hard work consisted of returning to the racing world, this time to own and build a
speedway on a track he had once visited as a driver. Under Eddie Rickenbacker the Indianapolis
Speedway and its Memorial Day 500-mile race became as American as the man who owned it and
made it an icon. And, true to his word, Eddie Rickenbacker paid back every penny lost by the
Rickenbacker Automobile Company.
It may seem ironic that the greatest flying Ace of
World War I would come home to spend the next decade
pursuing a life on the ground, largely beyond aviation. In
1930 Rick's skill in the air was once again remembered by
a grateful nation. On November 6 at Bolling Field near
Washington, DC, President Herbert Hoover read a
citation detailing the day when Rickenbacker had singlehandedly attacked a German flight despite seven-to-one
odds. The citation was for the Medal of Honor, at last
being presented to America's Ace of Aces.
Rick's famous seven-to-one battle had occurred on September 25, 1918...four days before
Lieutenant Frank Luke's Medal of Honor action, making Rick the first American airman to receive
our Nation's highest award, and the last of four World War I Army aviators to actually receive it. He
was also the only one of the four to survive to wear it. (Two Marine Corps aviators, Gunnery Sergeant
Robert Robinson and 2nd Lieutenant Ralph Talbot also received Medals of Honor during World
War I. Talbot was killed in his heroic actions, but Robinson survived to wear his own well-earned
Medal of Honor.)
Indeed if ever the United States produced a young man that
defined the words Duty, Honor, Country and who became a living
example of The American Dream, it was Edward Vernon
Rickenbacker. When his Medal of Honor was presented in 1930, the
forty-year old American hero had lived more life, and escaped more
deadly situations, than could be imagined. He had overcome
unimaginable failures and accomplished the kind of success most men
only dream of. Perhaps what made Captain Eddie even more
remarkable, however, were some of the accomplishments of his life
after the Medal of Honor. Eddie Rickenbacker was a man who
believed he owed his country everything he could give, and he never
stopped giving.
Page 106
Colonel
Billy Mitchell
Building
An Aerial Armada
World War I had been over for three months when the Cunard liner Aquitania steamed for
New York City. Joining the hundreds of returning soldiers aboard was the famous industrialist J.
Pierpont Morgan and his family, the new British ambassador to Washington, the sister of victorious
General John J. Black Jack Pershing, and other well known dignitaries. In this distinguished crowd,
however, the man who seemed to stand out was little known beyond the recent battlefields of France,
a thirty-nine-year old brigadier general named William Mitchell.
Despite the fact he was authorized numerous medals, the breast of his tailored uniform was
empty but for a pair of silver aviator's wings. Peter Hammon of the Chicago Tribune wrote of him:
"With the air of a conqueror, he personified war in much of its pristine grandeur. He
was better dressed than Pershing--a plumed fellow with the aura of banner, spear and
shield. No one ever had a better time being a general."
By the time World War I ended General Mitchell had:
 Spent twenty-one years in the Army,
 Become the youngest officer in one war,
 The highest ranking flier in another, and
 Had established an enviable record of success. In France:
o He had been the first American officer under enemy fire,
o The first American pilot to fly over enemy lines,
o The first American to be awarded the French Croix de Guerre, and
o Commanded the largest aerial armada in history.
But in Mitchell's mind the war had ended a few months too soon!
Germany gave in too quickly and the Allies have been too eager to agree to Armistice, he
argued. Allied air power should have pressed its advantage, continued its destruction of the
German factories and war machine until it was destroyed beyond repair. Because the war had
ended a couple of months too soon, Germany would rebuild and, in time, the United States
would have to return to finish the job. When they did, the coup de grace would be delivered by
American air power.
Page 107
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
An
nA
Aeerriiaall A
Arrm
maaddaa
Amid the hoopla of the great American victory in France, General Mitchell's words echoed a
sentiment few wanted to believe. The Great War had been the costliest conflict in world history.
More than four million Americans had been called to service, many of them conscripted under the
new Selective Service Act of 1917, with more than two million of them enduring the most bitter
combat since the Civil War. American casualties had numbered more than a quarter-million with a
death toll exceeding 100,000. The prevailing hope was that this war that had engulfed the world and
introduced some of the most devastating weapons in history, would indeed be the LAST war in world
history...the war to end all wars.
Who then, was the brash young general who dared to speak of a second world war even before
the corpse of the First World War had been laid to rest? In hindsight, biographers and historians
would ultimately chronicle him as:



A prophet without honor,
An antagonist at odds with military authority,
A man born before his time,
 An egomaniac with a penchant for the sensational.
Nearly a century after the seven-week trial that stripped him of his uniform, a trial that might
be accurately characterized as the first Trial of the Century of the 20th Century, the man convicted of
violating the 96th Article of War for his outspoken criticism of the post-World War I military
leadership is still as controversial as he was in his lifetime.
Was he a thorn-in-the-flesh or a guiding light to the future?
Perhaps the man best characterized himself in a letter home to his father in 1902 after four
years of military service when he wrote: "If I ever get a chance in the field, I think I can do
something....
"I am naturally a sort of soldier."
William Billy Mitchell
If Billy Mitchell's greatest flaw was a
defiance of authority when he believed he was
right, he came by that naturally. His Scottish
grandfather, Alexander Mitchell, had combined
hard work and determination to leave a bank
teller's job in 1839 to build one of the largest
fortunes in the state of Wisconsin. By the time
civil war broke out, Alexander Mitchell owned
the world's largest rail system and was worth
millions of dollars. He was also a man of intense
principle.
Later, when the Wisconsin legislature tried to fix railroad rates that Mitchell thought were too
low, he petitioned no one. Rather, he NOTIFIED the governor that the existing rates would remain in
108
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
An
nA
Aeerriiaall A
Arrm
maaddaa
effect until the courts settled the case...a case that he ultimately won. Senator Bob La Follette
characterized the incident by saying: "A more brazen defiance of law could scarcely be conceived."
But Alexander Mitchell DID have great respect for the law, and numbered among his closest
friends the esteemed Judge MacArthur of Milwaukee. Judge MacArthur's son was an acquaintance
of Mitchell's son John Lendrum Mitchell, and both young men had served with Wisconsin Volunteers
in the Civil War. John Mitchell's war experience was of little note, serving for a time as chief of
ordnance on the staff of a Union general before an eye ailment ended his military career.
MacArthur's son Arthur, on the other hand, went on to earn the Medal of Honor and become the Boy
Colonel of the Civil War. Both families remained close over the years so it was natural that their
grandchildren too would become friends. They did, despite the fact that the nature of the careers of
John Mitchell and Arthur MacArthur would often place them in opposite sides of the globe.
William Billy Mitchell was born in Nice, France, on December 29, 1879, the first son of John
Lendrum Mitchell and his second wife Harriet. (Some authors still list Billy as William Lendrum
Mitchell, though in fact, William Mitchell had no middle name.) The following month Arthur
MacArthur's wife Mary gave birth to her second son in Little Rock, Arkansas, on January 26. The
couple named this child Douglas.
The Mitchell's remained in France for three years before returning to Milwaukee with a
toddler who spoke French better than English. Young Billy took a lot of teasing for his preference to
his native French when he entered school, causing him to abandon the language (as well as the
German, Spanish, and Italian he also spoke) for nearly forty years. He revived it when he needed it,
and could use it to his best advantage.
At home in Milwaukee Billy Mitchell and Douglas MacArthur not only had occasion to meet,
but to become childhood friends. It was a friendship that would follow them all their lives, and years
later present Douglas MacArthur with one of his most painful duties.
Mitchell was privy to a lifestyle without want: education at an Episcopal prep school, learning
to ride carefully bred horses on the 400-acre family estate at Meadowmere, polo, and marksmanship.
In 1891 John Mitchell was elected to the United States Congress, then entered the Senate two years
later. The elder Mitchell's duties provided Willy, as the family called him at that time, opportunity to
live in the Nation's capitol where he enrolled in Washington's Columbian School (later George
Washington University). It also gave him opportunity to study the workings and machinations of
American politics.
Mitchell money and political clout (Grandpa Mitchell had also served in the United States
Congress and turned down a bid to run for governor of Wisconsin) meant that neither Billy nor his
nine siblings would ever have to settle for common labor. The greatest problem for the growing
young Mitchells seemed to be simply deciding on what private vocational endeavors to embark.
When the USS Maine exploded in Havana, Cuba, in 1898 and the United States declared war on
Spain, Billy Mitchell decided perhaps the military would provide an answer to his own active
personality.
"You're not going to let this little boy go to war, John?" asked General Fighting Joe Wheeler
while he was in Washington before departing for Cuba as part of General Shafter's invasion force.
"Especially as he's your oldest child."
"He's eighteen," replied the Senator, one of the leading opponents to the war in the early days
leading up to the loss of the Maine. Then with a wit that was typical he noted, "I'd rather have them
(soldiers) under twenty than over forty, if I were running a war."
109
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
An
nA
Aeerriiaall A
Arrm
maaddaa
Lieutenant Billy Mitchell
Despite the rumblings and calls for war against Spain that had been growing
in the United States for years, when at last that war was declared, our nation was
totally unprepared to field an army, or supply it. The manpower problem was
solved by raising an army of volunteers in the various states, usually a gathering of
hometown boys who knew each other and were enamored with a potential
adventure. Officers were elected within the group, usually based on popularity
rather than military training, experience, or ability...qualities almost none of the
volunteers possessed. It was in such a group, the First Wisconsin Volunteers, that
Billy Mitchell gained his first military experience commission.
One week after joining the Army Billy Mitchell was a second lieutenant. It
was now just a few months after his eighteenth birthday which made him the
youngest officer in the American military. It was a position for which Mitchell was
well suited. Among a motley group of citizen-soldiers with almost no military
bearing, Lieutenant Mitchell seemed almost naturally, a sort of soldier. As an
officer he was adept at bringing some order to the chaos.
In May 1898 the First Wisconsin Volunteers were sent to Florida where 30,000 troops were
being staged for the invasion of Cuba. Here the confusion and lack of preparedness for war was so
bad that the assistant commander of the First United States Cavalry, arriving from Arizona, later
wrote: "We disembarked in a perfect welter of confusion. Everything connected with both military and
railroad matters was in an almost inextricable tangle." Throughout the brief Spanish-American War,
and for years afterwards, that same officer, Lieutenant Colonel Theodore Roosevelt, continued his
castigation of military and political leaders for their lack of foresight and preparation for the war.
Mitchell, as were most of the other young volunteers waiting in Florida, was excitedly
anticipating action in Cuba. His hopes were dashed when he was called to Washington, DC for
assignment to the Army's Signal Corps under Genera Adolphus Greely, a friend of Senator Mitchell.
Perhaps the elder Mitchell was not as enthused about his young son's military service as he had
echoed to General Wheeler. Whatever affected the transfer, a protesting Second Lieutenant Mitchell
found himself deprived of his chance for combat action. In one of those unusual twists of fate, the
transfer gave the young officer a chance to demonstrate his natural leadership abilities.
A Police Action
The young men who had volunteered for excitement and adventure in the Volunteer Army of the
Spanish-American war quickly learned that the adventure would consist of trying to survive their
assimilation into a poorly fed, under-equipped, and poorly organized Army. They would have to
CREATE their own excitement. En route to Florida, seventy-five members of a New York regiment did
just that, deserting their train in the Capitol City to scrounge for food and fun. Their officers, traveling
in a separate car and lax in supervision, continued the journey unaware they had lost their command.
On their own, the seventy-five AWOL soldiers captured a hotel and began treating themselves to
all the free food, fun and booze they could find. When the Capitol police sent word to Mitchell's
barracks for help, Lieutenant Mitchell volunteered for the assignment.
110
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
An
nA
Aeerriiaall A
Arrm
maaddaa
Mitchell arrived with only 14 men to quell a riot that had frightened local officials. The proprietor,
obviously none too confident in the redemption of his establishment by so young an officer with such a
small rescue force, advised him not to enter the hotel. "The soldiers are all drunk and dangerous, and
anybody who goes in there will probably be killed," he warned.
In the first impossible mission of his long military career, Billy Mitchell demonstrated his keen
perception and unusual abilities in a manner far beyond his youth and military inexperience. He
stationed his two largest soldiers at either entrance to the hotel, and then ordered them to remove the
bullets from their rifles. Should the weapons be required, they were ordered to use only the butts...no
American soldier would be killed on Lieutenant Mitchell's watch.
With but one man, Lieutenant Mitchell entered the room which was indeed filled with extremely
drunken young soldiers...and then he did the unimaginable. He called them to "Attention".
Despite their inebriated condition, seventy-two men jumped to their feet and fell into order. The
three who did not comply, could not--they were passed out cold. Mitchell then marched the lot for 3
miles, during which they carried their three comrades. Along the march the remainder of Mitchell's
squad stopped at fire hydrants to douse the motley formation with cold water. By the march's end, all
had been sufficiently sobered, sorry for what they had done, and returned to service.
Mitchell's handling of this incident gained the attention of General Greely and marked him for
future service under the Signal Corps' commander. Before summer ended, Mitchell returned to
Florida in hopes of seeing action in Cuba. By the time he did reach the Caribbean Island in the fall
however, the war had ended. When he did reach Cuba he proved his abilities during a brief foray to
the interior of the island where he and his 40-man contingent strung 140 miles of telegraph wire. His
mission completed, he wrote and submitted a detailed report, a custom that marked his entire
military career. One of his commanders noted, "I have seen few reports giving so much information in
clear-cut form on a technical subject of such range."
The two personal traits that marked the life and service of Billy Mitchell seem to have been:
 Keen observation and
 Detailed reporting on what he had observed.
Not always were his observations, however, as discretionary as his superiors might have
wished. In the Spanish-American war Mitchell was aware of the rivalry between the Army and Navy
commanders at Santiago that had prevented a unified American response to the Spanish presence in
the harbor. In Florida he had seen a confusion that bordered on criminal ineptness in the use and
deployment of U.S. military resources. In a manner that reflected yet a third personal trait that
marked the life of Billy Mitchell, he voiced his opinion based upon his observations. Of the war in
Cuba he wrote,
"I really do believe that if we had been up against a first-rate power, they would have
whaled the mischief right out of us."
Mitchell's status as the son of a United States Senator certainly enhanced the success of his
early military career, but as young Lieutenant Mitchell pursued his duties well, he made his own
mark through diligent and detailed effort. At the turn of the century as Douglas MacArthur was
entering the military academy at West Point, First Lieutenant Mitchell debarked for the Philippines
for seven months of duty under his boyhood friend's father. It was ironic as Senator Mitchell was one
of the leading opponents of American expansionism. Billy on the other hand, seemed to support the
concept of the United States' Manifest Destiny with a patriotic fervor.
111
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
An
nA
Aeerriiaall A
Arrm
maaddaa
Mitchell arrived in the Philippines in November 1899 and saw action during the Philippine
Insurrection where he proved both his courage and his initiative. He strung miles of communication
wire through the jungles despite the ever-present threat of danger from the native insurgents. The
job was made nearly impossible because there were no supplies. Mitchell accomplished his job by
using wire unwound from captured cannon, fashioning insulators from bamboo or broken glass, and
even creating his own batteries using common salt. In a daring night raid he also led a small patrol of
Black soldiers to capture Captain Mendoza, adjutant to the insurgent leader Aguinaldo. His
departure was hastened when he contracted Malaria, and Lieutenant Mitchell returned home after a
six month tour of both the Orient and Europe, expecting to resign his commission, leave the Army,
and pursue other as yet undefined interests. But for the intervention of General Adolphus Greely,
Billy Mitchell's military career might have ended at the turn of the century.
The grizzled commander of the Army's Signal Corps was by now
legendary, not only for his ill-fated adventure at the polar ice cap in 1882 and
the unsubstantiated but sensational rumors of cannibalism, but also as one of
the Army's forward thinking commanders. Since 1887 he had held the role as
the Army's chief Signal Officer, responsible for communications,
photography, and observation balloons. He had also developed a sincere
interest in the immense northwest territory of Alaska, purchased from Russia
by the United States in 1867. Alaska had remained secluded from American
interest until 1997 when gold was discovered in the Klondike, sparking a furor
reminiscent of the California Gold Rush of 1849. Life in Alaska was full of the
potential for riches...and also for death. So many visitors were lost in the
vastness of the region that the US Government was forced to send soldiers.
These soldiers needed a means of maintaining communications back to the contiguous United
States, and a concerted effort had been directed by private contractors to accomplish this. The efforts
had failed and the possibility of completing WAMCATS (Washington-Alaska Military Cable and
Telegraph Systems) was deemed impossible.
With American expansion into the Pacific at the turn of the century, Greely had the foresight
to see that one day Alaska would hold a great strategic position in world affairs. In 1900 at the age of
fifty-six, he personally went to Alaska to prove the job could be done. Returning home convinced that
the right person could build WAMCATS, he knew just the man to accomplish it. When Billy Mitchell
returned to Fort Meyer in 1901, General Greely asked him to take the Alaskan assignment. Always
open to adventure and a chance to take on the odds, Mitchell elected to
remain in the Army and go north, departing Seattle for Alaska in July.
From July to October, summer in Alaska, Mitchell observed
both the terrain and the poor progress on the communications system.
His orders were to observe, then report back to Greely why all efforts
on the project to date had failed.
"I submitted a report of my observations in Alaska to General
Greely...to the effect that the people trying to build telegraph lines
stayed in the house too much in the winter, and that if they got out
and worked when it was cold, the lines could be built. Whereupon
Gen. Greely ordered me to return to Alaska and build them and I
was delighted with the prospect."
112
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
An
nA
Aeerriiaall A
Arrm
maaddaa
Over the next two winters the young Lieutenant strung wire to connect the farthest outposts of
territorial Alaska to Washington State. By the time he finished, WAMCATS linked military posts
from Sitka to Seattle with more than 1,000 miles of undersea cable, and a 210-foot antenna provided
wireless communications across Norton Sound to Nome. For the most part the mission had been
hampered, as had his earlier mission, by lack of proper supply and equipment. As he had in the
jungles of the Philippines, in Alaska Mitchell improvised where he could, skirted the boundaries of
procedure where he couldn't improvise. He had been authorized $5,000 for completion of the task
that ultimately cost $50,000, but in his typically pragmatic fashion, he bypassed the system and spent
the necessary funds even without contracting an officer's warrant. Under ordinary circumstances
such a budget over-run might have ruined a career, but Mitchell had accomplished a task that the
military had struggled for years without success to do. The end not only justified the means, it
exonerated the pragmatist.
When Mitchell returned home in 1903 it was to yet another promotion. At age 23 he was the
youngest Captain in the Army and a rising star in the Signal Corps. That same year he married a
young socialite from Rochester and honeymooned in Mexico. New ideas played at Mitchell's everinquiring mind, and military innovation was never far removed from his thought-process, taking
precedence over home and family.
During the cold winter of 1902-03, Mitchell had developed interest in a new innovation while
spending long weeks snowed in by 40-foot Alaskan drifts. In his lonely cabin he had spent hours
reading up on engineering and aeronautics with special interests in the experiments of Professor
Samuel P. Langley. Before 1903 came to an end, two brothers named Orville and Wilbur Wright
gave the world the first successful airplane flight, and from that moment on, life would never be the
same for Billy Mitchell.
The following year Senator Mitchell died. Meanwhile Captain Mitchell continued to build his
own resume while experimenting with new ideas for military communication and photography at
Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. His naturally inquisitive mind was constantly seeking to push the
envelope, including one experiment in which he sent a kite nearly two miles into the air attached to a
wire, which enabled him to receive a radio transmission from Puerto Rico nearly two thousand miles
away. With the birth of heavier than air flight, Mitchell was in the right place (Army Signal Corps)
at the right time. The Signal Corps was responsible for radio transmissions through the air, the use
of lighter-than-air observation balloons, and similar projects all linked to the skies.
In 1906 when the airplane was less than three years old and the first military aircraft was still
three years from delivery to the Army, Mitchell wrote an article for the Cavalry Journal. In it he
stated:
"Conflicts no doubt will be carried on in the future in the air, on the surface
of the earth and water, and under the water."
It was the kind of essay one would have expected from someone like Jules Verne, certainly not
a bright young Army officer. The airplane was exciting but too infantile to even be considered as a
weapon of war. As he would be throughout his brief life, Mitchell's foresight was well ahead of his
time.
113
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
An
nA
Aeerriiaall A
Arrm
maaddaa
Billy Mitchell, American Spy
In the following three years the Mitchell family grew with the birth of two daughters, and Billy
saw his career continue its impressive course when he was selected as the first Signal Corps officer to
attend the Army's School of the Line, graduating with distinction. By 1909 the Army had received its
first airplane and trained its pilots...TWO of them. Mitchell's own growing interest in aviation had to
be placed on hold with assignment back to the Philippines however. During the slightly more than
three years that followed, Mitchell became interested, or some would say "obsessed," with what was
seemingly his only other interest in later life...a potential enemy to be faced in a future war.
The movements and activities of American troops in the Philippines were carefully monitored
and reported on by the Japanese, certainly suspicious of the American presence in the Pacific. During
his first year in The Islands, Mitchell made it a practice to watch the watchers, noting with detail
what THEY were doing and diligently transferring these notes to volumous reports back to
Washington. For a time he moved casually around the islands posing as a naturalist, observing birds
and wildlife, while photographing or sketching Japanese activities. By his own admission, he often
purchased his way into the confidence of these Oriental spies, for the most part alone, isolated and far
from home, with conversation, beer and cigarettes. Mitchell was an engaging guy who made friends
easily, and was difficult to dislike. It allowed him to get his way in most situations.
In the fall of 1911 Captain Mitchell toured Japan, Manchuria and China. It was NOT a
pleasure tour but a hard look at what was happening in these countries. Mitchell was especially
interested in Japan, its military training and weaponry and particularly the Japanese interest in the
budding field of aviation. Again he took copious notes, photographed when he could and sketched
when he could not photograph, and then compiled his observations in reports to Washington.
As early as 1913 he wrote:
"Increasing friction between Japan and the United States will take place in the future
there can be little doubt, and that this will lead to war sooner or later seems quite certain."
The original of the report containing this prophetic observation is a part of the War College
papers in the National Archives. Exactly how much attention was paid to Mitchell's reports on the
Japanese in the period before World War I is quickly evident. Penciled in the column next to the
above paragraph is the word: "Arse."
While Mitchell's predictions raised little attention in a military establishment that might
sometimes be characterized as prioritizing paperwork over bullets, Mitchell's diligence and hard
work was not unnoticed. His first fifteen years of military service had been filled with glowing reports
by superiors, successes in Alaska and Fort Leavenworth, and a drive to duty that was uncommon
even among the most dedicated of Americans. Mitchell returned home with a selection to the General
Staff. At the age of thirty-two he was the youngest man every selected to this most prestigious of
military assignments.
In 1912 he was assigned to Intelligence, a suitable position for a man who had just spied out
the Orient like few Americans had ever been privileged to do and an opportunistic place to be with
the brewing troubles in Europe. His new role also returned him to Washington, DC, a city where the
Mitchell name was well known and remembered and where the budding young officer had many
friends. The location also placed him close to Newport News, Virginia, where Glenn Curtiss operated
a flying school.
114
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
An
nA
Aeerriiaall A
Arrm
maaddaa
Billy Mitchell, The Pilot
Three things dominated the following three years of Mitchell's life and
career:
 A continued interest in aviation,
 Intelligence reports of the growing crisis in Europe, and
 Giving voice to his strong personal opinions about the first two
of these interests.
In Washington Captain Mitchell became friends with a budding
young pilot who had been one of the first military aviators trained at the Wright Brothers' flying
school in 1911, an officer named Lieutenant Henry Arnold. A 1907 West Point Graduate, Arnold was
known as "Hap" at the point. He had hoped to become a Cavalry officer, but his poor performance
as a cadet stymied that dream and sent him to serve as an Infantry officer in the Philippines. After
that tour of duty, he again applied for service with the Cavalry. When he was again turned down he
opted for the Signal Corps as at least a better place to serve than in the Infantry. It was a fortunate
assignment both for Hap Arnold and for the future of American air power.
Mitchell and Arnold spent many hours discussing the developing airplane, Mitchell saturating
his mind with knowledge during these sessions. Arnold later recalled: "His questions about the air
were intelligent and to the point; in fact, it was he who did most of the talking—asking questions only
to get concrete facts." So immersed in the subject was Captain Mitchell that, three years before he
ever sat in a cockpit, he was recognized in Washington as an authority on the airplane. In 1913
Mitchell, Arnold, and Ben Foulois (who had taught himself to fly in 1909 through correspondence
with the Wright Brothers) were called to testify on the future of the airplane before a Congressional
committee. At that time military use of aircraft was assigned to the Aviation Section of the Signal
Corps, and the question had arisen about a separate air arm. Though it was this very concept that
twelve years later would make Mitchell a thorn in the flesh of the Army, Navy and War Department,
in 1913 Mitchell argued against removing aeronautics from the Signal Corps. Perhaps remembering
well how Army/Navy rivalries had led to tactical problems during the Spanish-American War,
Mitchell admonished:
"If we are going to try to build up aviation in this country, what's the use of trying to
create a separate branch...causing all sorts of complications? I believe it would set
aviation back to create a separate organization."
It was a proclamation that would one day come back to haunt air power's greatest advocate.
When the hearings concluded the committee agreed with the policy advocated by Mitchell, Arnold
and Foulois. Army aviation would remain within the Signal Corps. That the congressmen were
impressed with Mitchell's understanding of the Army's air arm was further illustrated when the
young Captain was asked to author the legislation himself.
It is of note that in 1913, the airplane was still thought of as a tool to be used by ground
commanders.
The airplane could be used to observe, to photograph, and to transmit
communications--hence it was suitably placed within the Signal Corps. Mitchell did have the
foresight, even then however, to recognize the potential beyond the traditional role, stating:
"Some people think of the aeroplane being an adjunct of the lines of information, the
lines of information may grow to be an adjunct to the aeroplane, and very probably will."
115
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
An
nA
Aeerriiaall A
Arrm
maaddaa
Mitchell's second passion developed almost unexpectedly, though quite naturally. Throughout
his military career, Mitchell had been recognized as an officer who was thorough in reporting and
drafting pages of detailed reports of his various observations for submission through the channels.
When the budding young officer was bedridden due to a severe case of rheumatism (the result of his
service in Alaska a decade earlier), he used his time to write. Now, however, his words were penned
for distribution beyond military channels. Under a pseudonym he authored articles for the Chicago
Tribune and penned an anonymous piece on the brewing war in Europe for World's Work. In July
1915 he wrote a controversial paper in which he advocated reorganizing the War Department with
the creation of a Council of National Defense that would have authority over BOTH the Army and
Navy stating: "We would then have the whole national defense brains, so to speak, under one roof."
The diatribe was titled "Our Faulty Military Policy," and spoke to the threat of war looming on
America's horizon with an eye to preparedness. Mitchell urged compulsory military service to raise
an Army, an unpopular concept, two years before passage of the Selective Service Act that did
become necessary to raise an army AFTER the United States did enter the war. Mitchell's premise,
for the most part was more historically observant than prophetic, stated:
"The military policy of the United States is and has been to prepare for war after such
war has actually broken out."
This doctrine may well explain Mitchell's actions at the end of World War I. In 1898 and
again just nineteen years later he had seen his nation enter two different wars, totally unprepared to
field an effective army. From history he developed a sincere and compelling drive to convince the
United States to prepare for the NEXT war, which, no one wanted to believe, would ever come.
Indeed, the fact that history repeats itself coupled with Billy Mitchell's interest in American history
and past wars, may reveal the man to have been less of a prophet and more of an astute historian.
By the time Mitchell's duty on the General Staff concluded late in 1915, the radically thinking
young officer was already raising eyebrows and wearing out his welcome. His assignment to the
Aviation Section of the Signal Corps was welcomed by most of his superiors who saw him as more
suited to field duty than staff duty. Again Mitchell received promotion, attaining the rank of Major.
For three months Mitchell was totally confined by his rheumatism to bed rest, and the illness
weakened his heart and nearly claimed his life. Fighting back, he regained gradual movement and
slowly recovered. By mid-1916 he was able to travel and began to fulfill his dream of flying. Every
weekend for nearly six months he drove to Newport News, Virginia, for flight lessons until he soloed.
Mitchell himself paid for two thirds of the $1,470 bill for flight lessons, as Army regulations allowed
payment of no more than $500 to a civilian agency for services to one of its officers.
Billy Mitchell, Firsts
Billy Mitchell's fifteen years of military service
were marked by his youth--youngest officer in the
Spanish-American Army, youngest officer selected for
the General Staff. In 1917, two years past the middleage milestone, his career became marked by a series of
firsts. The catalyst for the new phase of his life was
provided by the war in Europe, a war that had engulfed
the old world and one that the United States was doing its
best to ignore and stay out of.
116
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
An
nA
Aeerriiaall A
Arrm
maaddaa
Mitchell was convinced that eventually the United States would be dragged reluctantly into the
conflict, and in 1917 began requesting duty in Europe. On March 3, 1917, he joined a group of five
observers heading to France. His orders called for him to report to the American ambassador in
Paris "for the specific purpose of observing the manufacture and development of aircraft." Major
Mitchell arrived in Spain in March and was making his way to France when, on April 6, the United
States indeed entered the war. The three-year old war in Europe had at last, as Mitchell expected,
become a WORLD war.
Returning to his native French tongue for the first time since his youth, Mitchell was quickly
welcomed in France. The three years of bitter warfare had left the French with dour pessimism and a
hopeless outlook. That had now been brightened by the anticipated arrival of millions of American
soldiers, and Billy Mitchell became the symbol of the relief that was to come.
Months before the first soldiers of General Pershing's American Expeditionary Force (A.E.F.)
arrived; Billy Mitchell became representative of a new phase in the war. His character, his courage,
and his sincere interest in the prosecution of the war were more than welcomed.
 Even before the A.E.F. arrived, Major Mitchell toured the front
lines with French soldiers, taking up a position in a trench
beneath the guns in the distance and participating in an infantry
attack. He was the first American soldier under enemy fire in
World War I. (Several US citizens had prior combat experience
flying with the British or in the Lafayette Escadrille or fighting in
the French Foreign Legion, but Mitchell was the first under fire in
the uniform of the United States.)
 Mitchell's orders had been for him to observe and report on the
manufacture and development of aircraft for the war in Europe.
With a French pilot he winged his way over the battlefields,
becoming the first American officer to fly over the enemy lines.
 For his foray into the front lines, the French government honored
Mitchell. He became the first American of World War I to be
awarded the French Croix de Guerre.
All the while the Major continued his job of observation and reporting. During the day he
traveled the countryside, at night in his hotel room he typed pages of reports back to Washington. In
those early months Major Mitchell learned much of what would a year later contribute to his success.
French pilots echoed complaints of their own government's lack of understanding tactical aerial
warfare. At the time the French were flying regularly but in a scattergun approach to warfare...an
occasional dog fight here or there, but no tactical organization. These early pilots dreamed of massive
air strikes, hundreds of airplanes, in a concerted attack on the German forces.
Mitchell quickly grasped the concept. His flights over the lines had showed him the smallness
of the area in which two armies had slugged it out to a bloody, stalemated trench war for three years.
The strip of land was no larger than 60 miles long, a mere bump in the terrain from the air, but real
estate that that swallowed up ground soldiers of both sides without compromise. He observed:
"It looked as though the war would keep up indefinitely until either the airplanes
brought an end to the war or the contending nations dropped from sheer exhaustion."
117
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
An
nA
Aeerriiaall A
Arrm
maaddaa
Major Mitchell didn't limit his observations to the French alone, however. While awaiting the
arrival of reinforcements from the United States, he took time to visit the Royal Flying Corps (R.F.C.)
at the British compound. Arriving unannounced, he wasted no time seeking the attention of Sir Hugh
Boom Trenchard, already legendary for building the R.F.C. into an effective flying arm of 2,000
airplanes. A no-nonsense general officer, Trenchard was initially brusque at the young American
officer's request to see his organization.
"How many weeks have you got?" he asked with no small display of impatience.
"We could take in the equipment and supply today," Mitchell responded. "Tomorrow
we could start..."
"Just a moment here, young man.
chaperon you and answer questions?"
Do you think I've nothing more to do than
Mitchell's response reflects a tactful nature that many of his later detractors
claimed he never possessed: "Sir, I know you've got such an excellent organization that
it shouldn't need your leadership for a day or so."
To the surprise of those who knew the explosive nature of the flying legend, Trenchard did not
toss the upstart young Major out of his office. Instead, with a laugh, he responded: "Come along
young man. I can see you're the sort who usually gets what he wants in the end."
The three days that Mitchell spent with Trenchard may have been some of the most important
days of his life. Mitchell bombarded the British commander, who had himself been a pilot; in the
same manner he had queried his friend Hap Arnold for information on flying. In Trenchard,
Mitchell found not only a mentor, but also a kindred spirit. In later years detractors would claim
Mitchell's concepts of aerial combat, strategic bombing, and military aviation had been stolen from
Trenchard. For his own part, Mitchell never denied his close association with the British pioneer and
their impact on his thinking. The two remained friends and collaborated on aerial theory even after
the war.
Mitchell returned to Paris with dreams beyond the current use of aircraft for observation and
an occasional dogfight. Trenchard had boasted 2,000 aircraft, the French nearly as many, and with
American forces on their way to France it was easy to dream that the skies over the front lines might
soon be darkened by the wings of massive aerial formations. In Mitchell's developing dream of
tactical aircraft deployment he envisioned two separate but coordinated approaches to the air war:
1. Organizing fighter squadrons for offensive use against enemy aircraft and ground troops,
2. Systematic, strategic bombing of the enemy behind his own lines.
"This," he stated, "is the proper way to use air power and I am sure the future will see
operations conducted this way by thousands of airplanes."
In May Mitchell received promotion to Lieutenant Colonel. He spent his nights continuing to
report back to Washington on his ideas for the use of air power once the American forces arrived. Sir
Trenchard followed his progress with a mix of feelings:
 The uneasy hope that somehow the upstart American officer would succeed in
convincing his own government of aerial concepts the airmen of other countries had
failed to convince their own to adopt, and
118
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
An
nA
Aeerriiaall A
Arrm
maaddaa
 The belief that "Mitchell is a man after my own heart...if only he can break his habit of
trying to convert opponents by killing them."
When General Pershing arrived in Paris on June 13, 1917, with the first elements of the A.E.F.,
Lieutenant Colonel Billy Mitchell was there to greet him. In just a few short months Mitchell had
observed the progress, or rather the lack of progress, of the war from both the ground and the air.
He had built important liaisons with French and the British airmen and commanders, established
himself well in the Paris social circles that could be all important to a Staff officer, and had developed
his own ideas about how the newly arrived American forces could best be used. Of course, his
primary interest was in the deployment of American air power.
Pershing had brought with him Major Townsend F. Dodd, a veteran pilot, to head the
Aviation Section of the Army's Signal Corps. Upon meeting Mitchell however, Pershing recognized
the Lieutenant Colonel's superior rank and assigned Major Dodd to other duty. The first American
airmen of World War I would work under Lieutenant Colonel Billy Mitchell, new Chief of Aviation
for the Signal Corps, American Expeditionary Forces.
For Mitchell it was time to "Put up or shut up!"
The U.S. Army Air Service
The Aviation Section over which Lieutenant Colonel Mitchell was placed was a military unit in
name only. In May while en route to France, General Pershing had noted the condition of America's
air assets as the country entered war. In his diary the general wrote:
"The situation as to aviation was such that every American ought to feel mortified to
hear it mentioned. Out of 65 officers and 1,000 men in the Air Service Section of the
Signal Corps, there were 35 officers who could fly. With the exception of five or six
officers, none of them could have met the requirement of modern battle conditions...
"We could boast 55 training planes...all...valueless for service at the front. Of these 55
planes the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics advised that 51 were obsolete and
the other 4 obsolescent. We could not have put a single squadron in the field."
With but one airplane, Mitchell's own French Nieuport, the task facing the air chief was as
formidable as had been his previous missions in the Philippines and Alaska. With the same ingenuity
that had brought him success in both places, Mitchell tried to cut around the red tape and find a way
to get the job done.
In August Mitchell's personal Mercedes, a vehicle in which he was known to travel through
France at speeds in excess of 90 miles per hour, broke down along the road. Behind Mitchell were
Major Dodd and his driver. Dodd's driver raised the hood on Mitchell's car and had it running a few
moments later. The chauffer was a former race driver and mechanic, another forward thinking
fellow who months earlier had suggested that the Army create a flying squadron composed of racecar
119
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
An
nA
Aeerriiaall A
Arrm
maaddaa
drivers. The army had scoffed at the concept stating that it felt men who knew much about engines
would be poor as pilots, fearful to fly when their engines didn't sound right. Mitchell believed
otherwise, and proved so months later when he helped young Eddie Rickenbacker become a flier in
one of the first American aero squadrons.
As the summer turned to fall, the French became impatient with General Pershing's failure to
commit American troops to the bloody stalemate that had existed along the Western Front for three
years. As had been the case in previous wars however, the United States was totally unprepared for
this new conflict, and Pershing patiently tried to establish his command in the field while awaiting the
arrival of additional forces.
The Aviation Section of the A.E.F. was a confusing one in the fall of 1917. To try to bring some
order, General Pershing made Major General William Kenly Chief of the Air Service, (effectively
removing the Aviation Section from Signal Corps control nearly a year before the U.S. Army Air
Service was officially established in Washington, D.C.). General Kenly gave Mitchell the title of Chief
of the Air Service Zone of Advance. In essence, it meant that Kenly would command from the rear,
coordinating logistics and supplies, while Mitchell commanded from the front. It would have
probably been a workable solution but for the arrival in November of a large group of Aviation
officers. Mitchell's own words reflect the internal battle that was about to begin:
"Just as our organization began to work smoothly, a shipload of Aviation officers
arrived under Brigadier General (Benjamin) Foulois. There were over one hundred of
them, almost none of them had even seen an airplane...A more incompetent lot of air
warriors had never arrived in the zone of active military operations...Foulois, I am told,
has orders from the President to General Pershing to put him in charge of Aviation in
Europe."
When General Foulois replaced General Kenly, civil war erupted in the Air Service. Fulois
was one of the Army's earliest pilots and had known Mitchell for years. In 1916 Foulois went with the
1st Aero Squadron to Mexico in the unsuccessful effort to capture Pancho Villa. During his absence
from the Capitol, the chief of the Army's Signal Corps was forced to resign because of financial
improprieties. The vacancy temporarily made Mitchell chief of the Signal Corps, and when the
blame for the ill-fated effort in Mexico "rolled down hill" it fermented to become a rift between the
two great proponents of air power that never healed. In Mitchell's memoirs he referred to Foulois as
an incompetent "carpetbagger" who "no longer flew." In 1986 Foulois published his own story,
referring to Mitchell as an inept braggart who was all talk and no action, a lousy pilot, and a prima
donna who did more harm than good.
Almost immediately the two men clashed, and General Pershing found himself caught in the
middle between two bitter enemies. Foulois complained to Pershing about Mitchell's extremely
childish attitude and advised "(Mitchell is) incapable of working in harmony with myself."
Mitchell for his own part had more than one heated discussion with Pershing about the
internal problems in the Air Service. The strong-willed aviator pushed hard for a single American air
commander, unfettered by the interference of the incoming staff officers. Pershing lost patience with
Mitchell, even threatened to send him back to the United States.
With the impetuosity that marked this older Mitchell, he met the General eye-to-eye and
threatened: "If you do, you'll soon come after me."
120
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
An
nA
Aeerriiaall A
Arrm
maaddaa
Surprisingly, the sometimes ill-tempered General laughed and the two men parted amicably.
Despite Mitchell's tendency to be a thorn in the side of General Pershing, the two men generally had a
mutual respect for each other. More than once in the months that followed Pershing would go out on
a limb for Billy Mitchell, and Mitchell seemed to always come through for his commander. But
Pershing also understood authority, and had a sincere respect for General Foulois who had been
placed in his position by the President. He summed up his predicament by saying: "In all of this
Army, there is but one thing causing me real anxiety, and that's the Air Service. There are a lot of
good men in it, but they're running around in circles. Somebody has got to make them go straight."
That "somebody" was a surprising choice, and one of Pershing's great decisions. He called
upon an old friend and fellow West Point classmate, Major General Mason Patrick.
Early in 1918 the man who had been an Army engineer for thirty years became the first real
commander of the American Air Service, a post he would hold until after the war ended, and a role to
which he would return in 1921 when once again Billy Mitchell clashed with a superior. Though he
had never flown and was even dubious at first about the field of aviation, General Patrick was a wellqualified organizer and administrator. He was also a quick learner and a man willing to change his
views. In the end he became one of the great advocates for a separate American Air Force, influenced
in no small degree by Billy Mitchell's own ideas, but possessed with a patience and tact his protégé
seemed not to understand.
Over the years that followed, Mitchell and General Patrick had their own share of harsh
disagreements, but Patrick became the one person it seemed, that could control Billy Mitchell.
Without Patrick's stern guidance, Mitchell seemed to self-destruct; under Patrick's control Mitchell
seemed capable of achieving almost anything. Patrick recognized Mitchell's tactical genius as well as
his unique foresight for machines and events that were too distant for others to deem believable. For
the next year Patrick became the glue that held the factions of the new Air Service together,
administrating from the rear where General Foulois was in charge of equipment and supply. In the
field, Mitchell began building a combat arm and promoting aerial tactics designed to win a world
war. His diary gives a glimpse of the observations, made in flights over the trenches of the Western
Front, which ultimately pushed him to prove his own theories for aerial warfare:
"(The World War) is a slaughterhouse performance from beginning to end on the
ground. Maybe one side makes a few yards or maybe a mile and thousands of men are
killed.
"It is not war, it is simply slaughter.
"War is decided by getting at the vitals of the enemy, that is, to shoot him in the heart.
This kind of war is like clipping off one finger, then a toe, then an ear, then his nose and
gradually eating into his vitals."
As morbid as it sounded, Billy Mitchell's observation had been borne out by three years of
deadly warfare along a narrow 60-mile strip of land separating France from Germany near St.
Mihiel. (Similarly stalemated warfare had stretched north through the Argonne Forrest and then
further north along the nearly impregnable Hindenburg Line.) This was a true war of attrition, each
side pushing the other backward until thrown back themselves; and then the seesaw tug-of-war would
repeat itself. Both sides suffered great loss of life, but neither made any significant progress. Mitchell
saw relief possible only if he could field an armada of airplanes to attack behind the German lines and
to bomb and destroy supply depots, isolating enemy ground troops.
121
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
An
nA
Aeerriiaall A
Arrm
maaddaa
To accomplish this goal, early in 1918 Mitchell brought over to his Air Service some of the
experienced American pilots who had flown with the Lafayette Escadrille, organizing them with
newly arriving fliers from the U.S. into effective fighter squadrons. Throughout the winter months
combat had slowed along the front, but with the melting snows of spring the bloodshed would resume
in earnest and Mitchell wanted to be ready. Even General Foulois grudgingly spoke of Mitchell's
"Most efficient service...in the organization, battle training, general supervision and guidance of the Air
Service units."
In the early spring the new American Air Service combat arm was ready for its first test; it
was well organized and led at last by a cohesive command structure. The only things the young pilots
needed were airplanes.
After weeks of
waiting
the
first
airplanes
began
arriving...not American planes but cast-off
French Nieuports. Though eagerly welcomed
by the American pilots, the wait was not over.
It would be yet weeks before any of the
airplanes were fitted with machine guns.
On March 21 the Germans were the first to
strike, pushing a line forward along the
Western Front. Behind a massive force of
artillery the German army broke through the
British Fifth Army to push within 56 miles of
Paris. Though it had been nearly a year
since the United States had entered the war,
fewer than 300,000 American troops had
arrived in France and few of them were in combat positions. Germany's spring offensive, an all-ornothing gamble to end the stalemate in Europe, had all the markings of a huge success. Paris
trembled in fear and military commanders could foresee a second Battle of the Marne in the offing.
On May 28 the green American ground forces got their first taste of a major battle.
Amazingly they threw back the German advance at Montdidier, and then pushed forward to capture
the strategically located town of Cantigny. On June 6 nearly 30,000 Americans launched a counteroffensive at Belleau Wood driving the Germans from the square mile stronghold. American soldiers
were pursuing the war as men of battle had for years, personal combat in a slugfest that saw an
American casualty rate of more than 50 per cent. Mitchell's earlier observation of this kind of
warfare as being nothing more than a slaughterhouse performance appeared on the mark.
The German infantry struck again in mid June, delivering a smashing blow along the 27-mile
front between Montdidier and Noyon northeast of Paris. Again the Allied line held, setting the stage
for Germany's last great drive of the war. On July 6, in desperation, the enemy struck on both sides
of Rheims in the Second Battle of the Marne. Allied positions were bombarded with artillery as the
Kaiser poured all of his reserves into the effort. By July 18 the offensive was over, and the German
advance turned into a retreat.
The failure of Germany's spring offensive can only be credited to the sheer determination and
valor of the doughboys and the other Allies on the ground in those fateful and bloody months.
Airmen flew, shot down German planes, and lost planes of their own. In May Mitchell was crushed at
the loss of two in particular. The death of the great ace Raoul Lufbery, one of Mitchell's closest
122
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
An
nA
Aeerriiaall A
Arrm
maaddaa
friends, was a bitter loss. Mitchell fully believed that had his pilots been supplied with parachutes,
Lufbery would have survived.
Less than a week after admiring and mourning comrades laid Lufbery to rest, Mitchell
received word of another fatal crash. This time it was a young pilot, fifteen years his junior, named
John Mitchell after his father. It was two months before Billy could bring himself to break the news
to his family back home. When he did, he wrote:
"John's loss I suppose was the hardest thing that ever happened to me. To begin with
he was my only brother, he was so much younger that he was like a son, and in addition he
was the same as a great friend. He had every quality that I wanted in a brother and
admired in a man. I suppose he was very nearly the dearest living thing in the world to
me."
Throughout the summer Mitchell continued to visit his squadrons, watch their progress, and
ponder the limited role his airmen had played in the earlier German offensive. Early in the offensive
Mitchell had flown over enemy-held territory and observed the ground movements as the enemy
broke through the British lines. "The hole in the British Army is twenty or thirty miles broad," he
noted. More importantly, the mission gave him a full realization of what could happen if airmen and
infantry could work together, communicate, and assist each other. But the problem in achieving such
a coordinated effort lay not only in convincing infantry officers, but also in winning over the foot
soldier himself. "It is practically impossible to impress the men in the ranks, through their own officers,
as to the value of aviation," he noted in his diary.
To remedy this, Mitchell prepared a letter
addressed to the men on the ground.
Without consulting anyone, the pragmatic
Billy Mitchell had thousands of the letters
printed, then had his pilots fly over Allied
camps and trenches along the Western Front
to deliver his message.
From the American Scrappers in the Air
To the American Scrappers on the Ground
DOUGHBOYS
While you are giving the Boche hell on the ground, we are helping
you to the limit in the air.
Headquarters is trying to keep in touch with you and to render aid
whenever you are checked or outnumbered.
Keep us posted at all times as to where your front lines are, either
with Bengal lights, panels, or--if nothing else is available--wave a
white towel or any white cloth.
Your signals will enable us:
To take news of your location to the rear.
To report if the attack is successful.
To call for help if needed.
To enable the artillery to put their shells over your head into the
enemy...
Do not think that we are not on the job when you cannot see us-most of our planes work so far to the front that they cannot be seen
from the lines.
Some of the enemy planes may break through our airplane barrage
in front of you, and may sometimes bomb and machinegun you, but
in the last month we have dropped ten tons of bombs for every one
the Boche has dropped. For every Boche plane that you see over
you, the Boche sees ten Allied planes over him.
After reading this, pass it on to your buddie (sic).
Mitchell's other key observation
coming out of the failed German spring
offensive was the substantiation of his belief
that "War is decided by getting at the vitals
of the enemy, that is, to shoot him in the
heart."
During the battle at Chateau Thierry
Mitchell had commanded a small contingent
of British as well as American airmen. As
the infantry fought it out on the ground,
British bombers hit German supply depots
in the rear, cutting off needed supplies for the advancing Germans, and forcing ground commanders
to pull needed soldiers from the front lines to guard their rear.
123
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
An
nA
Aeerriiaall A
Arrm
maaddaa
As the German army retreated back to the St. Mihiel salient in August of 1918, Allied war
planners were preparing the first major American offensive. Colonel Billy Mitchell had ideas of his
own, concepts nurtured through a year of observing the tactics of others and substantiated in a
limited way by the successes of his pilots in their first months of combat.
St. Mihiel and an Aerial Armada
World War I ended on August 18, 1918, with the failed final German push at the Marne. The
Kaiser's chancellor later remarked, "On the 18th even the most optimistic among us knew that all
was lost." It is doubly tragic then, that combat continued for another ninety days. Those last three
months would prove to be among the bloodiest of the war—for both sides.
By mid August more than a million American doughboys had reached the front lines, and
General Pershing was plotting an assault on the formidable St. Mihiel salient. In their retreat the
Germans themselves tried to straighten the line, fully aware that it would be more defensible than the
horseshoe shaped bulge they now held. As Pershing and the other Allied general's plotted an
offensive that would throw more than a half-million doughboys against the salient, Mitchell was quick
to lay out his own blueprints for the aerial side of the battle.
The St. Mihiel offensive was more than the greatest success of Mitchell's distinguished career,
it was perhaps, his finest moment as a politician/commander. It was the one time that he tempered his
strong will and firm beliefs with a taciturn diplomacy that kept the long meetings from turning
hostile. With the confidence of General Pershing, the glowing support of First Army commander
General Hunter Liggett (one of the few who truly appreciated air power), and the sympathy of the
air-minded French, Billy Mitchell got the chance he wanted.
The first week of September was filled with secret movements, Mitchell's airmen moving
forward to advance aerodromes from which their commander would direct the first-ever, united
aerial attack on an enemy force. The armada included American, French, and British aircraft--both
fighters and bombers--all at the direction of a single commander. Mitchell would coordinate the
effort with the commanders on the ground leading the infantry advance, another historical first
overshadowed perhaps only by the sheer number of aircraft involved--nearly 1,500 in all. It was the
largest aerial armada in history.
Mitchell was proud of his airmen, men who loved him and would fly through hell for him.
Now he called upon them to accomplish what had never been done before. These were a rare breed of
fighting men, brash young cowboys like Frank Luke from Arizona, daring race drivers like Eddie
Rickenbacker, West Point graduates like Major Carl Tooey Spaatz, efficient squadron commanders
who had sat in a cockpit and traded bullets with the Flying Circus like Harold Hartney. With the
addition of the British air assets, even the legendary Sir Hugh Trenchard would fly his pilots at the
direction of Billy Mitchell. It was a defining moment in military history, perhaps the exact moment
in time for which Billy Mitchell was born...until the weather intervened.
During the weeks of preparation Colonel Mitchell averaged only three hours of sleep each
night. When night fell he read reports of the day's activities until 2 A.M., rested his eyes briefly, and
then arose to personally observe practice maneuvers and preparations at 5 A.M. Running on sheer
adrenaline, Mitchell was in no mood to hear news on September 11 that the generals wanted to
postpone the anticipated next-day launch of the St. Mihiel offensive because of the rain and the fog
that had set in early. The previous day Mitchell had flown over the German lines with his French
124
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
An
nA
Aeerriiaall A
Arrm
maaddaa
friend Paul Armenguad as an observer, and witnessed lines of enemy infantry pulling back in retreat.
The enemy was anticipating an offensive push against the salient and were withdrawing quickly.
As promptly as news of the postponement reached Colonel Mitchell he headed for Pershing's
Headquarters, where a meeting of the generals was already in progress. Colonel Mitchell was the
youngest, and lowest ranking man in a room that was about to decide the fate of his moment in time.
"Pretty bad weather we're facing," stated an engineering officer. Around the room
heads nodded in ascent...engineers usually knew what could and could not be
accomplished.
"What's the weather got to do with it?" Snapped Colonel Mitchell.
"The rain always holds up our light railways that we use to get ammunition to our
artillery. That goes for our water supply too. I think it's best if we hold off on this thing
for a few days." Again heads nodded in agreement around the table, and Mitchell could
see his moment slipping away.
Earnestly, but with a patience and uncharacteristic demeanor for the man Boom
Trenchard had once said would go far if he could "break his habit of trying to convert
opponents by killing them," Colonel Mitchell pleaded his case. He told of his flights
over the salient, of witnessing columns of German soldiers in full retreat. He predicted
that the battle for the St. Mihiel salient wouldn't be much of a battle.
"We must jump the Germans now!" He admonished. "I've seen their movement to
the rear with my own eyes. Forget the artillery if it means delay. If we advance fast, the
artillery would probably shoot a lot of our own men anyway."
Colonel Mitchell's words seemed to fall on deaf ears, and around the room all eyes were on the
engineering officer who was calling for a postponement. Mitchell had lost his most important debate
with everyone in the room...except for the one man that mattered. General John J. Pershing looked
up at his staff and pronounced:
"We will attack, without delay!"
Prior to the St. Mihiel offensive American pilots had indeed been fair-weather fliers. With the
decision to proceed on September 12, brave young men took to the air in spite of fog and rain.
Mitchell organized his assets into two attack brigades of 400 or more planes each, one assigned
to attack the right side of the salient while the other penetrated to the enemy rear to cut off all
communication and supply. It was an impressive air show that inspired men on the ground and
amazed even the airmen themselves. Pilot Kenneth Littauer spoke of the massive formation and said:
"I didn't believe my eyes, because we'd never seen such a thing before. I happened to be standing on the
airfield when this damned thing started to go over. Then it went and it went...it was awfully impressive."
The ground war was over on the first day, and the air war became almost nonexistent.
Mitchell's pilots swept the skies over the Western Front clean almost immediately, and then patrolled
them continuously to demonstrate their mastery of the heavens. In three days the combined forces
took back a formidable enemy redoubt that had been held for four years, captured 16,000 Germans,
443 artillery pieces, and created a new threat to the enemy stronghold at Metz. General Pershing
couldn't have been more pleased and wrote Colonel Mitchell:
125
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
An
nA
Aeerriiaall A
Arrm
maaddaa
"Please accept my sincere congratulations on the successful and very important part
taken by the Air Force under your command in the first offensive of the American Army.
The organization and control of the tremendous concentration of air forces...is as fine a
tribute to you personally as is the courage and nerve shown by your officers a signal proof
of the high morale, which permeates the service under your command.
"I am proud of you all!"
Mitchell was elated, not so much in the praise but in the validation of everything he had
argued for over the previous year. At last he was convinced that his Air Service would be recognized
for what it was, the powerful war-winning military arm of the future. Mitchell himself was a hero in
France, both among his own men and among the populace. His favor with General Pershing was
evident in October when he received promotion to the temporary rank of Brigadier General.
(Temporary promotions such as this during wartime had a long history in the Army, and it was
expected that after the war Mitchell would return to his earlier rank of Colonel. When the return to
his permanent rank occurred a few years later, it was misinterpreted by many as a disciplinary move.
In fact, Mitchell maintained his rank much longer than most other officers who received temporary
promotions during the war.)
Following his tremendous success in the St. Mihiel offensive, Mitchell committed his forces to a
nearly independent role in the Argonne Offensive. His fighter pilots flew daily and, as Mitchell
reported, "There is nothing to beat them in the world!" Meanwhile he pursued his theories of tactical
bombing, raining tons of explosives on German bridges, airdromes, railroads and supply depots. The
psychological impact of the Air Service's supremacy on the German morale demonstrated just one
more powerful advantage of a massive air force.
Mitchell's men further endeared themselves to the weary infantrymen by continuing to
coordinate their efforts with the ground war. Big two-seat DeHavillands dropped supplies to
beleaguered units and pursuit airplanes flew low over infantrymen to shield them from German
airplanes. As the advance turned into a rout, the quick pace could lead to confusion and dangerous
situations. Once Mitchell became aware of a large congestion of trucks at a village crossroads that
could have become instantly susceptible to a damaging attack from the German Air Force. Without
pause he sent a flight of 320 Allied aircraft to patrol the area and protect the forces on the ground
until the traffic jamb could be cleared.
Ever looking to the future, in late October General Mitchell came to General Pershing with a
bold new idea. The Allied advance would certainly slow with the onset of winter, but an Allied
offensive was already being planned for the spring of 1919 to finish the job started at St. Mihiel and at
last end the war. Mitchell's idea was preposterous at the time to all who heard it, yet General
Pershing gave it an attentive ear. He had learned that when Billy Mitchell saw the future, he had a
habit of making it come to pass. Mitchell's new concept was never employed because the war ended
long before anyone would have believed possible the previous summer, and there would be no spring
offensive necessary.
Mitchell's last great scheme of World War I is however of note, despite the fact that he would
not see it employed in his lifetime.
In the fall of 1918 there were a few big Handley-Page airplanes in the Allied arsenal that were
capable of carrying a dozen or more men. Mitchell hoped to build up this part of his command
throughout the winter so that during the spring offensive that never came, they could fly deep into
Germany to drop American soldiers behind enemy lines by parachute. It was indeed a preposterous
idea, but now when Billy Mitchell had an idea, nobody ruled it out.
126
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
A
An
nA
Aeerriiaall A
Arrm
maaddaa
World War I ended with the Armistice of November 11, 1918, and weary doughboys and
airmen were anxious to return home. In the months that followed a steady stream of victorious young
soldiers passed through New York to a hearty, patriotic welcome. Heroes like Eddie Rickenbacker,
Charles Whittlesey, Sergeant Alvin York, Samuel Woodfill, and the impressive General John J.
Pershing were feted with parades, festivals, banquets, and media requests.
General Billy Mitchell chose to see Germany first, despite the
insistence of his friend Major Hap Arnold that his presence was needed at
home—that "we needed him back in Washington."
In Major Arnold's own vision of the future, General Pershing
would return a great American hero to become the Army's Chief of Staff.
(He did, serving from July 1, 1921, to September 13, 1924).
He could also foresee General Billy Mitchell, "clearly the Prince of
the Air now," assuming an important role as the new Air Chief. (He
didn't.)
This was important to Major Arnold because he honestly believed
that the wartime success of the Army Air Service could not secure its
future; but that a new war was brewing at home. (It was.)
For Major Arnold, two out of three when predicting the future wasn't too bad.
It would almost however, not be enough for the new war brewing at home.
127
Fight For Survival
T
Th
hee B
Ba
attttllee a
att H
Hoom
mee
&
&
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Ma
arrttiia
all O
Off
Billy Mitchell
When The Great War ended on November 11, 1918, there was a great rush to bring America's
soldiers home in time for Christmas. Despite the admonition of Major Henry Hap Arnold to General
William Billy Mitchell to join the quick exodus from Europe to build an American air force, Mitchell
opted to go into Germany with the Allied occupation forces. There he remained throughout the rest of
the year, speeding across Europe's highways in his Mercedes and luxuriating in the tremendous
success of his Air Service in helping to end the war. He almost waited too long to return home.
As a new year dawned in 1919, the patriotic fervor that welcomed the returning doughboys
with parades, dances and other celebrations began to dim. Thousands of conscripted soldiers from
around the nation were quickly discharged to return to civilian life, the wartime army and navy
dwindling rapidly to a small, peacetime force.
When General Mitchell returned to the United States late in February to assume his assigned
position as Director of Military Aeronautics, it was to find that the title and the office specified in his
orders no longer existed. In fact, the American Air Service that during the war had numbered 20,000
officers and 150,000 enlisted men had shrunk dramatically. By the end of the year it numbered only
1,300 officers and 11,000 men--a meager 7 per cent of the force that had served during the war. It was
certainly NOT the Air Service Mitchell expected to find.
En route from Germany to New York, Mitchell had obtained orders sending him home
through England in order to visit with General Hugh Boom Trenchard and to observe what Great
Britain was doing with its new peace-time air forces and, according to the communiqué to
Washington from General John J. Pershing, "To see what the result of creating a separate branch of
aeronautics has been." The British again impressed General Mitchell, who reported:
"Everywhere the British are, there is system and this is shown distinctly in their air
force. It is the best-organized force of its kind in the world.
"If we could have the air organization in the U.S. that the British have, we would be so
far ahead of the rest of the world that there would be no comparison."
Page 128
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
While still in London collaborating with General Trenchard, Mitchell took some spare time to
visit his sister Ruth who was living in the city at that time. Her account of that visit gives an unusual
insight into her brother, often not found in the detractors of Billy Mitchell who saw him as a
grandstanding egotist.
The most frequently recognized photographs of Billy Mitchell are usually those showing him in
uniform with a chest full of medals. Certainly, though he did not earn the big one...he received more
than his share of high awards--and from virtually all Allied nations. Aboard the Aquitania during the
voyage home, however, this was not the General Mitchell other passengers saw. His tailored uniform
sported only the silver star of his temporary rank as a brigadier general, the extra hash marks on his
sleeve that marked him as one of the longest-serving American soldiers in Europe during World War
I, and distinctive wings on his chest that marked him as an aviator. Mitchell was thus attired when he
visited Ruth in England. She asked, "Where are all those medals we've been hearing about?"
Mitchell looked sheepishly at Ruth, and then dug into his pocket and pulled out the Legion of
Honor he had received. "Is that all?" asked Ruth. Again Mitchell reached into his pocket to pull out a
Croix de Guerre with Palm (the first of the war awarded to an American soldier), followed by the
Italian Order of Sts. Maurice and Lazarus, the Distinguished Service Cross, and the Victory Medal
with clasps for campaigns at Cambrai, the Somme, Meuse-Argonne, and Champagne-Marne.
General Mitchell certainly had every right to be proud of his achievements throughout a long
and distinguished career, but his uniform on the return home should have served notice to any who
met him that but one thing really mattered--aviation.
S.N.A.F.U.
The acronym "SNAFU" is one of the military's most recognized terms; roughly translated its
means "Situation Normal, All Fouled Up!" It has come to be used to define a sudden mistake, but
traditionally it meant that the errors in process were not new, but simply part of a TRADITION of
errors. The post-World War I army returned to its pre war modus operandi, operating on tradition
and with little view of the lessons learned in the war or the prospects of the future. Colonel Thomas
Milling, one of the early Army aviators who also rose to the rank of General, once summed up the
traditional philosophy of the old soldiers that ran the military by saying:
"Their minds went only as far as their men could go. The infantry officer's horizon
was at the end of a day's march. The cavalryman saw a little further, a little faster. The
artilleryman could see to the end of his trajectories. But non of them could see into the
air."
So it was that the new Chief of the now nearly nonexistent Army Air
Service came from the camp of the old soldiers. He was General Charles
Menoher, former commander of the famous Rainbow Division in France,
hero of the Infantry, and a stern disciplinarian in the traditional sense. He
had never flown and was destined to become Air Chief in title only--Colonel
Billy Mitchell, now having reverted back to his permanent rank, became the
visible symbol of America's military aviators. It would make for some
troublesome years for both men.
129
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
Initially, Mitchell seemed to accept the role dealt him to serve as Menoher's G-3 officer. His
area of responsibility was primarily the training and operations of the few remaining American pilots,
and he approached his task with vigor. He surrounded himself with like-minded men, World War I
aces and commanders like Reed Chambers, Harold Hartney, Tom Milling, and Carl Tooey Spaatz.
America's top ace of the war Eddie Rickenbacker took leave of military duty upon his return home to
first build a racetrack at Indianapolis and later to build an airline.
The exploits of these early Army aviators and the publicity surrounding them makes it easy to
forget that the Navy too, had its own aeronautics section. (One Naval and one Marine Corps aviator
had each earned Medals of Honor during World War I.) In the first decade of military aviation, the
Navy had already successfully fitted airplanes with pontoons for take-offs and landings from water, as
well as designed airplanes to take off and land on ships at sea. In the peacetime Navy of 1919, it
seemed only natural to compare notes with the Army's air forces. Early in the year Acting Secretary
of the Navy Franklin D. Roosevelt extended an invitation for an Army Air Service representative to
speak to the Navy General Board about future air policy. The invitation went not to the Army's Chief
of Aviation, but his G-3 officer and the man considered the foremost authority on Army aviation,
Colonel Billy Mitchell.
Colonel Mitchell's first meeting with the Navy was a cordial one despite the fact that he said
little of what the Navy anticipated, and much of what it would later resist. The Navy, like the Army's
old-line command, still considered aviation to be an adjunct of the service--an asset to be utilized but
a small portion of the whole. By now Colonel Mitchell was beginning to advocate a pivotal role for
aviation, one that would make it America's first line of defense and a leader in offensive actions. Such
a role would, he argued, necessitate that aviation be formed as a separate branch of service, equal to
that of the Army and Navy.
"You have to have a combination of the three," he stated. Then he displayed the
degree to which his thinking had already progressed. "If we look forward, there will be a
Ministry of Defense, combining Army, Navy and Air Force under one direction."
Colonel Mitchell, perhaps encouraged by occasional nods and the serious interest of the
Board's spokesman Admiral Albert Winterhalter, pulled no punches. He advised the Navy to arm its
fleets against the aircraft of a potential enemy. "My opinion is," he announced boldly, "that you can
make a direct attack on ships from the air in the future." He told how a powerful American air force
could protect our nation's shores from invasion by sea.
How?
By destroying the enemy's warships and transports before they could reach the coast.
The idea of an airplane attacking a ship was ominous--one that could cause serious casualties.
Of course, no one in the Navy at that time believed that aircraft could sink a battleship, but the threat
of serious damage alone was worth consideration.
After listening to Mitchell for three hours Admiral Winterhalter announced,
"We shall have to tackle both sides of the question. We shall have to find out what your
methods of attack are so that we can find a means to meet them. There isn't anything that
has appeared to me more important than cooperation in this new service."
For Billy Mitchell it had been a good day...until the doors were closed and the impact of what
he had said fully sank in and raised the barnacles on the backs of the Naval high command.
130
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
There was nothing in that meeting that, in reflection, can be seen as a declaration of war that
would pit Billy Mitchell against the Navy, or the Army Air Service against its own higher command in
the coming years. If indeed war began on the home front in the spring of 1919, it was started at a level
in the military structure far above the G-3 officer that spoke to the Navy's General Board, and would
claim as its first victim a man other than the aviation hero of the First World War.
The great aerial success of the United States during World War I can be attributed only to the
brave young men who fought in the air. They flew without parachutes, dueled with temperamental
machine guns that frequently jammed, and performed their duty with valor until they fell in battle-or as the result of their own faulty airplanes. The United States, most industrialized nation in the
world in 1918, had promised 100,000 airplanes for the war effort. In fact, only 740 American-made
aircraft ever reached the front lines of France. Less than one third of these flew in combat, and almost
all were DH-4s, commonly called "Flaming Coffins." These were more dangerous to the men who
piloted them than they were to the enemy. The United States of America had been totally unprepared
for war, and vastly unsupportive of a new means of combat—and it showed!
It was such history that motivated Colonel Mitchell to come home and try to build a viable air
force for the next war--the war no one wanted to believe would ever happen. Following his
presentation to the Navy General Board, Colonel Mitchell carried his message around the country in
stirring speeches that did not yet contain the volatile remarks that would come to mark the last years
of his career. He waged most of his campaign on paper, sending hundreds of requests and
recommendations to General Menoher:







Foot soldiers should be trained to parachute behind enemy lines to wage war.
Bombers were needed, capable of carrying explosive ordnance across the ocean.
The US needed Aircraft carriers with 900-foot decks to deploy flights of airplanes.
Pilots needed torpedoes and armor piercing bombs in order to attack ships at sea.
Air raid protection should be established in American cities.
Air routes should be set up across America, Canada and Mexico.
Commercial aviation should be expanded to provide a pool of trained pilots.
Few of Mitchell's crazy ideas drew more than a chuckle from the Army command. There was
said to have been an unofficial opinion that the war had deranged Colonel Mitchell's mind--filled his
head with a multitude of strange ideas. But Billy Mitchell was a war hero and a popular man with
veterans groups and the general public. Thus in the spring of 1919, the Army adopted a tolerant
attitude of these strange requests, many marked "Emergency Measures," and filed them away in a
special cabinet at the War Department called The Flying Trash Pile. The fact is; few of these ideas
were original. Billy Mitchell had learned well from men like General Trenchard from observing the
emphasis on aviation in other nations, and by directing combat air operations in the Great War.
The Crowell Report
What the War Department couldn't ignore was the outcry from Congress over the expenditure
of a billion dollars during the war to produce a small number of defective DH-4s that saw little use. In
response, Secretary of War Newton Baker dispatched his Assistant Secretary Benedict Crowell to
lead an eight-man fact-finding mission. The panel was assigned to study the problems confronting
aviation, to observe European programs, and report their findings. Secretary Baker specified that the
mission of the project was to observe three things: organization, technical development, and
commercial development. Under no circumstances was the committee to recommend policy.
131
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
The well-rounded Crowell commission included three aircraft manufacturers, a Navy captain,
and two Army colonels. Two months later on July 19, 1919, they turned in their findings. Almost
immediately the report seemed to mysteriously become lost somewhere between the trash bin and The
Flying Trash Pile.
The following month, almost as mysteriously, Naval aviation vanished. Upon submission of the
Crowell Report, the Assistant Secretary and Howard Coffin who had been one of the eight men
assigned to observe and report for it, visited the Chief of Naval Operations. Admiral Charles Benson
had seen the report and was visibly hostile. "I cannot conceive of any use that the fleet will ever have
for aircraft," he told the two men. "The Navy doesn't need airplanes. Aviation is just a lot of noise."
To emphasize this belief, on August 1 Admiral Benson issued a confidential order abolishing
the Navy's Aviation Division. The edict was so confidential, in fact, that word of the move never
reached the office of Assistant Secretary of the Navy Roosevelt. It was NOT so confidential that it did
not reach the ears of Colonel William Mitchell. (It is suspected that some unknown Naval aviator,
upon being removed from his cockpit and assigned to a traditional Navy job, leaked word of this
move to Mitchell.)
Colonel Mitchell was still highly regarded on Capitol Hill and spent much of that fall testifying
before Congress as it probed the problems of aviation and considered legislation that would impact
the new peace-time military called the "Army Reorganization Act." At his next appearance before the
Senate Military Affairs Committee Colonel Mitchell testified with the demeanor that would mark
most of his speeches in the years to follow:
"In this country, our Army aviation is shot to pieces and our naval aviation does not
exist as an arm, under their new organization. They are even worse off than they were."
Colonel Mitchell paused for the impact of what he had just said to sink in, then met the
startled gaze of the senators to announce, "They have stopped having a separate bureau
for aviation and have distributed those duties among six or seven different departments."
Perhaps it was in that moment that war broke out between Billy Mitchell and the United States
Navy. He had certainly not endeared himself to the CNO, who was already openly hostile to airmen in
general. A few days later Assistant Secretary of the Navy Franklin Roosevelt refuted Mitchell's
testimony, leaving the senators confused as to whom was telling the truth. Mitchell responded by
producing a copy of Admiral Benson's order which was specifically titled: Discontinuance of Aviation
Division". Mitchell explained to his boss General Menoher, "It is believed that Mr. Roosevelt has been
hoodwinked in his own office and that naval aviation has been disintegrated without his knowledge or
consent."
While the battle was going on in the Senate, in the U.S. House of Representatives the young
Congressman from New York began to wonder what had happened to the Crowell Report that had
vanished the previous summer. Fiorello H. LaGuardia had a personal interest in military aviation,
having served as an air officer on the Italian front during the war. Congressman LaGuardia opened
hearings on December 4, calling Assistant Secretary of War Crowell himself to testify. "What," the
congressman wanted to know, "did your report conclude?"
"It recommended," the Assistant Secretary replied, "the concentration of the air
activities of the United States--military, naval, and civilian--within the scope of a single
government agency, coequal in importance with the Departments of the Army, Navy, and
Commerce."
132
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
Perhaps the most impressive thing about the Crowell Commission's report was that all eight
members, privately conducting separate investigations in France, England, and Italy, came to the
same conclusion. Their unanimous opinion was diametrically opposed to the policy being advocated
by the leadership of the War Department and the Navy Department, and had actually been rendered
in violation of Secretary Baker's implicit instructions that the report not contain any conclusions
dealing with air policy. (While some historians accuse Secretary Baker of intentionally keeping the
report from Congress, this is a basically false accusation. Secretary Baker DID refuse to endorse the
report and withheld it from public dissemination, but the report was already common knowledge on
Capitol Hill. Secretary Baker also did nothing to prevent Crowell's testimony before Congress.
There were indeed some heated words before the LaGuardia hearings, directed at the old
traditionalists who were doing all in their power to keep the upstart Air Service from taking the
limelight. One daring airman threw caution to the winds to speak his mind:
"The General Staff, either through lack of vision, lack of practical knowledge, or
deliberate intention to subordinate the Air Service...has utterly failed to appreciate the full
military value of this new weapon (air power)."
"I can frankly say that in my opinion the War Department has earned no right or title
to claim future control over aviation or the aircraft industries of the United States."
"Is it any wonder that a few of us dare to risk the charge of insubordination?"
"I am ready to stand before any military court in the land...to take my chances of
punishment in a cause which, in my opinion, will develop and go ahead in spite of every
effort to impede its progress."
So testified, not Colonel William Mitchell, but old foe and former boss Benjamin Foulois. For
his own part, Mitchell's testimony in December 1919 was quite tame, despite some earnest prompting
from his friend Hap Arnold regarding the need for an independent air force. Years later Foulois
recalled, "Mitchell very carefully avoided the controversial issues on this. I opened up all the way
through on this stuff and they wanted to court-martial me. They could, all right, but I had the facts."
The spirited debate of 1919 may have saved the Army Air Service. Certainly, for a time, its
future was so tenuous that even General Menoher became incensed and joined in the battle to
preserve his command. It was, perhaps, the only time he and Billy Mitchell agreed on anything. The
upshot of it all ended with the National Defense Act of 1920, establishing a peace time Army of
280,000 and a National Guard of nearly half a million men. The victory for air power was quite small-allocation of 1,516 officers and 16,000 men--all to be retained under the command of the Army.
Though there would be no separate air force, and though what remained was a barebones
organization, it was better than NO air force at all. In protest against the meager budget allotted to
the Army's air arm, Secretary Crowell resigned, becoming the first casualty of the hotly brewing war
for air power's place in the American military.
Perhaps of equal importance to events over the coming years, these hearings gave Colonel
William Billy Mitchell, son of a former Congressman and Senator from Wisconsin, high visibility on
Capitol Hill. In all, Mitchell testified in uniform 27 times before various committees of the Congress in
those early days. Through these he formed friendships that would be critical in the years to come.
133
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
The Transcontinental Reliability Test
Colonel Mitchell's unusually patient demeanor in his testimony before the LaGuardia hearings
may have been prompted more by his activity in the months preceding it, than in any change in
personality. During the summer of 1919, Mitchell had been brainstorming ways to put the new
peacetime Air Service more in the public eye. Aviation was still less than two decades old, and most of
America still saw flight as a spectator sport, not a way of life. Colonel Mitchell saw some positive
political advantage to be obtained by playing into that. It was officially called the "Transcontinental
Reliability And Endurance Test" but the New York Times more accurately described it as: "the
greatest air race ever attempted."
Through the race, Colonel Mitchell hoped to demonstrate how quickly America's military
pilots could be mobilized. The race would feature some of aviation's best-known names, heroes of the
war just one year past. Lieutenant Colonel Harold Hartney, who had commanded the 1st Pursuit
Group on the Western Front, was one of the early favorites. So too was Captain Field Kindley who,
with 12 victories, had emerged as America's fourth-ranking ace of the Great War. These would fly
out of New York, pass through Cleveland, Chicago, and then arrive in Omaha. From Omaha the
pilots would navigate their way to San Francisco by following the route of railroad tracks, called the
iron compass. Twenty refueling points were established along the 2,701-mile route and contestants
were required to make a thirty-minute stop at each point.
Meanwhile, another group of pilots, a group that included Major Carl Spaatz, would fly east
out of San Francisco. Initially it was planned as a one-way race but, with contestants flying in
opposite directions, it was felt that one group might benefit from prevailing winds. The rules were
changed to require a round trip.
The race began on October 8 as Assistant Secretary of War saw the westbound group of pilots
off from Long Island after pronouncing this "the greatest aerial contest in the world." Nevertheless,
the race almost ended the day it began. Eighteen of the westbound pilots never got beyond Buffalo.
On the west coast, of the 15 pilots that left San Francisco the same morning, only 11 reached Salt
Lake City.
The first three days of the race, projected to see each group reach the opposite coast, were
plagued with mishap and tragedy. There was at least one fatal crash each day, the American
landscape was littered with the wreckage of other nonfatal crashes, and not a single contestant had
reached their destination. On the fourth day of the race Lieutenant Belvin W. Maynard, who had
earlier won the New York-to-Toronto air race, landed in San Francisco at 1:12 in the afternoon to
become the first to complete the first leg of the journey. Dubbed "the flying parson" by the media
because he had left the ministry to join the Army Air Service in 1917, Maynard flew with an
impromptu passenger. As he had prepared to take off from New York on October 8 his dog Trixie
ran onto the field. Without missing a beat and to the delight of the crowd of spectators, Lieutenant
Maynard scooped up his Belgian police dog and the two of them took off into the wind.
Later that same day, October 12, the first pilots from the eastbound group began landing at
Roosevelt field in New York. Lieutenant Emil Kiel was first, beating Major Spaatz by a mere twenty
seconds.
Contest rules called for each pilot to rest for forty-eight hours before resuming his return leg
of the contest. Lieutenant Kiel had already had enough, proclaiming,
134
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
"No one can make me race back to California...the train will be good enough for me."
Major Spaatz responded to a reporter's question about how he felt with a blunt, "I feel like a
drink of whiskey!"
The New York Times made note of the heavy toll exacted in just the first leg of the race, a tragic
record that included five deaths, and editorialized:
"Man is compelled to pay the toll to a nature which is jealous of his progress."
Despite proclamations like that made by Lieutenant Kiel, and other admonitions to end the
race with the completion of the first leg, the War Department insisted that the second leg be
completed. On Tuesday, October 14, Lieutenant Maynard departed San Francisco to return home the
eventual winner of the contest when he arrived at Roosevelt Field on October 18.
Major Spaatz lead the now westbound competitors on the return trip on October 15, a day
that saw two more pilots die in a crash near Evanston, Wyoming. The Chicago Tribune finally spoke
honestly about the race, referring to it as "rank stupidity." The greatest air race of all time had, in the
minds of all too many Americans, turned into a great air disaster. Congressman LaGuardia stated:
"The same gang that disregarded war in order to develop their own industries now
sends boys across the continent with an obsolete, discarded machine (the DH-4 Flaming
Coffins) in a vain hope to save their face."
Like LaGuardia, Billy Mitchell tried to blame the tragedies of the race on the aged
DeHavillands. Certainly the race had failed to demonstrate the reliability of the American air force,
which suffered only one fewer American fatality in the course of the race than the Lafayette Escadrille
had suffered during twenty-two months of World War I combat. Years later however, Hap Arnold
who had been at San Francisco to see the first pilots off and to welcome Lieutenant Maynard's
arrival, saw the positive side of the effort. "It was the foundation of commercial aviation in the United
States," Arnold wrote. In establishing the racecourse and creating refueling points, Mitchell had
almost inadvertently established the same air routes that would later be flown by mail carriers and
eventually, commercial airlines.
The great air race of 1919 was not the only military competition of the first postwar year.
Sandwiched in between the official ending date of the air race on October 31 and the beginning of the
LaGuardia hearings of December 7 was the November 29 Army-Navy football game. It was the first
time the rival Academies had met since the prewar days of 1916. (During 1918, when more than a
million soldiers were facing combat in Europe, West Point had engaged in only one gridiron match
up--against Mitchell Field.)
In 1919, Navy avenged their 1916 loss, defeating Army 6 - 0, and setting up a three-year string
of defeats for the West Point team. Not until November 25, 1922, would Army rebound to beat their
rivals from Annapolis. Before that welcomed victory on the football field, Billy Mitchell would score
one for the Army in the Navy's own territory—-in the waters off Chesapeake Bay.
135
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
Army vs. Navy
February 7, 1921
An unusual Army/Navy match up had been brewing on Capitol
Hill. Colonel Billy Mitchell had tossed the Army's hat in the ring a year
earlier during a January 1920 Congressional hearing. Finally now, after a
month of hearings in this new year, the Navy had finally accepted the
challenge.
Readers of the New York Times chuckled as they read the response
of Secretary of the Navy Josephus Daniels:
"I'm so confident that neither Army nor Navy aviators can hit the Iowa when she is under way
that I would be perfectly willing to be on board her when they bomb her!"
This was the kind of talk Billy Mitchell had been seeking to hear from the Navy for a year!
It had all started the previous year when, in January 1920, Mitchell visited West Point. The
invitation came from his old friend Douglas MacArthur, now also a General and superintendent of
the Academy. For more than an hour Mitchell spoke to the cadets about his experiences in France
and his predictions for the future of air power. Young future leaders like Maxwell Taylor and Hoyt
Vandenberg hung interestingly on his every word; then they thanked him with a standing ovation. It
was an encouraging sign from the Army's leaders of the future.
The following month Mitchell appeared before a committee of the U.S. House of
Representatives ready to lay down the gauntlet. He laid out a possible invasion of the United States by
a potential enemy, and vividly illustrated how aircraft instead of ships could best defend America's
shores. With sketches, diagrams, and
charts he laid out a visual war game
wherein airplanes and dirigibles would
locate and destroy an invading navy
before they could reach the coastline of
the United States. His diagrams were
interesting, his scenarios unique but for
one
major
problem.
Mitchell's
hypothesis was based upon the
implication that airplanes could sink
war ships. The old Admirals laughed in
scorn--until some of the congressmen
began taking Mitchell seriously.
Mitchell added fuel to the brewing war with flamboyant and inflammatory proclamations that
made him the Navy's most hated enemy:
 A few Army pilots could destroy the most powerful Naval fleet afloat!
 A moving ship at sea was easier to detect from the air than an object on land!
 Advancements in aerial warfare would one day render the battleship obsolete!
136
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
It is understandable that Mitchell's claims, despite their preposterousness, would resonate with
some on Capitol Hill. Every Congress since the birth of the United States has been inundated with
funding requests from the military. When Colonel Mitchell claimed, "One thousand bombardment
airplanes can be built and operated for about the price of one battleship," it certainly raised eyebrows.
It is also understandable that Mitchell's message would be perceived as a major threat to the
admirals who struggled each budget cycle to obtain the millions of dollars they needed for new
warships. Mitchell had placed the Navy in its own battle for survival. But Mitchell's charges were
more than just a threat to the funds needed by the Navy; they were a threat to some of its longesteemed traditions. Every Naval commander dreamed of commanding a battleship, the Queens of the
Seas. The claim that such powerful creations could be sunk by an airplane bordered on blasphemy.
Secretary of the Navy Daniels sent a vehement letter of protest to Secretary of War Newton
Baker claiming, "It would seem most unfortunate that the efforts of the great majority of the officers of
the Army and Navy should be interfered with by an individual (Mitchell)." Baker in turn gave Mitchell a
strong warning against interfering in the affairs of the Navy.
Despite the fact that the Army had recently returned Mitchell's star and given him the new
title Assistant Chief of the Air Service, Mitchell was falling out of favor with the War Department as
well as that of the Navy. In 1920 his campaign began turning into a lone-wolf struggle, fighting the
traditionalists of both the Army and the Navy. Mitchell began turning his attention to the one arena
where his message seemed to capture the imagination, the American public. As he had before the war,
Mitchell began writing for publications and taking his message to veterans groups and the people.
The media covered his every move...Billy Mitchell was NEWS!
The other news in 1920 was a presidential election that pitted Senator Warren G. Harding and
Calvin Coolidge against Democrat Jerry Cox and his vice presidential running mate, former Assistant
Secretary of the Navy Franklin D. Roosevelt. The old admirals knew that, following the election and
before a new Congress in 1921, General Mitchell was sure to return in his bid go gain an independent
air force, even at the cost of scuttling the Navy. It was time for some preemptive damage control.
In the fall of 1920 Captain Chester Nimitz was tasked with overseeing some bombing tests on
the old Spanish-American War ship, the U.S.S. Indiana. The Navy wanted to learn just how much
damage bombs dropped from the air could cause to its warships. An ancillary benefit would be the
ultimate rebuttal of any claims that these bombs could sink warships. Few military men beyond
Mitchell and a few old admirals like Admiral Winterhalter believed such a feat possible.
The tests were conducted under the most secret of conditions...no media coverage, and results
would be divulged only as necessary. Navy airplanes attacked the old vessel with dummy bombs while
Naval technicians assessed the probable damage real bombs might have inflicted. Then underwater
charges were exploded near the ships hull. The concussion split seams and ruptured the old ships hull,
giving evidence to a concept in bombardment that would later become important to Mitchell--near
misses could wreak more damage than a direct hit. As the testing neared its completion, the still
floating Indiana was run aground where bombs were affixed to her deck to finish the destruction.
When the testing was done the Navy released an innocuous statement, not widely publicized,
that it was improbable that a modern battleship could be sunk from the air. With that, the admirals
hoped the question would go away.
Unfortunately for the Navy, somehow two pictures of the ruptured deck of the Indiana found
their way into the London Illustrated News. Still the Navy tried to downplay the results of their tests-until Billy Mitchell showed up to testify before Congress in January 1921.
137
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
Mitchell brought with him charts, diagrams and even photographs of the Navy's secret tests on
the Indiana, information that raised the interest of a committee friendly to Mitchell. (The Navy had
enlisted the aid of armament specialist Captain C.H.M. Roberts for the tests. Roberts was an early
proponent of air power, and he managed to get these documents into the hands of the man he believed
could use them to their best advantage, General Billy Mitchell.) In the testimony that followed,
Mitchell pulled few punches...though even at this point his remarks were spoken with some restraint
or at least respect.
MITCHELL: "(Our airplanes) can destroy or sink any ship in existence!"
CONGRESSMAN BASCOM SLEMP (VA): "If that's true, why aren't you able to convince
high-ranking officers of the Army who have the consideration of these problems?"
MITCHELL: "We are presenting the situation to you, and we're ready to demonstrate this
thing. If you allow no air force, not only will an opposing fleet land at will, but their aircraft will
fly all over our country."
SLEMP: "What do you mean? They're intelligent individuals, and they want to get the best
defense they can for their country."
REPRESENTATIVE LOUIS CRAMTON (MI): "Isn't it for the same reason that confronted
Ericsson, in that after he had demonstrated the success of the Monitor, still he couldn't get the
ear of the high-ranking officers of the War Department?"
MITCHELL: "We can show right straight down through the beginning how this thing has
been held down."
REPRESENTATIVE THOMAS SISSON (MS): "Should the British example in carriers and
a unified air force serve as a model for our country?"
MITCHELL: "Yes Sir…I do not consider that the air force is to be considered as in any
means supplanting the Army. You have always got to come to manpower as the ultimate thing,
but we do believe that the air force will control all communications, that it will have a very great
effect on land troops and a decisive one against a navy."
SLEMP: "Your argument really leads up to the advocacy of a combined air service."
MITCHELL: "There is no other efficient solution of the air problem. If you scatter the air
force around it leads to double overhead, and to a double system of command, and many other
difficulties. It has been proven wrong everywhere."
SLEMP: "It seems to me that the principal problem is to demonstrate the certainty of your
conclusions."
MITCHELL:
"Give us the warships to attack and come and watch it!"
Mitchell's challenge to the Navy captured the attention of both Congress and the media much
like his earlier transcontinental air race. Before Mitchell was called to testify before the House Naval
Affairs Committee, Congress had passed two resolutions urging the Navy Department to provide
Mitchell with battleships to use as targets. The moment had at last arrived and Mitchell wrote:
138
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
"We are going to smoke these people out that do not believe in the
air business and either make them 'fish or cut bait'."
When General Mitchell appeared before the House Naval Affairs
Committee, he found some surprising allies. One of the most impressive
was the President of the Naval War College, Admiral William S. Sims.
Sims was a man as blunt as Mitchell, perhaps even as unconventional. In
earlier battles to improve Naval gunnery he had taken on the high
command, and even turned Congress against him by stating that Britain
was so far ahead of the United States Navy in gunnery, one of their ships
could outshoot four or five American ships. A grizzled Naval veteran who
won a Pulitzer Prize in history in 1920, he embodied the modern term,
politically incorrect. When told he would be awarded the Distinguished Service Cross by the U.S.
Army, Admiral Sims advised Secretary Daniels that he would refuse the award because it had been
diminished by being over-awarded, largely to men who didn't deserve it.
Admiral Sims wasn't afraid to go against the grain of his own high command, or to speak his
mind. Before the Naval Affairs Committee, he did both. After a series of war games at the Naval War
College, he told committee members,
"It was easy to see that the question of the passing of the battleship was not an
agreeable one to various members."
Sims' testimony set the stage for Mitchell who, despite common misconceptions about the
events of 1920s aviation, never had to wage his war alone. Throughout his six-year battle to preserve
and build an American air force, Mitchell had many allies, friends and admirers. Despite this, old
ways die hard, and Admiral Sims may well have summed up the opposition best when he wrote:
"It is a singular thing that you can present irrefutable arguments to officers on this
subject and they will still defend the old methods and the old surface ships. I know, of
course, something of the psychology of opinion, but this seems to go beyond the theories of
psychological experts.
"Can it be that the Navy is reluctant to give up the big ships to live in?"
The ships that were finally granted were already slated for destruction, so in the final analysis
the Mitchell Experiment gave the United States government a means of fulfilling its post-war
obligations to the world. In the treaty that ended the Great War, Germany had been stripped of much
of its military machinery. Several German warships had been confiscated by the United States at the
Armistice. In that act however, the United States agreed that these ships would be destroyed. (No
other world power wanted the United States Navy to build up its own war machine with the captured
spoils of the Great War.)
The deadline for destruction, agreed to by President Wilson, was July 24, 1921. With pressure
from Congress, the Navy finally agreed to provide a German submarine, a destroyer, a light cruiser,
and finally the huge German battleship Ostfriesland. Additional tests would be conducted using the
USS Iowa, a moving target under radio control to see if aircraft could find the ship at sea, and hit it
with dummy bombs. It was this latter test that prompted the remark, reported in the New York Times
but never fully verified (though he also did not deny it), by Secretary Baker that:
139
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
"I would be perfectly willing to be on board her when they bomb her!"
The Pre-Game
If the Army/Navy War Games of the summer of 1921 were viewed in the parlance of the
gridiron, one would have to say that the Navy provided the playbook for both sides, and then enlisted
its own referees to insure the outcome. While grudgingly acquiescing to the call for targets to prove or
refute the theory that airplanes could sink ships, the Navy set strict guidelines according to its own
standards. These rules were justified by the Navy's claim that the tests be conducted under a clinical
setting that would enable proper documentation of each attack, each bombardment, and every step of
the process. While Mitchell vehemently protested many of these without success, during the spring of
1921 he absorbed himself with a few trick plays of his own.
Mitchell began preparations by putting his team
together. Nearly stripping the Army Air Service, he
pulled pilots from all over the country into Langley Field,
Virginia, a short distance from the Chesapeake Bay area
destined for the bombing tests. Almost overnight the small
field that boasted only about a dozen airmen, mostly
either trainers or trainees, into a bustling air base with
250 airplanes and nearly 1,000 men. His long-time friend
Clayton Bissell was already working at Langley as an
instructor, and the World War I combat pilot become one
of Mitchell's key assistant coaches. His team was the
newly organized First Provisional Air Brigade.
In the months that followed, all activity at Langley Field operated under a great cloud of
secrecy that only added to the hype for the coming event. General Mitchell knew that sinking a
battleship would be difficult, though not impossible, under ideal circumstances. The Navy's rules
were making the conditions far from ideal. Though he continued his complaints to no avail, he
proceeded with an air of confidence and a foresight previously unseen in any air war.
 Though funds had not yet been allocated, Mitchell constructed a battleship target by February
and had his airmen practicing for the main event. His actions drew a nasty response from
General Menoher, but Mitchell ignored the memorandum that pointed to his unauthorized
actions and continued to prepare.
 He sat up throughout one long night with his chief draftsman to design the largest bombs ever
made, 2,000 and 4,000-pound monsters, and then ordered Captain C.H.M. Roberts (who had
witnessed the test bombings of the Indiana) to have them built by June.
 Mitchell brought in George Goddard, a photographic expert, to handle the public relations
when the tests got underway. "I need you to handle the newsreel and movie people," he told
Goddard. "They're temperamental, and we've got to get all we can out of them. I want newsreels
of those sinking ships in every theater in the country, just as soon as we can get them there."
 Down to the smallest detail, every issue was addressed. Those four months of preparation may
well have been the most important in the history of combat aviation and aerial bombardment.
Bombsights were designed, refined, tested and installed. The largest bombs ever built were
manufactured, fitted with a foolproof detonation system, and then tested. The first artificial
140
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
horizon was installed on airplanes utilizing a gyroscope to help pilots orient themselves in the
endless blue where sky and water meet.
The Army team itself was a dedicated and eager group of fliers. For months the preparations
for the tests consumed their every waking moment. While the rest of the country, in fact the entire
world, wondered if Mitchell's airman had even the smallest chance, they honestly believed they would
succeed. Their espirit de corps almost ended the game before it began.
Following practice bombings on targets in the swamps near Langley Field, Mitchell had his
pilots begin practice bombings on the rusting hulk of the old USS Indiana. Somehow, a canister of
film made its way to the hands of the Fox Newsreel Company. Shortly thereafter the public was
amused to see pictures of the Army airmen in a bombing run on the old Indiana. What upset the Navy
more than the fact that the film leaked out (of course they blamed General Mitchell) was a series of
frames showing one airman's bomb with the words "Regards to the Navy" printed on the side.
To counter the challenge mounted by General Mitchell, the Navy
turned to Admiral William Moffett. (Some later accounts of the Mitchell
Experiment erroneously attribute to him the quote printed by the New
York Times, purportedly by Secretary Daniels.) Moffett was something of
an air enthusiast, though his interest lay primarily in the big airships.
Admiral Moffett was as close to the mold of Billy Mitchell as the
Navy could find at the time. The veteran had commanded the battleship
Mississippi from 1918 to 1920 and had earned a Medal of Honor during
the Vera Cruz campaign in 1914. Though Moffett was the Navy's antidote
to Billy Mitchell during the bombing tests of 1921, Moffett himself would
play an important role in developing Naval aviation until his death,
ironically in the crash of an airship, in 1933.
The trend continued throughout the spring with all the traditional exchanges of a pre game
locker room. It got especially nasty towards the end of May when a large Curtiss Eagle plane crashed
in a thunderstorm en route from Langley to Washington. General Mitchell called a press conference
and pointed to the disaster and resulting loss of seven lives to support his calls for a unified air
service. He pointed to the disaster as an example of why aviation should have routes, weather reports,
and proper landing fields. The only way to achieve this, he stated, would be to unify all the air
services under one roof.
Admiral Moffett took off the gloves and quickly and publicly rebuked Mitchell with the
statement that: "General Mitchell used the recent disaster which resulted in the deaths of five brother
officers and two civilians as an argument in favor of a unified air service."
Mitchell's fight with the Navy began hitting too close to home. Incidents like the leaked
newsreel, his press conference after the fatal crash at the end of May, skirting authority to spend
money before it was authorized, and the release of his first book titled Our Air Force began taking its
toll on General Menoher. To the outside observer it certainly seemed that the Air Chief could not
control his own subordinate. Only weeks before the bombing was to commence, General Menoher
reached the end of his patience and wrote to Secretary of War John Weeks:
"It is recommended and requested that Brigadier General William Mitchell be relieved
of duty as Assistant Chief of the Air Service.
141
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
"Unfortunate and undesirable publicity given to his individual exploits at the time
immediately following the fatal accident of the Curtiss Eagle ambulance plane has caused
a very great revulsion of feelings.
"He has given serious offense to the Navy Department by his public utterances and
publicity. He has enhanced his own prestige at the expense of and to the detriment of the
prestige of his immediate commanding officer. This publicity, if not carried on by him
personally, is at least known to him and subject to his control.
The situation presented a major dilemma to Secretary Weeks. Protocol dictated that he side
the Air Chief and fire the Assistant who could not get on the same page as his supervisor. Mitchell's
popularity in the public, however, made this a dangerous decision. To complicate matters, while
Weeks struggled to find a course of action, work of the rift between Mitchell and Menoher leaked to
the press. At last Secretary Weeks met with both men to work out a solution. A short time later
Weeks called a press conference to announce that the problem was resolved, and the two men would
continue to work together.
The media hailed the decision amid comments that Mitchell had received little more than a
slap on the wrist. It was, in fact, the first real reprimand of the General's distinguished career. The
incident would never truly heal between the two men. The Detroit Free Press summed up the
resolution by saying: "Menoher is advised to go
way back and sit down, while Mitchell will get a
chance to show whether a dreadnought is obsolete
in the presence of a modern bombing plane."
Kickoff
June 21, 1921
Billy Mitchell had is own distinctive
airplane from which to observe and direct his portion of the bombing tests that began in the summer
of 1921. His old but reliable DH4B was called Osprey and it trailed a blue pennant to mark the
presence of General Mitchell over the site of the action.
As the tests began, more than a dozen planes and three blimps hovered over the field to watch
the opening plays. The Navy won the coin toss to see who would go first. They had the home field
advantage and the tests would be conducted according to the Navy's rulebook and under the watchful
gaze of the Navy's referees. It didn't seem fair but then, the Navy owned the football so it was left to
the Army to accept the situation or call the game.
The first target was the U-117, a German submarine that had been surrendered to the United
States ten days after the Armistice. Under the command of Otto Droscher the 1,200-ton U-boat had
patrolled the Atlantic coastline after its December 10, 1917, launching. In its sole patrol of the war,
the U-117 sank 24 Allied ships. Now, according to the dictates of International Law and the
agreement with the Allied nations of World War I, the sub would be destroyed in peacetime—
anchored not far from where it had patrolled in war.
According to the playbook, the Navy would get first shot. Three waves of Navy F-5-Ls would
pound the small submarine with 165-pound bombs. These would be followed by attacks from Navy
142
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
Martins and Marine Corps De Havillands. If, after all that the U-117 was still afloat, the Army would
get its chance. Mitchell loaded his bombers and told his pilots to stand by at Langley just in case.
The Navy's pilots opened the show with great enthusiasm. Indeed, though General Billy
Mitchell was perceived to be the Navy's most dangerous enemy, in saving Army aviation from
extinction he might well be saving the Navy's airmen as well. It took only two waves to score direct
hits on the small, 267-foot submarine. Two 165-pound bombs fell from 1,000 feet to split the hull of
the U-117 and send her to the bottom.
The transport ship Henderson, which had served as the reviewing stand for a small party of
dignitaries, headed back to Washington after an all-too-brief opening day. There was some surprise
that the submarine had succumbed to the aerial bombardment so quickly, but any implication that a
modern warship would suffer the same fate was quickly scoffed at. The U-117 was unarmored and
quite small. By no stretch of the imagination could its durability be compared to a battleship.
Though Mitchell's pilots missed the entire first quarter of the game, they used the planned oneweek interim before the next test to continue training. The day after the sinking of the U-117, General
Mitchell led a flight of 53 airplanes in a bombing run on the ruins of the old U.S.S. Texas. Tragedy
struck when two of Mitchell's pilots collided over the Chesapeake and fell to their deaths into the
waters below. On June 23 Mitchell led three flights over the same spot to drop flowers where their
comrades had died. Then each pilot saluted his fallen friends by dropping 25-pound bombs.
If one was to consider the opening plays of the game a score for the Navy, it must be
remembered that the U-117 became the first ship in history to be sunk from the air. It was, despite the
disclaimers relating to its size and lack of armor, a small victory for air power. The second play of the
game would also be the Navy's, not by design but by default.
On June 29 the USS Iowa began movement across a 25,000 square mile area between Cape
Henlopen and Cape Hatteras to test the ability of aerial observation in detecting a moving ship at sea.
The American veteran of the Spanish-American War was being remotely controlled in its movements
from the USS Ohio, five miles behind it.
In May General Mitchell had declined to participate in this test, citing the fact that the Navy
had moved the test at a distance so far from his base at Langley that his airplanes would face
dangerous fuel shortages. He would commit only three air ships to the hunt for the Iowa. At the last
minute Mitchell changed his mind and tried to get his airplanes back into the game. The Navy
refused. Even so, in the end it was the Army dirigibles that first sighted the Iowa. One hour later the
Navy seaplanes caught up to drop eighty dummy bombs on the Iowa. The Navy was not dismayed
when only two of these hit their target. Such lack of accuracy served only to reinforce their belief that
when the Army pilots finally got their chance, they too would find it difficult to hit their own targets.
The Army's last chance before half time came two weeks later. The target was only slightly
larger than the small U-117 submarine. The G-102 had been an Argentine destroyer, commandeered
by the German Navy during the war. This time the Army had an unrestricted opportunity to
demonstrate its ability, and General Mitchell attacked the 312-foot destroyer like he had attacked the
salient at St. Mihiel. Eighteen pursuit planes led the way in three flights, followed by DeHavillands
with 100-pound bombs, and then the heavy Martin bombers with their 300-pound orbs. The sky
seemed to be filled with aircraft as the pursuit planes swept the deck with machinegun fire and dove
within 200 feet of the deck to drop their light bombs. In minutes the deck had been swept from stem
to stern...had it been a combat situation any ability a crew aboard the G-102 had to fight back would
have been crushed.
143
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
Mitchell waved off the light bombers and brought in his Martins. Twenty minutes later the
destroyer had completely disappeared from the surface of the ocean. General Mitchell recorded:
"In less time than it takes to tell, their bombs began churning the water around the
destroyer. They hit close in front of it, behind it, opposite its side and directly in its center.
Columns of water rose hundreds of feet into the air. For a few minutes the vessel looked as
if it were on fire. Smoke came out of its funnels and vapors along its deck. Then it broke
completely in two in the middle and sank out of sight."
"Their (Mitchell's pilots) rejoicing was tremendous. They knew now that unless
something most unusual happened it would be proved for all time that aircraft dominated
the sea craft."
Half time lasted but five brief days, and then the competition began again in earnest. This time
the target would be the 5,100-ton light cruiser Frankfurt, shielded with armor plating and built with
numerous watertight steel compartments. To simulate battle conditions and determine the
effectiveness of the firepower from above, numerous small cages littered the Frankfurt's deck, filled
with goats and other small animals.
The Navy, Marine, and Army aviators attacked in ten waves that comprised nearly five-dozen
planes, each wave dropping increasingly larger bombs. Between each wave there would be an
intermission during which inspectors would board the ship from the tender Shawmut to view,
photograph, and report on the damage. The first waves with their 100-pound, then 250-pound, and
finally the 300-pound bombs attacked the Frankfurt. The deadly explosions proved fatal to the small
animals on the deck, and the light cruiser suffered some visible damage topside, but below the decks
she remained watertight and capable of steaming away from the battle under wartime conditions.
By the time the last wave of six Martins carrying 600-pound bombs departed Langley, Naval
inspectors had already concluded that the Frankfurt would survive destruction from the air and
called for the South Dakota to prepare a time bomb to finish the job. Flight leader Captain W. R.
Lawson was forced to circle for half an hour as the inspectors finished their work. With fuel running
low, the first aerial defeat of the project seemed imminent.
When the "clear" signal was finally given, Lawson and his pilots wasted no time going to
work. Mitchell described the scene.
"The bombs fell so fast that the attack could not be stopped before mortal damage had
been done to the ship."
The Naval control ship signaled for the bombardment to stop so the inspectors could go
aboard to assess the damage from this last wave of bombers. It was too late; the 600-pound bombs
had opened gaping holes in the cruiser including one from a direct hit on the forward compartment.
Soon afterward the Frankfort sank beneath the waves and George Goddard's photographic planes
were heading for Bolling Field with the canisters of photographic evidence.
The fourth quarter opened with the outcome of the Army/Navy War Game of 1921 still very
much in doubt. While indeed the airmen had proven they could sink small ships, the real test lay
ahead. After one day of rest the attacks would commence on the German battleship Ostfriesland. The
mighty warship displaced 27,000 tons in comparison to the Frankfort's 5,100 tons, or the U-117's
1,200 tons. Here indeed was a warship worthy of an Admiral's praise and a Navy's pride. During the
144
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
Great War the Ostfriesland had taken 18 hits from big shells at Jutland, even struck a mine, yet
remained afloat to return home proudly for repair. With a four-layer hull and scores of watertight
compartments, the great battleship was considered unsinkable.
General Mitchell fully realized what was riding on this last attack. If his airmen failed to sink
the Ostfriesland, the mighty battleship's victory would make all of the other small victories of the
summer meaningless and: "The development of air power might be arrested....
"We had to kill, lay out and bury this great ship!"
July 20, 1921
It seemed the entire United States Navy was in the grandstands to watch the fourth quarter of
this great war game. Surrounding the anchored Ostfriesland some 70 miles east of Cape Charles
Lightship was the pride of the Navy's Atlantic fleet, more than a half-dozen of the Navy's great
battleships. The fleet's flagship U.S.S. Pennsylvania, provided a vantage point for many important
dignitaries: Commandant of the Marine Corps Major General John Lejeune, Assistant Secretary of
the Navy Theodore Roosevelt, Jr., Admiral Richard Byrd, eight Senators, twice as many members of
the U.S. House of Representatives, and the Secretaries of the Navy, War, and Agriculture.
Literally scores of reporters stood at the railings of the Pennsylvania and Henderson, joined by
observers from other nations of the world. They came from England, Italy, France, Spain, Portugal,
and Brazil. All knew their history, knew how Naval dynasties through the centuries had risen and
fallen. Every time preeminence in sea power had shifted in the past however; the dominant armada
had fallen to an opposing seagoing fleet. This time the battle for preeminence was different—waged
on the great Queens of the Seas by upstart and puny pests from the sky.
Among those who watched and waited were two foreign dignitaries who absorbed themselves
in the process, contemplating all that was happening around them and making copious notes while
recording every action with four different cameras. They were Captain Nagano, House of Peers
statesman G. Katsuda, and Kobe Chamber of Commerce representative G. Shibuta, all of Japan.
Billy Mitchell's bombers stood by throughout the morning at Langley Field, awaiting the order
to begin. The Navy's playbook called for the first bombs to be dropped by her own pilots in successive
runs after each of which inspectors would board the Ostfriesland to observe and record the damage
145
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
inflicted. General Mitchell stood by at the radio, requesting information and wondering what was
happening. Finally, when by one o'clock his bombers hadn't been ordered into the air, he took off in
the Osprey to find out what was happening. He was surprised and angered by what he found. Even as
he approached the test site, the Navy ships were returning to shore with its host of reporters and
dignitaries. Not a single bomb had been dropped.
Early morning brought 20-knot winds and high seas; and the Navy had determined that the
airplanes would be unable to deliver their payload in the adverse weather. General Mitchell believed
it was instead, a trick play to end the war game prematurely. He later wrote: "I believe to this day that
the officer controlling the air attacks had orders from the Admiral not to let us sink the Ostfriesland."
Mitchell signaled the Navy that he intended to proceed; and the fleet turned back towards the
targets. For more than an hour thereafter, Navy and Marine pilots bombarded the Ostfriesland with
salvos of 250-pound bombs. The effort showed little effect and the admirals began to sigh with relief.
At three o'clock Lieutenant Clayton Bissell arrived with his flight of Martin bombers. The
appearance caught the Navy by surprise...the Air Service pilots had left Langley without orders and
were thus unanticipated. Mitchell contacted the control ship to advise that Bissell's bombers would
have to attack within forty minutes because they were low on fuel. The test controllers advised
Mitchell to return his airplanes to Langley if they were low on fuel. Mitchell refused and Lt. Bissell
and his airplanes circled until 3:30 p.m. when the inspection crews were clear and permission to
attack was given. Mitchell was elated by what he saw:
"Lt. Bissell's flight of five planes deployed into column and fired five (600-pound)
bombs in extremely rapid succession. It looked as if two or three bombs were in the air at
the same time. Two hits alongside and three on the deck or on the side, causing terrific
detonations, and serious damage....."
"SERIOUS DAMAGE" — if that said it all, it wasn't enough. As Lieutenant Bissell's Martins
headed back to Langley the Ostfriesland bore evidence of the heavy pounding it had sustained from
the air for more than two hours. But the mighty battleship still rode the crest of the waves, and under
wartime conditions, certainly would have returned to port for repairs so that it would sail--and fight
once again. The Navy's umpires pronounced the great warship "absolutely intact and undamaged,"
and reporters began filing their stories indicating the battleship's victory. The New York Times wrote
poignantly that the Ostfriesland was still "riding smugly at anchor on the high seas tonight."
With the game down to its last day of tests the outcome seemed so certain that many of the
dignitaries, including Secretary of War Weeks and General John J. Pershing, left the stadium early. In
the minds of almost everyone, the game was over.
Two-Minute Warning
July 21, 1921
General Mitchell was up before dawn to inspect his bombers and give one last pep talk to his
men. He reminded them that the greatest damage would be inflicted, not by direct hits on the
Ostfriesland, but by near misses.
Early in the planning when Mitchell had assigned Captain Roberts to create the largest bombs
ever manufactured, the ordnanceman took great pains to help Mitchell understand what he called a
146
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
hammer effect. A bomb hitting a target would rip metal and spread shrapnel, he explained, but do
very little damage to the all-important watertight ships hull. A bomb that exploded in the water near
the ship, he continued, would be intensified by the compressed expansion of and rip the ships hull
apart. The scientific process was simply much like putting your head underwater, then clicking two
rocks together beneath the surface. The sound exploded with the underwater magnification.
It was a hard theory to sell to the airmen, many of who were World War I fighter pilots who
had been trained to hit what they aimed at. Major Alexander de Seversky, one of the great pioneers in
aerial engineering, helped to convince General Mitchell of the concept. Mitchell in turn, pressed the
matter to his men. Before taking off from Langley field at 7 a.m. General Mitchell again reminded his
pilots to try for near misses in addition to direct hits.
Behind Mitchell was a flight of Martins loaded with 1,000-pound bombs and led by Lieutenant
Bissell. As the pilots circled over the Ostfriesland, it was obvious the previous day's bombs had in fact,
caused more damage than the Navy referees had reported. The battleship was sitting lower in the
water and during the night the Navy had flooded enough compartments to level the giant warship.
At 8:30 the Shawmut deployed the white panel with a red cross on it that signaled "All Clear."
Five minutes later Lieutenant Bissell dropped the first 1,000-pound bomb, a direct hit on the
forecastle. Quickly the referees on the Shawmut removed the "All Clear" panel and headed towards
the Ostfriesland to assess the damage. The Shawmut was within a mile of the stricken battleship when
the next of Bissell's flight began dropping bombs. Four fell around the Ostfriesland before the attack
was halted. The Navy was livid...certain that Bissell's men had ignored the call to cease the attack and
endangering the Shawmut without regard for the consequences. Bissell later claimed that the attack
had commenced so quickly that his men did not see the signal. The pilots of the last planes in the flight
returned to Langley equally upset, having been denied their chance.
En route to Langley, Bissell ordered his men to jettison the remaining bombs, as the huge
Martins could not safely land with their deadly payload. His seething pilots dutifully obeyed, with a
twist of their own choosing. Returning to Langley they sought out and found a line of Naval
destroyers at seven-mile intervals. One by one they jettisoned their bombs, some falling within a halfmile of the ships to rattle sailors and cascade them with tons of salt water.
The inspection crew spent an hour combing the ruined deck of the Ostfriesland. The damage
was apparent and considerable, but the German warship still floated and was pronounced seaworthy. While the inspectors did their work, Mitchell returned to the huddle at Langley to call his
final play of the game. The airmen were loading six Martins and two Handley Page bombers with the
big 2,000-pound bombs Mitchell had designed and ordered built under Captain Roberts.
At sea there was still an air of skepticism, not only at the ability of these airmen to sink the big
battleship, but also at their very ability to deliver the payload. No one had ever seen a 2,000-pound
bomb before, and the idea that an airplane could even take off with one nestled beneath it stretched
the 1921 concept of aerodynamics. Still, the Navy would take no chances and threw up a quick prevent
defense. When Captain Johnson radioed Mitchell to begin his last attack in the series of tests, he
threw in an unexpected new rule. The bombers would be allowed to bring out only three of the large
bombs.
General Mitchell exploded but it was to no avail. He protested that the Navy had promised his
pilots they would be allowed to make at least two direct hits on the Ostfriesland's deck with his
heaviest bombs. Finally, in complete disregard for this new order, he waved all eight bombers off the
field at Langley. As he took off behind them he radioed the Shawmut:
147
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
"Martin bomber and Handley Page formation with 2,000-pound bombs have taken off."
"In case of failure to secure two direct hits, subsequent attacks will be made until we
have secured the two hits the Army is authorized to make."
It was near noon when the observers more than a mile from the target heard the drone of
airplane engines. The last flight of bombers began its approach and everyone could see the distinctive
Osprey with its trailing blue pennant signaling the presence of General Billy Mitchell. Minutes later
someone shouted and pointed as an airplane approached the Ostfriesland to drop a dark object from
its belly. A ripple of laughter followed when it plunked harmlessly into the water 150 feet from the big
warship, raising little more than a small fountain of water.
While admirals, dignitaries and reporters smiled and laughed, in the darkening skies high
above, Captain Lawson noted the trajectory of the sand-loaded marking bomb and ordered his
airplanes into the attack. Again someone pointed to the sky as one of the big bombers came in high
over the Ostfriesland. It was now seventeen minutes past noon. This time the object that dropped from
its belly was unlike anything any of them had seen. The sparse sunshine glinted off the long, seamless
steel tube as it plummeted downward. Its ascent alone hushed the crowd.
Suddenly it hit the water, sending a small geyser upward and a ripple of waves outward in a
circular pattern. A millisecond later the geyser became a roaring fountain of smoke, steam and 30,000
tons of salt water. Even at its distance, the Henderson shook under the water-hammer effect causing
the distinguished crowd to grip the rails with nervous fingers. The Ostfriesland momentarily
disappeared in the wall of water, only its masks and funnels visible. Then, as the torrent settled, the
gallant old battleship settled to rest still riding the waves. The admirals breathed a sigh of relief.
Within minutes sunlight was glinting off a second steel orb as it fell from the sky, followed by
another explosion. The seas seventy miles east of Cape Charles Lightship shook like no natural storm
of nature had ever shaken them. A third explosion erupted as the bombs rained down on two-minute
intervals; the fourth making a direct hit on the forecastle at 12:21. The fifth big bomb bathed the
battleship in a cascade of seawater one reporter later likened to Niagara Falls, and water began to
rush across the stern. Minutes later the sixth and final bomb exploded only fifty feet from the
ruptured stern, and the battle was over.




At 12:33 p.m. the Ostfriesland's stern sank beneath the waters.
Four minutes later she rolled completely over on her port side.
At 12:38 the mighty German battleship was nearly perpendicular in
the water, standing abnormally erect for nearly two minutes.
At 12:40 p.m. the mighty Ostfriesland disappeared from the surface
of the ocean.
148
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
At 12:41 p.m. the Navy wept!
Four months later on November 26, 1921, the Navy eked out a 7-0 win over Army in its string
of three-straight Army/Navy Game wins since World War I. It was of little comfort. Thanks to
General Billy Mitchell and a handful of dedicated pilots, Army had already won The Big One!
Though Billy Mitchell's crusade is often viewed as a war against the Navy, it was more a
campaign for an air force. The old generals of the Army were no more open to this new means of
warfare than were their counterparts of the seagoing persuasion. The rift between Mitchell and
General Menoher led to the Air Chief's resignation in 1925 and there was considerable speculation
that at last, General Mitchell would be assigned the top air post.
In a surprising move General Pershing once again turned to his old West Point comrade,
General Mason Patrick. Though like Menoher, Patrick had never sat in a cockpit, the man who had
commanded the Air Service in France had a unique ability to both control Billy Mitchell, and yet
allow him enough room to get the job done. General Mitchell accepted the decision with considerable
aplomb, though his friend Eddie Rickenbacker characterized the decision with the comment:
"General Patrick is a capable soldier but he knows nothing of the Air Service. His
appointment is as sensible as making General Pershing Admiral of the Swiss Navy!"
In September Mitchell conducted more tests, bombing the
old USS Alabama in a spectacular, though almost anticlimactic
series of attacks. In November, amid a brewing new series of
problems on the domestic front, Mitchell was dispatched to Europe
for an inspection tour. His travels not only gave him opportunity to
witness the progression of aviation in England, France and Italy, but
to also visit his foe from the previous war, the German war machine.
Due his celebrity and the great respect with which airmen of all
nations viewed General Mitchell, he got the kind of comprehensive
pre World War II respect afforded to only one other American,
Eddie Rickenbacker (in 1933).
Mitchell's last stop was in Holland where he met with the
great airplane designer Anthony Fokker. The man who had built
the great airplanes used by Baron von Richthofen and his Flying
Circus during World War I spoke to Mitchell of moving to the
United States. Mitchell encouraged the move and became
instrumental in bringing the great aviation pioneer to America.
General Mitchell came home in March 1922 to report on his tour. As was the case in any
Mitchell report, it was detailed and lengthy. But Mitchell's observations could be summed up in two
brief points:
1. The United States lagged far behind the rest of the world in developing an air force, and
2. Germany was building an air force capable of giving it tremendous advantage in the rematch
Mitchell, but few other Americans, believed would come in the not-too-distant future.
149
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
"All the great nations have assigned definite missions to their air forces, to their
armies, and to their navies. In the United States we have not done this, and, at this time, if
we should be attacked, no one can tell what (would be) the duties of these three arms ."
That philosophy would dominate the theme of Billy Mitchell for the remaining years of his life.
To meet the challenge he would become what many claimed was unnaturally obsessed with two goals:
development of a separate air arm of the United States military, and preparations for a second world
war that would most probably come from either or both Germany and Japan.
During that same year Billy Mitchell's marriage collapsed, and he consumed himself with his
work and his friendships. He spent much time with his close friends the Arnolds, continued to write
about air theory, speak before various groups, and continued to testify before Congress.
His relationship with General Patrick was amicable,
the Air Chief keeping the reins on his assistant while
Mitchell pushed the boundaries, but with some restraint.
The man who had served more than three decades as an
Army Engineer found himself increasingly interested in the
airplane, and though now in his 60s, took flying lessons.
Those who record the life of Billy Mitchell often
categorize those around the indefatigable general as either
friends or bitter enemies. General Patrick is often unfairly
listed among the latter. Such historians overlook a third
category of Mitchell acquaintance—the critics. These were
those men who grudgingly respected, perhaps even admired the boisterous airman but believed he
could have found a more acceptable way of accomplishing his goals. General Patrick, the first REAL
Air Chief of today's United State's Air Force would perhaps be better numbered among this third
group. Certainly he and Mitchell clashed repeatedly, in France in 1918 and in Washington from 1922
to 1925. But General Patrick also had a way of bringing out the best in General Billy Mitchell.
General Patrick himself stated:
"Little or nothing was known of what aircraft or airmen could do. This lack of
understanding was most notable in the War Department itself, where a certain jealousy of
the Air Service was markedly in evidence."
During the summer of 1923 a much-needed ray of sunshine smiled on Billy Mitchell when he
met Elizabeth (Betty) Trumbull Miller, daughter of a prominent Detroit attorney. The two courted
for a year that friend Hap Arnold would later describe as perhaps the happiest year of Billy
Mitchell's life. If anyone thought, however, that love would damper the spirit of the tireless aviation
pioneer, they would have been sorely disappointed. Miss Miller was a unique woman, strong of will
yet understanding in a way that made Billy her own personal hero. The two of them rode horses
together, flew in the sky together, and later even hunted tigers in India together.
In the fall of 1923, Mitchell received orders to make an inspection tour of the Pacific. There
were those who believed it was the Army's way of getting the bothersome American hero with his
now-constant demands for an independent air force out of their hair at least for a while. General
Pershing's 1923 efficiency report on General Mitchell stated:
150
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
"This officer is an exceptionally able one, enthusiastic, energetic and full of initiative
(but) he is fond of publicity, more or less indiscreet as to speech, and rather difficult to
control as a subordinate."
For Mitchell the timing was perfect. He and Betty were married in October and would use the
trip to mix work with a honeymoon.
The First Exile
It was General Mitchell's six-week end-of-the-year inspection of both Army and Naval
aviation in Hawaii that would later cause much of his problems, and create powerful enemies in his
own branch of service. At the same time he told reporters that Wheeler Field was the finest airfield he
had inspected in a long time, he was writing pages of critical observations in the report he would
submit on his return home. In that report he would criticize the preparedness of both services in
Hawaii, noting that there was no cooperation or coordination between the services.
"Our defense is based on a land army, coast defense guns and battleships, all of which
are uncoordinated. A modern boy fifteen years old, who knows about air power and had a
simple military training in high school, could work out a better system."
The stinging critique would not sit well with the Army commander at Schofield Barracks,
General Charles P. Summerall, and would net General Mitchell a powerful antagonist in the years to
come. Even as the Mitchell's departed Hawaii to visit Guam, General Summerall wrote General
Patrick that Mitchell's "assumptions as to the action of the enemy" were unsound and preposterous.
As the Thomas carried the Mitchells through the Pacific, Billy sketched the layout of the
islands, plotted potential strategic airfields, and tried to anticipate the tactics of any potential enemy.
He took note of one small island 200 miles outside his course, previously ignored as having any
strategic importance, to note in his report:
"Before coming to this conclusion (of no strategic value), a careful reconnaissance
should be made of it. Wake Island lies about 300 miles north by west of Taongi Island of
the Marshall group, which is now in the hands of the Japanese. From the vicinity of Wake
Island westward our course everywhere lay within aircraft operation of Japanese Islands."
The notation indicated Mitchell's newest obsession, the potential threat of attack from Japan.
Though the insightful officer had recognized it, even written of the threat in 1913, his Pacific tour in
1923-24 brought it to the foreground of his reporting and eventually his public speaking.
When the Mitchells arrived in Manila on New Year's Eve, Billy's old friend, General Douglas
MacArthur, met them. During the two-week tour of the Philippine Islands that followed, Mitchell
flew frequently and, as was always true of him, was quick to provide others their first flight above the
ground. In the Philippines Mitchell's passenger was none other than the now elderly but still spry
former guerilla commander, Emilio Aguinaldo. As Mitchell flew over the village where the revered
Philippine hero had been born, Aguinaldo dropped his calling cards to the crowds below to the
delight of all.
From the Philippines the Mitchells sailed to India, this time at their own expense as that
portion of the trip had not been included in Billy's orders. While they were there they saw historic
151
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
sites and played well the role of honeymooning tourists. The newlyweds also went on a tiger hunt as
guests of the maharajah. Billy recorded the adventure and sold an article on it to the National
Geographic Magazine. Amid the fun and frolic, however, and despite the fact that India was not
included in the list of countries he was to report on, General Mitchell still took time to view India's
progress in aviation and note the nature of its military operations.
Mitchell's love for China was evident in his remarks after the visit there when he wrote:
"The Chinese themselves are extremely virile, democratic, industrious and very strong
physically. Biologically they are undoubtedly superior to any people living. They are
extremely intelligent and capable of carrying out any development that is desired."
His praise was tempered with an observation on Chinese military preparedness:
"From being a nation that dominated everything around them, as was the case about a
century ago, the Chinese have lost their military and political power and are an easy mark
for the European nations and the Japanese."
The great Asian nation, in Mitchell's opinion, had misplaced its emphasis for the future, and was now
vulnerable. It was a lesson he earnestly hoped his own country would recognize and learn from.
The last stop on the Mitchell honeymoon was Japan, General Mitchell's primary interest in the
tour. He found the Japanese far more secretive than Germany had been, and most restrictive of his
movements during the tour. Even so, when he departed the Island for the voyage home, he had seen
enough to raise deep concerns. En route to San Francisco, he used the long trip to compile all of his
notes into what would be a 323-page treatise on the Pacific situation:
July, 1924
"Japan knows full well that the United States will probably enter the next
war with the methods and weapons of the former war...It also knows full
well that the defense of the Hawaiian group is based on the island of Oahu
and not on the defense of the whole group."
"The Japanese bombardment, (would be) 100 (air) ships organized into
four squadrons of 25 (air) ships each. The objectives for attack are:
1. Ford Island, airdrome, hangers, storehouses and ammunition dumps;
2. Navy fuel oil tanks;
3. Water supply of Honolulu;
4. Water supply of Schofield;
5. Schofield Barracks airdrome and troop establishments;
6. Naval submarine station;
7. City and wharves of Honolulu."
"Attack will be launched as follows:
"Bombardment, attack to be made on Ford Island at 7:30 a.m.
"Attack to be made on Clark Field (Philippine Islands) at 10:40 a.m."
"Japanese pursuit aviation will meet bombardment over Clark Field, proceeding by
squadrons, one at 3,000 feet to Clark Field from the southeast and with the sun at their
back, one at 5,000 feet from the north and one at 10,000 feet from the west. Should U.S.
pursuit be destroyed or fail to appear, airdrome would be attacked with machine guns."
152
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
"The (Japanese) air force would then carry out a systematic siege against Corregidor."
"The United States must not render herself completely defenseless on the one hand
thinking that a war with Japan is an impossibility, and on the other by sticking to methods
and means of making war as obsolete as the bow and arrow is for the military rifle."
Perhaps the most striking quote was one that was not in Billy Mitchell's 1924 report:
"Our people will cheer your great Mitchell and, you may be sure, will study his
experiments."
"Should there be such a war America would have to fight it a long way from home...It
would be gravely embarrassing to the American people if the ideas of your General
Mitchell were more appreciated in Japan than in the United States."
Such were the words of Japan's House of Peers statesman Messr. G. Katsuda to a correspondent for
the Hartford Courant, after witnessing the sinking of the Ostfriesland in 1921.
Nothing could have been closer to the truth...or more tragic for the United States of America.
Mitchell's report disappeared somewhere near the Flying Trash Bin and General Patrick later
claimed he did not see it until a year after Mitchell submitted it. Not until seventeen years later would
anyone put any credence in the scenario it played out. Then a shattered Nation desperately seeking to
find out what the predominant Japanese forces would do next in their Pacific War would studiously
reexamine it.
Kill the Messenger
After nine months abroad General Mitchell returned to find the situation at home was normal-all fouled up. The old admirals had done their best to contrive arguments to explain away the sinking
of battleships by airplanes. Assistant Secretary of the Navy Theodore Roosevelt, Jr. pointed out: "I
once saw a man kill a lion with a 30-30 caliber rifle under certain conditions, but that doesn't mean that
a 30-30 rifle is a lion gun."
To the credit of Admiral Moffett, the Navy was now looking seriously at the construction of
aircraft carriers. General Patrick too was advocating fiercely for increases in his small Air Service.
Calvin Coolidge now sat in the Oval Office after the untimely death of President Harding, and the
new President was concentrating on domestic policy and pushing the United States further and
further into an isolationist view of world events. While a future war might be possible, once again it
would be a foreign affair and this time the United States would stay out of it and let the chips fall
where they may. It was a time of frustration for the forward-thinking Billy Mitchell.
Mitchell fought back through speeches and open criticism of the higher command. He was
unabashed in his pronouncement that Japan could quickly take the Philippines and Hawaii in a
military attack, and then stunned even his own believers by saying the Japanese would also attack
Alaska. "Alaska is far more important than the Philippines or Hawaii," he announced, "and should be
protected by air as well as on land."
Close friends like Hap Arnold tried to reason with Mitchell. "We need you," he admonished
towards the end of 1924 as Mitchell's antics had almost pushed his career to certain doom. "Don't
throw away everything just to beat out some guy who doesn't understand. Air power IS coming!"
153
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
"I'm doing it for the good of the air force, for the future air force, for the good of you
fellows. I can afford to do it. You can't!"
What General Mitchell implied with this statement was the very thing that he had denied
before Congress in prior testimony, that the line-soldiers of the military were afraid to speak the truth
for fear of reprisal from the superior officers in the command structure. When this charge was
printed in the Saturday Evening Post, Mitchell had all but sealed his own fate.
The generals, of course, denied that soldiers under their command were muzzled under threat
of assignment to some forlorn post for speaking the truth. Yet the following March when Mitchell's
term as Assistant Air Chief expired, he was not reappointed. Secretary Weeks wrote:
"General Mitchell's whole course has been so lawless, so contrary to the building up of
an efficient organization, so lacking in any reasonable team work, so indicative of a
personal desire for publicity at the expense of everyone with whom he is associated, that
his actions render him unfit for a high administrative
position."
With those words and the loss of his position,
Mitchell gave up his single star and reverted again to his
regular rank of Colonel. Mitchell asked General Patrick to
assign him to Chicago where he could oversee the work of
the engineers at McCook Field. Patrick refused, sending
Colonel Mitchell about as far from Washington as he
could--to the small outpost at Fort Sam Houston, Texas.
While the departure of Mitchell was greeted with
joy among those he had offended, he still had a strong circle of friends in Congress, in the media, and
in the general public. His transfer was preceded by much ado, including a visit by Mitchell friend,
Will Rogers, who asked Billy to give him an aerial tour of the Capitol. Mitchell was happy to oblige,
providing the renowned humorist with his first adventure above the earth. "Have you got cotton in
your ears?" Billy asked his friend as he climbed into the cockpit.
Despite his nervousness at his first flight, Rogers smiled back and answered, "I only use that in
the Senate gallery."
Later remarks by Rogers further reflected his opinion of the matter:
"France gave Mitchell the Croix de Guerre, England the Order of the King, and the
Republican Administration gave him the Order of the Tin Can."
"(Billy Mitchell) is the only man ever connected with high-up- aviation in Washington to
use the air for anything but exhaling purposes."
Before Colonel Mitchell departed, a group of his pilots surprised him with a farewell party at
Bolling Field. The group elected one man to speak for the group and he advised the colonel, still
addressing him by his previous rank: "General, we're all going to apply for transfer to go with you. If
they deny the applications, and of course they will, we're all going to resign."
"Sit down, every damn one of you," Mitchell ordered. "This is insurrection. Not one of you will
resign...and that's an order!"
154
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
Recalled one of the officers there that day, "We obeyed him. We obeyed him the rest of our lives-and long after he was dead."
As the defiant man who saw the future and spoke incredible things, then defended them
regardless of the consequences departed for Texas, the Cleveland Press noted:
"We may wait a hundred years before another such display of Courage!"
Perhaps an Explosion
While the Texas transfer removed Mitchell from his platform and his crowds, it couldn't still
his voice. In the spring his newest book titled Winged Defense was published. Quickly discounted by
Mitchell's adversaries, and criticized for the inclusion of cartoons lampooning the now gravely ill
Secretary Weeks, the publisher described the book as "a bomb in the lap of American complacency."
The cartoons, Mitchell tried to explain, had been added by the publisher and "Made Secretary
Weeks laugh as much as anybody else. I think they made everybody laugh."
Any levity in the Navy quickly vanished in the wake of two tragedies in September.
The first was a highly publicized attempt by the Navy to fly three PN-9 airboats from
California to Hawaii. The previous year Army pilots had captured the nation's attention with a flight
around the world (a project Mitchell had urged years before). In response, the Navy tackled the
Pacific only to confront multiplied disaster. One airplane never made it off the ground, the second
landed in the ocean not long after take-off, and all hopes of success hinged on the remaining PN-9.
Mitchell was no fan of the experiment, believing the Navy pilots lacked the training, did not
possess adequate equipment to safely accomplish the mission, and had poorly planned the route and
its support. Still, when it was announced on September 1 that the last radio call from the remaining
PN-9 had announced it was running out of gas 300 miles from Hawaii, Mitchell was respectful. That
night in a radio broadcast he urged all who heard his voice to remember the Navy airmen in their
prayers. "They are just as much martyrs to the progress of civilization as Columbus would have been
had he perished in his voyage to America." (On September 10 Commander John Rodgers and his crew
of the missing PN-9 were rescued at sea after nine days helplessly drifting in their out-of-gas airplane.
Before the welcomed happy ending to the Navy's first disaster that September, an even greater
tragedy would occur...and there would be no happy ending.)
That tragedy involved one of the Navy's newest and largest ships--689 feet long from stem to
stern and numbered "ZR-1". It was one of the few ships not measured in tonnage for it was lighter
than air. It was christened the...
USS Shenandoah
In 1925 the Navy had two of the big airships, one of which was the USS Los Angeles (ZR-3)
that was built at the Zeppelin works in Friedrichshafen, Germany, and appropriated after the war as
155
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
part of the war-debt compensation. The USS Shenandoah was home grown, christened on October 10,
1923, and assigned to the Naval Air Station at Lakehurst, New Jersey.
Admiral Moffett was partial to the airships and considered them among the pride of Naval
aviation. The huge Shenandoah had also become the darling of the media, despite its high price tag.
In the summer of 1925, the Navy decided to show off their wonderful new asset. August and
September marked the traditional state fair season in the Midwest, and the airship's captain,
Commander Zachary Lansdowne was ordered to prepare his ship for a tour of these fairs. The Navy
hoped that the sight of the two-block-long balloon floating over fair crowds would impress the public
with the military might purchased with their dollars, and add positive publicity to the annual winter
lobby for appropriations from Congress the following year.
Commander Lansdowne was regular Navy and was not too happy with his orders. He
envisioned his airship working at sea in cooperation with the fleet, not flying over inland fairgrounds
as part of a propaganda sideshow. In Texas Colonel Billy Mitchell, who was a friend of the
Lansdownes agreed, and expressed his opinion bluntly: "What business has the Navy over the
mountains anyway."
The Navy couldn't care less was Billy Mitchell's thought, and Commander Lansdowne was a
good officer the admirals knew would accept and fulfill his orders regardless of his opinion regarding
them. On September 2 as the Navy prayed and searched for the crew of the missing PN-9 in the
Pacific, Commander Lansdowne was piloting his large airship inland towards Des Moines, Iowa,
where it would hover above the crowds the following day. He comforted himself with the knowledge
that this was his last mission in the airship. In two more weeks he would return to sea duty on a
traditional Navy vessel.
In the darkness of night the Shenandoah rose over the Alleghenies into the plains, and into the
face of an approaching storm. At three in the morning the edges of the storm were buffeting the slow
moving airship and Lieutenant Joseph Anderson advised Commander Lansdowne that he might wish
to change course further south to skirt the high winds and building lightening. Lansdowne was
unshaken. He had weathered storms before at sea and replied, "We've been ordered to fly over a
certain course, and I want to keep that course as long as I can."
At 5 a.m. two of the airships engines began sputtering and the airship began to climb and roll,
unable to fend off the heavy winds. Forty-five minutes of furious activity followed as all hands
struggled to regain control. Two engines failed completely and the airship continued to rise. After
crossing the Alleghenies, Lansdowne had cruised over Ohio at 2,000 feet. By 5:45 the storm had
pushed the large balloon up to 6,200 feet, where it suddenly began to come apart--then broke into
three pieces.
The tail section drifted away and began
to fall to earth. It contained eighteen men, all
but three of whom survived. Four more
crewmen safely descended in the ruptured
midsection, while the bow section climbed as
high as 10,000 feet before the navigator,
Charles Rosendahl, slashed the gas cells.
Slowly the last section of the Shenandoah
drifted earthward, some of the crew including
Rosendahl surviving. Among the dead was
Commander
Lansdowne.
The
USS
156
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
Shenandoah went to its demise joined by fourteen of her crew, including the captain.
As the story broke, the media became quickly aware of Commander Lansdowne's opposition
to this mission, and began speaking of the Navy's misuse of the great airship for public relations, not
military purposes. Reporters eagerly sought for opinions, focusing particularly on two men, the top
man in the Navy and the foremost authority in the world on aerial matters.
The first to respond was Secretary of the Navy, Dwight Wilbur. His comments may have been
the final straw for the man who would respond second. Said the Secretary:
"In view of...the failure of the Hawaiian flight and the Shenandoah disaster we have
come to the conclusion that the Atlantic and the Pacific are still our best defenses. We
have nothing to fear from enemy aircraft that is not on this continent."
Back in Houston, Colonel Billy Mitchell did not immediately respond to the calls of reporters
and telegrams from around the world to give his own opinion. When at last he did speak, many who
heard his words believed that Colonel Billy Mitchell made the gravest mistake of his life.
IT WAS NO MISTAKE!
A "mistake" is something one does when they speak or act without thinking, an error in
judgment one looks back on afterwards and says, "I wish I hadn't done that!" Colonel Mitchell didn't
speak without thinking...he pondered it all, carefully preparing his response for a day and a half. He
knew what needed to be said, certainly understood the consequences before he spoke. As he did
perhaps he recalled one of his last conversations with his friend Hap Arnold, a response to his friend's
pleas to Mitchell to tone down his rhetoric before he crossed the line of no return with the military's
higher command. Mitchell's response:
"When senior officers won't see the facts, you've got to do something
unorthodox...perhaps an explosion!"
The explosion occurred at precisely 5 a.m. on the morning of September 5. Colonel Mitchell
first handed out copies of his carefully drafted 6,080-word response to reporters, then read them a
few lines:
"I have been asked from all parts of the country to give my opinion about the
reasons for the frightful aeronautical accidents and loss of life, equipment and
treasure that has occurred during the last few days.
"This statement therefore is given out publicly by me after mature deliberation and
after a sufficient time has elapsed since the terrible accident to our naval aircraft, to
find out something about what happened.
"About what happened, my opinion is as follows:
"These accidents are the direct result of the incompetency, criminal negligence and
almost treasonable administration of the national defense by the Navy and War
157
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
Departments.
"The bodies of my former companions of the air molder under the soil in America
and Asia, Europe and Africa, many, yes, a great many, sent there directly by official
stupidity."
After a moment of stunned silence, the reporters rushed to be first to publish perhaps the most
inflammatory words every spoken by any soldier in uniform, about the men who commanded him.
Colonel Billy Mitchell had pushed the limit throughout his career and survived because of his
popularity with the public and his admirable war record. This time there was no doubt he had
crossed the line. The result was inescapable....
The Court-martial Of Billy Mitchell
It was a Friday morning when Colonel Mitchell issued his response, and after delivering his
remarks he took the weekend off to fish in the Gulf of Mexico while newspapers across the country
reported and commented on the Mitchell response. The reaction was mixed, from high praise for his
courage in some to damning denunciation for his insubordination in others. Among the military
command there was no argument...Colonel Billy Mitchell had gone too far.
Mitchell honestly expected the Army to place him under arrest on Monday, September 7, when
he returned from his weekend jaunt. By Wednesday he began to fear that, in view of his great
popularity in the media and with veterans groups, the War Department might back down. On
September 9 he issued additional statements including the observation:
"What I have said about the conditions in our national defense hurts the bureaucrats
in Washington. It ought to hurt them, because it's the truth!"
It also became obvious, had it not been before, that Colonel Mitchell was almost aggressively
seeking his own demise. He seemed quite prepared to face the consequences of his actions with the
determination that any trial would focus not so much on the rightness or wrongness of his
insubordination, but the accuracy of his charges. In his scathing September 9 statement he
challenged,
"If an investigation is desired I am eager to have it. But it must be entirely public and
all the evidence must be published for the people to know about...Then and only then will
we begin to get at the actual facts involved and remove it from petty politics and
bureaucratic suppression.
"It does not matter to me whether I am in the Army or not. If the bureaucracies wish to
throw me out they probably have the machine for doing it, and it will be only one more
evidence of the conditions into which our national defense has drifted."
The Morrow Board
158
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
While the War Department struggled with how to deal with Billy Mitchell's latest outrage,
President Calvin Coolidge became the first to act. His response was less of a reaction to Mitchell's
insubordination than it was a reaction to his charges. Earlier in 1925 the President had considered an
investigation into the feasibility of the mounting call for a separate air arm, and had discussed with
his close friend Dwight Morrow the creation of a blue-ribbon panel to launch hearings and report its
findings. Mitchell's actions may or may not have spurred the process, certainly such a panel might
divert some of the attention from the Colonel's media attention, but at any rate the panel was
established almost immediately after the Mitchell's second press conference.
While the Army was still investigating Mitchell and determining how to respond, Mitchell was
summoned to Washington, DC, to testify before the Morrow Board. Hearings opened on Monday,
September 21, and the Mitchell's arrived at Union Station in the Capitol the following Friday. He was
met by a throng of 10,000 supporters including members of two American Legion Posts that carried
him through the throng on their shoulders while shouting, "We fought once...we'll fight for you now!"
Hap Arnold ushered the Mitchell's to his car and drove them to their hotel. For the remainder of the
weekend Colonel Billy Mitchell was the honored guest, and hero, of local veterans groups in functions
throughout the city.
Billy and Betty enjoyed a relaxing Monday together before Colonel Mitchell's September 29
appearance before the Morrow Board. They arrived together at the House Office Building just as
Benjamin Foulois was wrapping up his own testimony. Ironically, Foulois' testimony was just as
acrimonious as were Mitchell's words:
"I was one of the first men to fly a plane for the Army, in 1908. I remember that in
1910 I was allowed only $150 to keep our plane going--and I had to spend $300 out of my
own pocket to do it.
"I say our lack of team work today is due to the utter ignorance of the General Staff in
90 percent of the Air Service problems."
For his own part, years later Foulois expressed surprise that it was Billy Mitchell and not
himself that was court-martialed for his blatant words. Even so, Mitchell remained bitter enemies
even after Mitchell's death, and Foulois was never called to testify in the subsequent court-martial
proceedings.
Before the Morrow Board, Mitchell was far less impressive than others who testified. For two
days before the Board, Colonel Mitchell spent most of his time reading from his recently published
book Winged Defense, even after one board member advised Mitchell in frustration that all the
members of the Board had already read his book. It is doubtful that Colonel Mitchell expected the
Morrow Board to give a favorable review to his concept of an independent air arm anyway.
Mitchell did address some new points, particularly with the Shenandoah tragedy, charging
that the Navy had violated the law with its propaganda mission. Congressman Carl Vincent asked
Mitchell what laws the Navy had violated.
"The section which restricts Navy air activities to sea," he replied. Vincent indicated that
Mitchell's interpretation of the law might be too broad, to which the Colonel responded: "The
Shenandoah was sent on a propaganda mission. The law was evaded, not exactly disobeyed. The orders
for the trip were from non flying officers. The inquiry will bring that out."
The inquiry to which Colonel Mitchell referred was the Navy's own investigation into the
Shenandoah tragedy, scheduled to begin almost immediately. Colonel Mitchell was called before that
159
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
board in early October. Mitchell refused to be sworn in, his attorney arguing that no subpoena had
been issued. When Admiral Hillary Jones, president of the court of inquiry, produced a subpoena,
Mitchell gave his only official response of the Shenandoah Inquiry:
"I am advised by my counsel that it would be inconsistent with my legal rights and
might jeopardize my case, should I be required to testify before the naval court on matters
likely to be the subject of inquiry in possible court-martial proceedings."
Colonel Mitchell had already said all he needed to about the Shenandoah tragedy, and he left it
to the Navy to hang themselves, which they did in a most unflattering way.
In the hours after the Shenandoah had fallen to earth in pieces, souvenir hunters had invaded
the scene of the disaster. The site had been picked virtually clean. Someone even went so far as to steal
the Annapolis Class Ring from the dead finger of Captain Lansdowne. During the official inquiry the
media learned that the indignities heaped upon the victims had not ended there. Bodies of the dead
naval airmen had been shipped home in underwear, crude wooden caskets, and with little regard for
the family. Navy regulations permitted the payment of up to $150 for burial of a man who died in
service, but the cleanup at the site and shipment of the bodies back to Lakehurst alone had exceeded
the allotted amount. From Lakehurst the dead aviators had been sent home by the most economical
means. Families who had submitted funeral bills to the Department of the Navy saw the bills returned
to them without remuneration.
Billy Mitchell was now preparing his defense for the court-martial scheduled to begin on
September 28. It would prove to be quite costly, despite the fact that his chosen counsel took the job
pro bono. Despite these looming expenses, when Liberty magazine sent Mitchell a check for $1,000
(after the September 5 press conference Mitchell had agreed to do an article for Liberty), Colonel
Mitchell simply endorsed it and sent it on to Margaret Lansdowne. The widow of the Shenandoah's
commander was instructed to share the sizable donation with the families of the other victims.
Colonel Mitchell selected as his counsel, freshman Illinois Congressman Frank R. Reid, who
was a great proponent of air power. Clayton Bissell was appointed assistant defense counsel and the
team went to work in Reid's Congressional office to put their case together—in only three weeks.
Both men realized that they faced a virtually impossible situation. Bissell recalled:
"We quickly decided that Mitchell was guilty as charged, with insubordination and
conduct prejudicial to the service. We even convinced him that he would be found guilty.
Reid asked what point we wanted to make, in that event--and we agreed that the trial had
to be used to educate the American people on aviation, to make national defense mean
something."
The night before the trial began Colonel Mitchell echoed that sentiment. Pounding on the table
for effect he stated with vigor: "I'm not afraid of what the court will do to me. I'll fight on to get a real
department of national defense, no matter what happens."
When Billy Mitchell, his wife Betty, and his attorney's walked into the old and long-empty
warehouse called the Emory Building at nine o'clock on the morning of September 28, it was to face
some of the best recognized names of the United States Army. During one of the breaks during the
days that followed, Mitchell remarked to someone nearby: "MacArthur looks like he's been drawn
through a knothole."
General Douglas MacArthur, one of six major generals on the court, later wrote that his
orders to determine the fate of Billy Mitchell were "one of the most distasteful orders I ever received."
160
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
Six brigadier generals joined the august group. Colonel Blanton Winship was appointed to interpret
law for the members.
Virtually all of the men appointed to hear testimony and find Billy Mitchell either guilty or
innocent of violating the 96th Article of War were acquaintances; some were even close friends of the
accused. President of the court was Major General Charles P. Summerall, whose command in Hawaii
had been blasted by Mitchell little more than a year earlier.
The first order of trial was the qualifications of the judges to hear the evidence and render a
fair verdict. Colonel Sherman Moreland, the Trial Judge Advocate (prosecutor) wasted little time in
approving all of them. It was the most august and highest-ranking court ever assembled. Each of the
generals was steeped in the Army's traditions, and all understood well the importance of subordinates
adhering to orders and protocol. Despite the friendship some had maintained with Colonel Mitchell,
the inappropriateness of his actions would stand out starkly to these old-school military commanders.
When it came Reid's turn he first challenged Brigadier General Albert Bowley. Only a week
earlier Bowley had debunked Mitchell's concepts of air power and a unified department of defense
with the words: "A single air service? Do we want this? The backbone of the army is the infantry!" The
other judges retired in private to take the matter under advisement. When they returned, General
Bowley was excused.
Next Reid challenged Major General Summerall, President of the Court. It was an electric
moment, General Summerall displaying a good deal of repressed anger. When the judges returned
after retiring in private to consider the merits of this challenge, General Summerall was excused.
As General Sumerall left the room he finally gave voice to his anger: "Only ten minutes before
court convened I shook hands with him. Now it's all over. We're enemies, Mitchell and I."
Replacing Summerall at the head of the Court was Major
General Robert Lee Howze, an old cavalry officer who had graduated
from West Point in 1888, earned a Medal of Honor at White River, SD,
less than three years later, commanded the U.S. Fourth Division in the
Great War, and risen steadily to become one of the Army's true old war
horses. Those who knew Howze expected him to be fair, but strict and
unyielding in maintaining control of the proceedings.
Before the jury selection process was completed, the prosecution
dismissed Major General Fred Sladen. Unlike General Sumerall,
General Sladen seemed truly relieved to be excused from the
undesirable task that lay before the remaining nine generals.
"I consider this the most august tribunal that has ever been called upon to act on any question
since the Magna Carta," Frank Reid announced.
And thus began the court martial of Colonel William Billy Mitchell.
161
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
96th Article Of War
Though not mentioned in these Articles, all disorders and neglects
to the prejudice of good order and military discipline, all conduct
of a nature to bring discredit upon the military service...shall be
taken cognizance of by a...court-martial and punished at the
discretion of such court.
162
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
FRIDAY, October 30, 1925
The charges against Colonel Mitchell numbered some 52 pages, all
of them related to the broad language of the 96th Article of War. Mitchell
faced eight specific charges and was asked to stand and state his plea to the
general issue.
"NOT GUILTY," he answered is a clear, strong voice.
Each of the eight charges was then read. Four related to his
September 5 conduct; and then four more (the same charges just a
different date) related to his September 9 statements:
1. That Colonel Mitchell, in his statement of September 5, conducted himself "to the
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
prejudice of good order and military discipline";
That his statement was "insubordinate";
That his statement was "highly contemptuous and disrespectful" and intended to
discredit the War Department;
The same four specifications as those cited, but referring to the Navy Department.
That Colonel Mitchell, in his statement of September 9, conducted himself "to the
prejudice of good order and military discipline";
That his statement was "insubordinate";
That his statement was "highly contemptuous and disrespectful" and intended to
discredit the War Department;
The same four specifications as those cited, but referring to the Navy Department.
As each count was read, Colonel Mitchell again announced his plea: "Not Guilty!" That
finished, court recessed for the weekend.
If the generals that stood in judgment of Billy Mitchell comprised the most august tribunal that
has ever been called, the parade of witnesses that followed was a veritable "who's-who" of American
heroes. One of the first was Major Carl Tooey
Spaatz who spoke of the sad state of American air
power and announced that, if he could pull all of
the administrative officers away from their desks,
he might be able to field a force of 15 pursuit
aircraft.
"Do you think aviation is being held back
and repressed by the War Department," Reid asked.
The prosecution objected to the question as
calling for a conclusion from the witness.
Before General Howze could rule on the
objection, Spaatz shouted, "I do!" to applause
from the audience.
163
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
The days that followed provided a parade of airmen, virtually all demonstrating their support
for Colonel Mitchell and validating his charges with their testimony about the sad state of American
air power. Observers were puzzled by the course the trial was taking. Little testimony related to
whether or not Billy Mitchell was guilty of the charges, most centered on the veracity of his
statements. In September the New York Times had predicted:
"If the War Department decides to call Colonel Mitchell before a court-martial, the
simple issue will be whether he has been guilty of disrespect to his superiors and
insubordination. It will not be mismanagement of the air service."
General Howze had already indicated that validation of Mitchell's claim that air power had
been suppressed or that the September disasters had been the result of incompetence, criminal
negligence and almost treasonable administration would have no bearing on the verdict. It was Billy
Mitchell who was on trial, NOT the War Department or the Department of the Navy.
For this reason most didn't expect the trial to last more than a few days. It didn't take long to
read the words Mitchell had spoken on September 5 and 9, and compare them to the broad standards
of the 96th Article of War. To the surprise of almost everyone, the court seemed to be giving the
accused wide latitude to educate the public. And that was exactly what Mitchell had wanted,
regardless of how he got there or what it might cost him personally.
The cost was indeed great, and not only for Colonel Mitchell. There was a groundswell of
support for Mitchell and one of the organizers for that effort was Ira Eaker who later stated, "We
talked over how taking part in Mitchell's trial would jeopardize our careers and decided to go ahead
anyhow. (Major Henry) Arnold was the inspirational leader in that decision by this little group. When
Hap Arnold took the stand his testimony was pointed and, at times, vehement as to the sorry state of
American air power. After the trial Arnold was sent far from Washington for many years, and
believed that this was a banishment imposed upon him for his support of Mitchell and his testimony at
odds with the War Department.
On November 10 Reid called Mr. William G. Schauffler who had commanded a squadron of
the 90th Observation Group in France. There he had shot down a German plane on October 1, 1918
at the height of the Meuse-Argonne Offensive. Disheartened by what he saw happening in military
aviation after the war, Schauffler had left the Army in disgust. He did still serve as a reserve officer
in the Army Air Corps and was in command of six reserve squadrons. One of these was the squadron
based in Washington, DC.
He testified that his squadrons existed only on paper, had no airplanes, and had mustered only
once...to participate in a parade.
"Then why do you remain in the position you're in?" Reid asked.
"God knows, I don't!" Schauffler answered.
The parade of war heroes was an appropriate prelude to Armistice Day, November 11, 1925. A
few minutes before eleven o'clock General Howze called a recess to observe a two-minute moment of
silence for the men who had died in the Great War. Then the trial resumed, most of the testimony
centering on Mitchell's charges that American defenses in the Pacific were weak and poorly
organized. Among the witnesses called was Major Gerald Brant of the Air Service, a member of the
General Staff.
164
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
"Did General Mitchell make a report on the Hawaiian Island?" Reid asked.
"He made a report on the conditions in the Pacific which included the Hawaiian
Islands, in October, 1924," Major Brant answered.
"When did this report reach you through channels?"
"Saturday."
"Do you mean LAST Saturday?"
"Yes sir."
"What is the opinion of the War Plans Division on this report?"
"It stated that these recommendations were based on General Mitchell's personal
opinions and therefore no consideration need be given them."
"Can you produce Colonel Mitchell's report for this court?
"Probably not, since they deal with strategy."
The irony of this testimony was evident to all. Mitchell's report from his nine-month Pacific
tour in 1923-24 had been considered ill conceived and baseless. It had been shuffled off to some
forgotten pigeonhole in the War Department as worthless. Now, the War Department wanted to
classify it as secret and ultimately did. (Not until 1958 was that report declassified, and by then, most
of what Mitchell had predicted had come to pass.)
On that same Armistice Day the court announced a stunning reversal in policy that many
hailed as Mitchell's first victory of the trial. General Howze announced that defense evidence that
substantiated Mitchell's charges against the Navy and War Departments would be considered as
mitigating factors in his statements of September 5 and 9. If he could prove his own charges accurate,
the court would exonerate him. It was the first sign of hope for a trial whose outcome had been
certain before it began.
The day after Armistice Day Mitchell received a telegram from the members of the New York
American Legion. They had sought to have Mitchell released to speak for their convention on
Armistice Day, only to be denied. Since late October, Mitchell had been under arrest and was
forbidden to leave the Capitol. The telegram said:
Greetings from your buddies. America loves a man with guts!
1,892 years ago a packed court-martial condemned a courageous
soldier for telling the truth so don't worry.
We are all with you and we don't mean maybe!
That same day Reid called more war heroes to the stand, including two men who had
established enviable combat records in the air, then left the Army after the war for other pursuits.
The first was Reed Chambers, the great ace of the 94th Aero Squadron who, had shot down seven
enemy aircraft. Chambers had now turned his attention to commercial aviation. There was no future
in the Army.
165
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
was a man who had gone to war as a chauffer to be rescued
from that humdrum position by Billy Mitchell and given the chance to
fly. He came home wearing nine Distinguished Service Crosses for his
prowess in the air, and left Army aviation to build automobiles (though
within a few years of the trial he would return to the skies in
commercial aviation.) His testimony began with the proclamation, "It
is a crime against posterity!" He was one of the best known of
America's heroes, Eddie Rickenbacker. His support of Mitchell both
on the stand and in public was without reservation.
Next
Rickenbacker voiced his frustration during World War I of
sending airmen into battle without parachutes. He testified that
American air power was sorely inadequate and that the United States
ranked eighth in the world in terms of air power.
He berated the War Department for its lack of new airplanes
and a policy of relegating pilots to using leftover planes from the war.
"It is dangerous to have them on hand," he announced. "The graveyards throughout
the United States show that, located or attached to the flying fields."
The prosecution objected, and had the graveyard remark stricken from the record. When the
prosecution challenged Rickenbacker at one point and asked him if he would be surprised to see that
the official records differed from his testimony, Rick responded somewhat sarcastically, "I wouldn't
be surprised by ANYTHING the records show!" His words continued to ring loud and clear throughout
the courtroom as he unflinchingly pronounced:
"This nation owes General Mitchell a debt of gratitude for daring to speak the truth.
He has learned his lessons from the only real teacher--experience.
"This nation will pay the price of their selfishness. Not perhaps in this generation but
in that of the boys who are growing up today or their sons. The unified air service is the
life insurance of our national security."
"One-tenth of one percent of the money now wasted on national defense, if put
intelligently into aircraft, would give us some real protection. The Army is helpless without
aircraft, so is the Navy."
The trial had stretched into three weeks of debate over the War Department's handling of the
Air Service and praise for Colonel Mitchell. The message differed little and the daily reports were
becoming trite. Before calling the witness that would renew media attention, Reid called Colonel O. C.
Pierce, a personnel officer. At one point Reid questioned him about pilot ratings. Colonel Pierce
advised the court that the Air Service had only about thirty pilots who were rated as superior. Reid
asked Pierce to break down these pilots according to their type of aircraft.
"One attack, twenty-one pursuit, five bombardment, and one unclassified."
"What is the unclassified one?"
"He flies anything."
"What is his name? Have you got anybody in that list?"
"General Mitchell is the unclassified one," Pierce announced, ignoring the fact that
Mitchell no longer wore a star on his shoulder.
166
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
Testimony from a Navy Widow
She was not a secret witness—Reid had been
advising the media for days that she would be called to
testify. Still a current of electric excitement and
fascination rippled through the courtroom when, towards
the middle of November, Frank Reid announced:
"The defense calls as its next witness,
Margaret Ross Lansdowne."
When the pretty, young widow of the captain of the ill-fated Shenandoah walked into the
Emory Building, the entire courtroom rose in reverence and General Howze bowed to greet her
respectfully. Reid quickly established that Mrs. Lansdowne had testified, several weeks earlier,
before the official Navy inquiry into the disaster that had killed her husband. (That inquiry was still
being conducted concurrent with the Mitchell trial.) Before the Naval inquiry, Mrs. Lansdowne had
been somewhat reserved and her testimony contained almost nothing newsworthy. All that changed in
the Mitchell trial.
It had been Mitchell's charges against the Department of the Navy after the Shenandoah
disaster that had set in motion the events leading to this trial. The Navy had done its best to refute
Mitchell's accusations, even prompting many believed, the reaction by the brother of the airship's
navigator Charles Rosendahl to pen an open letter to the Houston Chronicle stating: "You (Mitchell)
have no place in the service of your country when you have so little respect for its authority."
Mitchell had refused to testify before the Navy's official inquiry, citing conflicts with the
defense of his own case. The true fact of the matter was, as had been borne out in previous Mitchell
statements to the media, that Billy expected nothing positive to come of the "whitewash board."
Mitchell was sure that the Navy would take care of its own, would gloss over facts and manipulate the
hearing to clear itself of any wrongdoing in the tragedy. Just how far the Navy would go to
accomplish this exoneration comprised the majority of Mrs. Lansdowne's testimony.
Prosecutors in the Mitchell trial did their best to prevent the testimony that followed, an
account by Mrs. Lansdowne indicating pressure by the Navy to influence her testimony in the
Shenandoah inquiry--even to the point of perjury. Captain Paul Foley had sent a communication to
her prior to her testimony.
"It was delivered to me the day before the court (hearing)," she testified in a strong,
clear voice.
"Have you a copy of this communication?" Reid asked.
"I have not--I tore it up."
Reid read a portion of Mrs. Lansdowne's subsequent testimony: "My husband was very much
opposed to this flight and protested as vigorously as any officer is allowed to do to his superiors. Everyone
knows that in the military or naval services, orders are given to be obeyed and no officer cares to earn the
stigma of cowardice or insubordination."
167
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
Throughout Mrs. Lansdowne's testimony the prosecution found itself facing some of the most
damning testimony yet, words that more vividly verified Mitchell's charges than anything that had
been heard before. Throughout the morning and into the afternoon they bombarded Reid with
objection after objection. Reid fought them back at every turn and managed to get most of Mrs.
Lansdowne's story told. When he finished and turned to the prosecution for cross-examination, the
testimony became even more damning.
Though the prosecutors could argue vehemently with Reid, to attack Mrs. Lansdowne under
cross-examination would have been a public relations blunder for sure. The strong but visibly sad
lady before them was only twenty-three years old, and had lost her husband only three months
earlier. When she was asked to relate the visit she had received from Captain Foley PRIOR to
receiving his communiqué, her story demonstrated that the Navy had shown no such effort to spare
her feelings after the tragedy.
"Captain Foley sought to impress me with the importance of the court and told me that
the court had all the powers of any federal court and that the solemnity of my appearance
was very great and that I should be sure to tell the truth.
"He then asked me what I was going to say and I answered him that I preferred to
make my own statement to the (Shenandoah inquiry) court.
"He asserted that he wanted to find out what I had on my mind, and please to get if off
(my mind), and said, 'Let's rehearse the statement you are going to make to the court. Tell
me the entire thing you are going to say.' I answered again that I did not want to make my
statement.
"He told me that I had no right to say that the flight was a political flight, as the
taxpayers in the Middle West had a perfect right to see their property, to which I answered
that in the case of a battleship you wouldn't take it out to the Great Lakes and interest the
taxpayers in the property.
"He answered that it couldn't be done--and I said that it couldn't in the case of the
Shenandoah, but they (the Navy) were so stupid it had to be proven to them."
Mrs. Lansdowne's testimony was followed by a parade of witnesses designed to demonstrate
that the Shenandoah tragedy had indeed been the result of ignorance on the part of the Department of
the Navy. Perhaps the most explosive testimony came near the end of this line of examination when
Ernest Sheehan, a newspaper reporter took the stand. Based near the Ohio field where the broken
airship had fallen, he had been one of the first on the scene and the first to interview survivors. Under
oath he testified that these aviators had spoken freely with him until officials from the Navy arrived.
"Commander Klein (one of those officials) requested me not to write the cause of the wreck...(he) knew
what I had because I told him...He asked me not to mix in it."
Reid asked with mock incredulity if Sheehan was intimating that Commander Klein was
urging him to suppress the facts of the disaster. "That was the impression I got," Sheehan answered.
Though there was some powerful testimony in that fourth full week of the trial to excoriate the
Navy's ill-fated propaganda mission for the Shenandoah, after the stirring story shared by Mrs.
Lansdowne it appeared somewhat lackluster. Then on November 19, one of the Navy's own took the
stand. While he made it clear from the outset that he disagreed with Mitchell's call for a separate air
force, he was poignant in his frank words about the Navy's handling of aviation.
168
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
The admiral was now sixty-four years old with snowy-white hair, but he spoke with clarity and
purpose. There he also spoke without fear of reprisal for he had retired three years earlier. That
might not have mattered anyway--Admiral William Sims had always spoke his mind and damn the
consequences. Before the Mitchell hearing he announced:
"The Navy Department hasn't any defined policy (regarding air power). It is going
along from day to day, more or less in a higgley-piggledy way."
Sims patently condemned the decision by the Navy to send the Shenandoah on its propaganda
mission and testified that he believed that indeed young officers were afraid to speak their true
convictions. To do so would jeopardize one's career and advancement.
Admiral Sims finished his testimony on Thursday and was followed the next day by a few
more witnesses before Reid announced that he was finished. On Monday, November 23, Colonel
Mitchell would take the stand in his own defense. It was the point in the trial the entire
country...perhaps indeed the world, had been waiting for.
Colonel Mitchell's testimony in actuality consumed only about one day in the seven-week trial.
For nearly seven years he had spoken his messages...before Congress, in detailed reports to the War
Department, in articles for publication, before Veterans' groups and the general public, and especially
in his recently published book. Ironically, a good deal of his cross-examination was directed not at the
veracity of the air theory espoused in Winged Defense, but the originality of them. (To this day
Mitchell historians often are quick to point out that many of Mitchell's concepts were derived from
his associations with men like Sir Trenchard, Benjamin Foulois, and others.) The Colonel was
repeatedly bombarded with questions to determine which of his statements were based on fact and
which were based upon personal opinion. It became a long and for the most part, exceedingly banal
sparing match.
There were times that it would seem as if a distant light sparkled in his eyes as he spoke of the
future of air power, but these moments tended to lend credence to the opinion that Mitchell had
perhaps become so focused on air power that he had lost touch with reality. Some of his
recommendations and predictions were preposterous in 1925:
 Aircraft carriers capable of carrying a hundred bombers or pursuit aircraft
 A gliding bomb that could be launched from airplanes and then guided for up to ten miles to
its target
 Winged bombs with accurate controls for target acquisition
 A program to train and grade aviation mechanics for military service
 A meteorological service to track weather patterns for aviation
 Amphibious airplanes for rescue work
 All metal bombers and bombers with as many as FOUR engines
 A defense strategy for the Pacific based out of Alaska and supported by a strong air force
 Development of instruments to enable aircraft to fly in fog
 Bombers with a range of thousands of miles, capable of crossing either ocean that framed the
United States
 Observation planes that could fly as high as 30,000 feet
As to the charges leveled in the Shenandoah tragedy, did Mitchell believe his facts were accurate?
"More so than ever. Now I KNOW they are true."
169
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
With regard to the military's propaganda machine and the muzzling of officers, had Colonel
Mitchell ever given information to the media while in service as Assistant Chief of the Air Service?
"Often. There was no other way of getting the truth out, I found."
In 1913 hadn't Mitchell issued a statement opposing separation of the Air Service from the
Signal Corps?
"Yes...and I never made a worse statement!"
A titter of laughter went through the courtroom at the candid remark. Major Gullion then
turned to General Howze and surprised everyone in the room when he announced:
"We are through with the witness."
Before the (Thanksgiving) holiday recess, Congressman Fiorello LaGuardia took the stand.
"It's not convenient for me to come," he had told Clayton Bissell when he'd called for the
Congressman's help, "but I'll be there."
Reporters got to the Congressmen at his hotel room early in the morning of his court
appearance. From there it was on to the Emory Building where the World War I veteran pilot told
the court that New York City would be helpless before an attack from the air by a foreign enemy. By
the time Reid had finished questioning the fiery young Congressman, the words from his early
morning press conference had reached the streets.
When Gullion began cross-examination, he looked with some annoyance at LaGuardia. "The
newspapers recently quoted you as saying, 'Billy Mitchell isn't being tried by a jury of his peers but by
nine beribboned dogrobbers of the General Staff.' Were you correctly quoted?"
"I didn't say 'beribboned'." LaGuardia deadpanned.
The courtroom burst into laughter and General Howze struggled to regain control. The
President of the Court looked at the Congressman and stated: "The court would like to have you
explain what was meant by your characterization of this court."
"From my experience as a member of Congress and from my contact with the General
Staff, I'm convinced that the training, the background, the experience and the attitude of
officers of high rank of the Army are conducive to carrying out the wishes and desires of
the General Staff....I want to say that, at that time, I didn't know General MacArthur was
on this court."
Again the room broke into laughter and MacArthur looked up uncomfortably. For most of the
proceedings he had tried to remain conspicuously, inconspicuous.
Court resumed on Monday, the last day of November and the same day on which the Morrow
Board submitted its report to President Coolidge. The disappointing but anticipated conclusion was
at odds with Mitchell's call for a separate air force. Despite this recommendation from the committee
that had spent two months interviewing 99 witnesses, a board that in hindsight some believe was
seated when it was to counteract the charges anticipated in Mitchell's trial, the Morrow Report was a
small victory for the Air Service. It recommended renaming the Air Service to the "Air Corps," a
small step away from the concept of air power as an auxiliary (service organization) to the Army. It
further encouraged representation on the General Staff and advocated offices of the Assistant
Secretary of the Army and of the Navy and of Commerce be established for the air services.
170
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
Ultimately it would lead to the U.S. Army Air Corps Act of 1926, which also included a five-year
buildup of American air power.
Among the first witnesses called in this last phase of the Mitchell trial was Navy pilot John
Rodgers of the ill-fated PN-9 flight to Hawaii. Commander Rodgers did his best to portray the
mission in a light favorable to the Navy, refuting Mitchell's claims that it was a publicity stunt. It was,
he told the court, an effort to practice navigation and to qualify the Navy's aviators.
"You haven't a single qualified aviator in the Navy?" Reid asked.
"That's what we're trying to do, qualify ourselves," Rodgers responded.
On the first day of December, the well known and widely admired Admiral Richard Byrd was
called to the stand. His presence was notable, but his testimony was lackluster next to the objections
and wrangling between Reid and Gullion. The sparing continued for the next several days as the
prosecution presented a series of witnesses to refute the testimony of the Mitchell supporters. The
Shenandoah's navigator, Lieutenant Commander Charles Rosendal, testified that Commander
Lansdowne had never protested the flight that had resulted in the disaster of September 3. That
flight, subsequent high-ranking Naval officers testified, had been ordered for "training and
development of the ship," not for propaganda purposes.
Even some of those who testified for the prosecution found themselves agreeing with Mitchell
far too much to suit the prosecutors. Several planned witnesses were never placed on the witness
stand when Gullion realized their support was for the accused. Thurman Bane had been Chief of
Engineering at McCook Field through Mitchell's bombing tests, and the two had often clashed. Bane
had once commented to another, "You shouldn't fool with Mitchell. He's crazy." Called out of
retirement to testify against Mitchell, he was quickly dropped from the list of witnesses when the
Army realized he would support the accused. Bane even apologized to Mitchell for his past criticism.
Mitchell just smiled and replied,
"Forget it. All that's water over the dam. We've got to work together now, and save air
power."
Such was the general nature of Colonel Mitchell through much of the trial. It was almost as if
he never realized it was his life—-his career—that was at stake. Even in the face of the most scathing
rebuke from prosecution witnesses, Mitchell tended not to take anything personally. It was both
frustrating--and admirable. Those who testified against him might have felt more comfortable had the
man glared at them, or rebuffed them. Instead, he seemed focused only on his hypothesis, never on
the personal attack. After the trial he remained friends with MacArthur, and two of his judges
(General McCoy and Colonel Winship) became godfathers to his children.
One of the last witnesses in the seven-week trial was the previously excused President of the
Court, General Summerall. He blasted Mitchell's report on combat conditions in the Pacific. When
questioned about his "Mitchell and I are now enemies" quote to the media upon being excused from
the trial, he denied making the statement despite a demeanor that gave evidence to just such an
opinion. Even so, somewhere during the hearing or shortly thereafter General Summerall made a
statement that would become a lasting tribute to the colonel...
"Mitchell is one of that damned kind of soldier who's wonderful in war
and terrible in peace!"
171
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
On the morning of December 17, General Howze called for arguments to sum up the case.
Mitchell turned to Reid and asked him to remain seated, then rose to face the generals himself. The
court had reneged on its November 11 policy that it would consider the substantiation of the
statements precipitating Mitchell's trial as a mitigating factor to his guilt under the 96th Article of
War. In a clear, strong voice he addressed the court:
"My trial before this court-martial is the culmination of the efforts of the General Staff
of the Army and the General Board of the Navy to depreciate the value of air power and
keep it in auxiliary position, which absolutely compromised the whole system of national
defense.
"The truth of every statement which I have made has been proved by good and
sufficient evidence before this court, not by men who gained their knowledge of aviation by
staying on the ground and having their statements prepared by numerous staff...but by
actual fliers.
"To proceed with the case would serve no useful purpose. I have therefore directed my
counsel to entirely close out our part of the proceeding without argument."
Major Gullion could not be so casual. Against the recommendation of Colonel Moreland,
Gullion launched into a diatribe of scathing rebuke for Mitchell and a plethora of flowering praise for
the generals who sat in judgment. He even provided mimeographed copies of his summation to the
press. As the court took a noon recess, one of the spectators rushed forward to put an arm around
Colonel Mitchell and tell him, "The people are with you, Billy. Keep punching. You'll rope 'em yet."
Years later Mitchell remembered those warm words from a good friend as, "a moment of
tenderness--the one moment of all that nightmare which I'll never forget." It had been one of the few
times Will Rogers ever made a statement without a humorous punch line.
Following lunch, Colonel Moreland reversed himself and gave his own closing statement,
telling the court: "I do not believe that this court has any right to send out into the Army again an officer
about whom there can be any question as to loyalty, as to subordination, as to his complete dedication to
the best interests of the service."
The prosecution then rested and Howze
asked Reid again if the defense wished to say
anything further. "Nothing." Reid replied. All that
could be said had been said and no one doubted the
outcome.
It took only half an hour for the court to
render a verdict, little more than another hour to
determine the punishment. As twilight spread across
the Washington Monument, in the dreary confines
of the old Emory Building, Colonel William Billy
Mitchell stood to his feet as each of the specifications
against him were read. After each count the finding
was announced--nine times including the general
charge. Nine times the court announced:
GUILTY!
172
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
When the verdicts had all been read General Howze announced: "The court upon secret written
ballot, two-thirds of the members present concurring, sentences the accused to be suspended from rank,
command and duty with the forfeiture of all pay and allowances for five years."
That secret written ballot remained a true secret, though Betty Mitchell later claimed that General Howze
told her there had been a split verdict. Billy Mitchell was himself convinced that the verdict had not been
unanimous, and went to his grave at least hoping that his boyhood friend Douglas MacArthur had cast a
dissenting ballot. Fiorello LaGuardia later told a Mitchell biographer that a janitor had found the
crumpled ballots in a wastebasket; one marked "Not Guilty"—in the penmanship of Douglas MacArthur.
In 1945 General MacArthur wrote Senator Alexander Wiley of Wisconsin advising that he had cast
the lone dissenting vote. He further claimed Mitchell knew this before his death, and expressed his
appreciation for that. In his memoirs MacArthur recalled of his boyhood friend:
"When the verdict was reached, many believed I had betrayed my friend...Nothing could
be further from the truth. I did what I could in his behalf and I helped save him from
dismissal. That he was wrong in the violence of his language is self-evident; that he was
right in his thesis is equally true and incontrovertible.
"Had he lived through World War II he would have seen the fulfillment of many of his
prophecies."
Rightly or wrongly, Douglas MacArthur never could shake the ghost of the court-martial of Billy
Mitchell. Years later when he commanded American forces in the South Pacific, he never fully gained
the confidence of American airmen who believed he'd betrayed a friend.
The Mitchell's took the verdict and the sentence quite in stride,
Mitchell walking to the front of the courtroom to shake hands with each of
the judges before he left the Emory Building. The verdict at least, was not
unexpected. The sentence, many people felt, had been far more lenient than
anyone could have hoped for. He could have been dismissed summarily and
completely from the Army.
Frank Reid told the media: "They may think they have silenced
Mitchell, but his ideas will go marching on, and those who crucified him will be
the first to put his aviation suggestions into practice. He is a 1925 John
Brown."
Therein may have been the true reason for the lenient verdict, at least in the supposition of
some. By retaining Mitchell in the Army under suspension of rank and command, the War
Department at least still maintained some control over the uncontrollable Billy Mitchell.
While several in Congress threatened to raise a storm of support for Mitchell after the
Christmas holidays, it never fully materialized. On January 26, 1926, President Calvin Coolidge
approved the findings and the sentence of the court-martial judges. Mitchell in turn sent a note to the
Adjutant General:
"I hereby tender my resignation as an officer in the United States Army, to
take effect on February 1, 1926."
173
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
It was probably the only time Mitchell sent something in writing to the Army command
structure that it wasn't immediately ignored. On February 1, 1926, Billy Mitchell became a civilian.
Billy Mitchell could not, and would not, be silenced. In the years after becoming a civilian, he
continued to speak, and write prolifically. He wrote a wonderful story of the life of a great but
unconventional American General...his old mentor Adolphus Greeley. He continued to promote
aviation, call for a unified air force and warn of the dangers of war in the Pacific.
On February 19, 1935, William Billy Mitchell died in his bed of complications from influenza.
He was fifty-six years old, but in his own words, had lived three lives. Rumors that the Army denied
him burial at Arlington were false; Billy Mitchell wanted to go home to his native Wisconsin. He was
buried at Forest Home Cemetery in Milwaukee after a simple funeral. Joining the relatives who
served as pallbearers was General Frank McCoy, one of the court-martial judges.
Six years later on October 15, 1941, Congressman McCormack introduced H.J. 240 in the 77th
Congress. It read:
WHEREAS the late William L. Mitchell faithfully and honorably carried out his
duties as a brigadier general in the Air Service of the United States Army
during the World War, having served fearlessly throughout 14 major
actions; and
WHEREAS the march of events has proven the wisdom of many
recommendations made to Congress by the said late William L. Mitchell
during 1924 and 1925; and
WHEREAS it is the desire of Congress to honor the memory of the said late
William L. Mitchell:
THEREFORE BE IT
RESOLVED by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United
States of America in Congress assembled,
That the Secretary of War is authorized and directed to make the records of the
War Department indicate that the late William L. Mitchell's rank of
brigadier general has been restored as of the effective date of his
resignation from the Army; and
THE President of the United States is hereby authorized to issue the necessary
commissions or documents incident to the restoration of such rank.
Fifty-six days later the moment Billy Mitchell had feared and warned his country to prepare
for, happened in the most tragic of manners. On the morning of December 7, 1941, the unified air
service of Japan attacked Ford Island on the Island of Oahu. The most powerful fleet in the world
was crushed beneath a torrent of bombs, and nearly 200 American airplanes were destroyed on the
ground where they were parked. More than 2,000 Americans died that day. The attack commenced at
7:55 a.m. on a Sunday morning. Billy Mitchell's warning to America in 1924 had been off—by
twenty-five minutes.
Within ten hours Japanese aircraft made a nearly simultaneous strike on Clark Field in the
Philippine Islands, virtually destroying America's air force in the South Pacific. It was 12:30 p.m.
local time...Mitchell had missed that one by less than two hours.
174
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
Shortly before Mitchell's death in 1935, he had an
emotional conversation with his good friend, Alfred Verville.
Mitchell knew that his heart was failing and told his friend:
"All I wish is that I could stick around to finish up--and I want to
be around for the next big show."
"What do you mean, General?" Verville asked.
"I mean," answered Mitchell, "the real air-power war,
the real world war.
While the United States reeled from the horrible surprise attacks throughout the Pacific and
the world wondered if there was any hope to recover, one airman stepped to the foreground. Years
before he had served, for one day, as an aid to General Billy Mitchell. Two days before Colonel
Mitchell's trial began, the forward-thinking twenty-eight-year old Air Service lieutenant won the
Schneider Cup Race at Baltimore, Maryland, and set a new speed record for seaplanes of 245.7 mph.
On the morning of April 18, 1942, that same airman, now a Lieutenant Colonel, led 80 volunteers of
the Army Air Corps in a daring raid on Japan to give the United States its first ray of hope.
As they lifted off from the deck of the aircraft carrier Hornet to carry out what would have
been considered an impossible mission, they delivered a healthy dose of payback to the
Japanese...flying B-25 MITCHELL bombers. When the real world war came, in a sense...General Billy
Mitchell was around for the big show.
On August 8, 1946 the United States congress approved Private Law 884:*
AN ACT Authorizing the President of the United States to award posthumously in
the name of Congress a Medal of Honor to William Mitchell.
Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States of
America in Congress assembled,
That the President of the United States is requested to cause a gold medal to be
struck, with suitable emblems, devices and inscriptions, to be presented to the late
William Mitchell, formerly a Colonel, United States Army, in recognition of his
outstanding pioneer service and foresight in the field of American Military Aviation.
Sec. 2. When the medal provided for in section 1 of this Act shall have been struck,
the President shall transmit the same to William Mitchell, Junior, son of the said
William Mitchell, to be presented to him in the name of the people of the United
States.
Sec. 3. A sufficient sum of money to carry this Act into effect is hereby authorized to
be appropriated, out of money in the Treasury not otherwise appropriated.
*
[Billy Mitchell's Medal of Honor has since been the subject of some confusion. One can quickly see by the images of the medal struck that it is
NOT the Medal of Honor authorized by Congress during the Civil War, and commonly called The Congressional Medal of Honor. The U.S. Senate's
Committee on Veterans' Affairs publication, Medal of Honor Recipients, 1863-1978 further perpetuated this error by listing Billy Mitchell among its
list of Medal of Honor Recipients. The medal is, in fact, NOT THE Medal of Honor, but a special award, authorized by Congress similar in concept
to few other such rare awards as the Four Chaplains Medal authorized after World War II and presented only to the four men for whom it was
named.]
175
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee C
Coou
urrtt M
Maarrttiiaall ooff B
Biillllyy M
Miittcch
heellll
Conclusion:
On July 26, 1947, President Harry S Truman signed the National Security Act of 1947. Based
on lessons learned during World War II, sweeping changes were made in the command structure of
the United States Army and Navy. That act established a Department of Defense to be headed by a
civilian secretary appointed by the President and holding Cabinet rank. The office of the Secretary of
War became the Secretary of the Army who would, with his counterpart in the Navy, work together
for a unified military defense with a Joint Chiefs of Staff. On that day the United States Air Force was
born, a separate arm with its own Secretary of the Air Force...coequal with that of the Army and
Navy. Billy Mitchell's dream had at last come true.
In 1955 the Air Force Association passed a resolution calling for Billy Mitchell's conviction to
be overturned. Two years later his youngest son, William Mitchell, Jr. petitioned the Air Force to set
aside his father's conviction. Reluctantly Secretary of the Air Force James H. Douglas, after writing:
"It is tragic than an officer who contributed so much to his country's welfare should
have terminated his military career under such circumstances. Today, however, I am
confident that his services to his country and his unique foresight as to the place of air
power in the defense of our country are fully recognized by his countrymen.
"The application is denied."
The touching efforts of his son and the airmen who followed in his
footsteps aside, that is probably how Billy Mitchell would have wanted it...to be
remembered as a man who understood that sometimes "you've got to do
something unorthodox...perhaps an explosion." Billy Mitchell's explosion
changed our world.
Nearly a century after that trial in 1925, Mitchell is almost as
controversial as he was when he lived. His name evokes strong opinion, still
berated by some, worshipped by others. His most ardent admirers still claim
Mitchell had the right ideas; he just accomplished them the wrong way. Billy
Mitchell would probably say, were he alive today, that he accomplished them
THE ONLY WAY. He was indeed, a sort of soldier.
Right or wrong, the most fitting epitaph may well be the words spoken by Frank
Reed on the night before the court-martial began:
"Rome endured as long as there were Romans....
America will endure as long as there are Mitchells."
176
Charles
Lindbergh
The Lone Eagle
One might have called it a "routine milk-run," that chilly night of September 16, except for the
fact that any flight in 1926 was far from routine and the cargo wasn't milk but MAIL. As chief pilot
for the Robertson Aircraft Corporation, the pilot they all called Slim had traveled this route many
evenings. It was in fact, a routine- Depart Lambert field in St. Louis with bags of mail at 4:25 p.m.
 Stop at Springfield, Illinois, shortly after 5 p.m. to exchange bags of mail.
 Arrive at Peoria, Illinois, an hour later, and then depart for Chicago.
 Arrive at Chicago so the mail could be routed east and west.
 Return to St. Louis to make a similar run once again.
With the onset of autumn, darkness usually set in during the last leg of the trip. On this
evening the shadows that crept across the fields below were deepened by a heavy fog blowing in off
the Great Lakes. The mist rose from the ground to an elevation of 600 to 900 feet, making it
impossible to fly beneath it in search of the airfield at Maywood that served as Chicago's airmail port.
Slim took a compass reading and continued towards the general area of the airstrip. At 7:15
p.m. the top layers of fog reflected a glow indicating a city below, but there were no openings to allow
the pilot to see the ground in an effort to locate the landing field. Several times he descended as low as
800 feet where the fog bank ended beneath an otherwise clear sky above. On the ground anxious
crews directed searchlights heavenward and burned two barrels of gasoline, but the saving signals
could not penetrate the mist.
Slim circled for thirty-five minutes, then headed west to avoid Lake Michigan. Fuel was low
and if he was forced down, he wanted solid earth beneath him. At 8:20 the engine of the powerful
Liberty engine of his DH-4 stopped and the pilot turned on his reserve. It would allow him twenty
minutes to find a hole in the fog and land safely.
Circling at 1,500 feet, the fog refused to part for the faltering airmail plane. Slim stuck a
flashlight in his belt, determined to jump when the reserve engine had expended the last of its fuel.
He struggled unsuccessfully to open the compartment containing bags of mail to toss it earthward
before his airplane crashed, then gave up on the effort. At the last moment, he noticed a brief flicker
of light, the first he had seen in two hours. Dropping to 1,200 feet he released a flare, his heart
sinking as it illuminated only the top of the heavy fog bank and then disappeared into the darkness
below. With only seven minutes of fuel remaining there were no other options.
Page 177
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee L
Loon
nee E
Eaaggllee
The pilot climbed to 5,000 before that engine sputtered and died completely. Slim stood up in
the cockpit, stepped over the cowling on the right-hand side, and jumped. Seconds later he pulled the
ripcord and felt the reassuring tug of his parachute. Pulling the flashlight from his belt he flashed it
downward and across the top of the fog bank below when he heard an unexpected sound--the roar of
his airplane's engine returning to life as it began a spiral around his slowly falling chute. On its first
loop it came within 300 yards, and now Slim feared he might be knocked from the sky by his own
airplane. Before jumping he should have cut the fuel switches--but hadn't. Now, he guessed, as the
plane nosed downward a small amount of fuel in the back of the tank had rushed forward to
reinvigorate the engine.
As the fog enveloped his falling body he could still hear his airplane circling, falling at about
the same rate as his own body. With each circle however, the aircraft seemed to be moving further
away in ever-widening loops. After five loops, the threat had passed and Slim prepared himself for
the next danger--collision with the ground. He crossed his legs to avoid straddling a fence or other
protrusion, used his hands and arms to protect his face...and waited.
He saw the ground moments before
landing in a cornfield. Picking himself up he
could discern no major injury, so he packed up
his chute and headed out in search of a
farmhouse. He found one and enlisted the aid of
the farmers in locating his plane, which had
crashed two miles away. Before daybreak the
mail was en route by ground to the Ottawa Post
Office for delivery to Chicago and Slim was
returning to St. Louis to find another airplane.
After all, the mail had to get through, and Slim
was the main pilot on this route. Such incidents were to be expected in the early days of aviation.
Flying mail in the 1920s was a dangerous job, usually flown in aging DH-4 Flaming Coffins left
over from the war and committed to the air in all kinds of inhospitable weather. Slim had been
fortunate to safely jump from his own airplane, to reach earth without injury. Normally that act
would have qualified him for membership in an elite fraternity...The Caterpillar Club... composed of
pilots who had made an emergency jump from a doomed airplane.*
Slim didn't need the fateful night of September 16 to grant him membership. He was already a
member...TWICE. In fact, within six weeks he would have to make yet a FOURTH emergency jump,
making him the all-time record holder in that fraternity. That record exists even today.
Any number of things COULD have gone wrong on that, or many other nights in the air
between St. Louis and Chicago. Had the worst happened, the tragedy would have passed with little
notice. The death rate among early mail pilots became so high as to eventually lead to charges of
government ineptitude, and tragedy struck with such frequency that brave young pilots died in
oblivion. The local paper might report the death, maybe even print the name of the pilot. Those who
read the story might question what motivated these young men who laughed at danger to fly mail and
wonder what futures were lost in their untimely death.
*
The caterpillar club was so named because parachutes were made of silk, spun by the silkworm caterpillar.
178
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee L
Loon
nee E
Eaaggllee
Indeed, had the worst happened on the St. Louis-Chicago route, who would have missed the
lanky young pilot they called Slim?
Because it DIDN'T that question can be answered. Slim's true name would soon be written in
history, for he was:
Charles Augustus Lindbergh
Slim Lindbergh was born in Detroit, Michigan, on February 4,
1902, the son of Evangeline and Charles A. Lindbergh, Sr. His father
was a successful attorney who lived and practiced law in Little Falls,
Minnesota. He was elected to the U.S. Congress when Charles was
four-years old and served therein for a decade until 1917.
For the next several years young Charles traveled with his
family as they commuted from the Minnesota home to Washington,
DC, as well as elsewhere. He later wrote, "Up to the time I entered the
University of Wisconsin (1920) I had never attended for one full school
year, and I had received instruction from over a dozen institutions, both
public and private, from Washington to California.
"Through these years I crossed and re-crossed the United States, made one trip to
Panama, and had thoroughly developed a desire for travel, which has never been
overcome."
Lindbergh's interest in travel took a new twist at the age of ten when he attended his first air
show. It inspired an interest in AIR travel that was never overcome. In 1918 he graduated from
Little Falls High School in his home state and enrolled as an engineering student in the University of
Wisconsin in 1920. During his freshman year he found recreation in shooting matches on the
R.O.T.C. team, but aviation became more and more the focus of his dreams for the future.
Lindbergh's interest in engineering came naturally. His maternal grandfather was a dentist
with an inquisitive mind and experimental nature, who pioneered the use of porcelain in dentistry
and became known as the father of porcelain dental art. Years later young Charles would himself
contribute materially to the field of health, collaborating with Dr. Alexis Carrel in development of the
perfusion pump that would ultimately result in the creation of an artificial heart.
In February 1922 Lindbergh left college to pursue his three passions in life:
 Travel
 Aviation
 Engineering
179
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee L
Loon
nee E
Eaaggllee
These were a trichotomy that would one day make him the most
famous aviator of all time. But on April 9, 1922, when Charles Lindbergh
made his first flight as a passenger in the plane-for-hire of Otto Timm in
the sky over Lincoln, Nebraska, he was just another unknown, young,
would-be airman. In the weeks that followed he began his own flight
training, compiling eight hours of instruction at the cost of $500 by the end
of May. Before Lindbergh could make his first solo flight, however, the
instruction plane was sold.
Throughout that summer the young man spent a lot of time in the
air, but little of it in the cockpit. Throughout Wyoming and Montana
Lindbergh dazzled crowds as a wing-walker, parachutist, and performer
and other aerial feats that highlighted the barnstorming era.
In the spring of 1923, the elder Lindbergh, despite his general aversion to the airplane, fronted
enough money for his twenty-one-year-old son to purchase his first airplane. It was a war-surplus
Curtiss JN-4 Jenny, auctioned to young Charles for a price of $500, a fraction of what it had cost the
U.S. Government during the war. On April 9 Charles Lindbergh gassed up his first airplane, taxied
to the end of the airstrip at Americus, Georgia, where the plane had been sold, and lifted off to make
his first solo flight. From there it was on to Alabama, Mississippi, Arkansas, and across the South.
For $5 Lindbergh would provide the daring and the inquisitive with a five to ten-minute flight.
Recalling those early days he wrote in his 1927 account of the flight that made him famous: "Some
weeks I barely made expenses, and on others I carried passengers all week long at five dollars each. On
the whole I was able to make a fair profit in addition to meeting expenses and depreciation."
Though Lindbergh's ultimate destination upon taking possession of his first airplane was to fly
in Texas, his route became a circuitous one that led home for a brief period. There he convinced his
father to fly with him over Redwood Falls, winning over the first of many converts. Mother
Evangeline also joined her son in the air and flew with him at every opportunity.
Before resuming his itinerary south in September, Lindbergh submitted forms to Washington,
DC, requesting duty with the United States Army Air Service. The following January he reported to
Chanute Field in Illinois to take his entrance examinations. A short time later he received orders to
report to Brooks Field in San Antonio, Texas, to join a class of flying cadets scheduled to begin
training on March 15. Excitement ran high among the 104 cadets, all of who were eager to fly the
Army's newer and fastest airplanes. None were daunted by reports of a washout rate of 40 per cent in
the first phase of training.
Classes were tough and demanding, both mentally and physically. Just weeks after the
training began, Lindbergh's already stressful situation was compounded by the death of his father.
Lindbergh hung in there, survived the dreaded "Benzine Boards" that sent more than half his
classmates home prematurely, and was among the remnant of the original class that was sent to Kelly
Field near San Antonio in September.
It was during this final phase of training that Lindbergh became a member of the caterpillar
club, making his first emergency jump on March 5, 1925, after a mid-air collision with another
airplane during war games. Weeks later the young man was one of eighteen cadets from the original
class of 104 to receive his wings and commission as a second lieutenant in the U.S. Air Service Reserve
Corps. Simply surviving to graduation was a considerable accomplishment alone. Second Lieutenant
Charles A. Lindbergh graduated at the head of the class.
180
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee L
Loon
nee E
Eaaggllee
Lindbergh returned to the flying circus circuit during the summer of 1925, and made his
second emergency jump during a test flight at Lambert Field on June 2. In July he spent two weeks
instructing other pilots at Richards Field in Missouri as part of his reservist military commitment,
then flew passengers for the Missouri National Guard encampment in August. In November he was
promoted to First Lieutenant in the 110th Observation Squadron, 35th Division, Missouri National
Guard. He also learned that his friends in the Robertson Aircraft Corporation had succeeded in their
bid for the government mail contract on the St. Louis/Chicago route. He began flying that route the
following spring.
Unlike air show aviation, performed before crowds of spectators on the ground, flying the mail
was a dark and lonely job. The pilot usually flew alone, often at night, and in all manner of weather.
It was a solitary lifestyle, isolated high above all signs of life...a man and his airplane. It was great
experience, testing one's abilities against every imaginable condition both mechanical and natural. It
also granted the pilot hours of solitude. Somewhere alone in the dark skies between St. Louis and
Chicago during the Autumn of 1926, a lone airmail pilot everyone called Slim began filling those
lonely hours with an incredible dream. As winter set in that dream began to take shape. It would
come to life in:
The Great 1927 New York-to-Paris Air Derby
The summer and fall of 1925 were both perilous and dramatic times in the history of aviation,
just twenty-two years after the first heavier-than-air flight at Kitty Hawk. This was the year the Navy
suffered the disastrous loss of the Shenandoah airship and the ill-fated flight from California to
Hawaii. It was the year Billy Mitchell was court-martialed in Washington, DC. It was the year that
Dwight Morrow convened the board that would ultimately lead to the designation of the Army's air
arm as the U.S. Air Service, and the same year that a young barnstormer named Jimmy Doolittle won
the Schneider Cup Race at Baltimore, MD, setting a record speed of 245.7 mph for a seaplane.
The following year became even more dramatic. In 1926 the big nine-cylinder radial aircooled Wasp engine was introduced. Lieutenant J. A. Macready set an American altitude record of
38,704 feet; Robert H. Goddard launched the world's first liquid-fueled rocket at Auburn,
Massachusetts; and the U.S. Army Air Corps was born. Navy Commander Richard Byrd led the first
flight over the North Pole; and President Coolidge signed the Air Commerce Act to regulate civil
aeronautics. It was also the year that a foreign aerial legend brought his own brand of excitement to
the United States...and the world.
.
Captain René Fonck was a French war hero, a highly decorated
and dashing young pilot whose name was spoken with reverence around
the world. During World War I he had shot down an incredible total of
125 German aircraft (though he was only credited with 75 official
victories), second only to Germany's Red Baron.
In 1926 the man who had already demonstrated that he was the
master of the skies announced that he would do what no man had done
before—fly from New York to Paris and collect the coveted Orteig
prize.
181
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee L
Loon
nee E
Eaaggllee
Early aviation was a spectator sport, daring
airmen charging admission to curious spectators to
demonstrate what the airplane could accomplish.
As the number of pilots increased, so too did the
competition; and aviation became more of a
contest than a show. In 1910 the New York World
offered a $10,000 prize to the first pilot to fly from
Albany to New York City. Glenn Curtiss who would
become among the best known of airplane
manufacturers, claimed the prize after piloting his
pusher plane at an average 52-miles per hour
across the 152-mile trip with two stops for fueling.
The amazing feat was followed by rival
publisher William Randolph Hearst's 1911 offer of a
$50,000 prize to the first aviator to fly coast-tocoast across the United States in thirty days or less. Cal Rodgers was first to make the transcontinental
trek, but was disqualified. The trip took him a total of eighty-four days. Only eleven years later a young
pilot named Jimmy Doolittle made the same trip in fewer than twenty-four hours...the first man in history to
do so.
Pilots all over the world were pushing the envelope in postwar years, and the early 1920s were
filled with new records for both speed and distance. In 1924 General Billy Mitchell was the man behind an
around-the-world flight. Six U.S. Air Service pilots in three planes completed the world circuit in one
hundred seventy-five days after departing Seattle, Washington, on April 6, 1924.
Actually, four Air Service planes began the historic 1924 world tour, each named for an American
city: Seattle, Chicago, New Orleans, and Boston. The Pacific Ocean was negotiated from Alaska, which
presented its own series of challenges. But the greatest hurdle in the 26,000-mile odyssey lay towards the
end...crossing the Atlantic. It was accomplished in an island-hopping series of flights from the Orkney
Islands north of Scotland to Iceland, then to Greenland, Labrador, and home to North America. The
challenge resulted in the loss of the Boston, though the entire trip was accomplished without loss of life.
So formidable a barrier was the Atlantic Ocean, that in 1919 a French hotel operator named
Raymond Orteig offered a prize of $25,000 to the first pilot to fly nonstop between New York and Paris.
Orteig lived in New York, but could see the world shrinking in size with the advent of aviation, and was
eager to see the first successful nonstop crossing of the Atlantic. By the time of the Air Service's flight in
1924, the Atlantic had been successfully traversed three times, all in 1919; but the Orteig prize for a New
York/Paris trip remained unclaimed.
The first successful crossing began on May 8, 1919, when three Navy "flying boats" took off from
Newfoundland. Numbered NC-1, NC-3, and NC-4, each carried a 6-man crew for the hop from
Newfoundland to the Azores. The NC-1 went down at sea. Fortunately, an American destroyer rescued
the crew. When the NC-3 failed to arrive in the Azores, a sense of doom pervaded the U.S. Navy.
Unbelievably, after days with no sign of the airplane, it drifted into the harbor at Porta Delgada
backwards...still afloat and the crew alive after a harrowing journey. Only the NC-4 successfully made the
aerial crossing.
Two weeks later British war veteran pilots John Alcock and Arthur Whitten Brown made the 1,890mile flight across the North Atlantic from Newfoundland to Ireland. In July the British dirigible crossed east
to west from Britain to New York. It was the last crossing until the Air Service flight of 1924, none of them
fulfilling the requirements of the Orteig prize. There was a large difference between the 1,890-mile
crossing from New Foundland to Ireland, and the 3,610-mile distance from New York to Paris. By 1926 it
had been seven years since Raymond Orteig had issued his challenge and, with the advances in airplane
design, the time was ripe for some brave soul to claim it.
182
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee L
Loon
nee E
Eaaggllee
In 1926 Captain Fonck's arrival in New York by boat touched off a current of excitement that rippled
around the world. The French were justly proud to see one of their own legends become the first to make
the historic Atlantic crossing. Americans too fell in love with the dashing war hero whose fame and feats
had made him a world-hero; even among the Germans he had fought during the war. The flight became
even more personal for Americans when Captain Fonck announced that his navigator for the flight would
be an American, Lieutenant Lawrence Curtain. The huge Sikorsky S-35 with its three large engines was
equally impressive.
This was a moment in search of new heroes, and the world watched with great anticipation.
Early on the morning of September 21, 1926, Captain Fonck drove to Roosevelt Field on Long
Island. He had chosen to make the trek from west to east to take advantage of prevailing eastbound
winds, and selected this particular Tuesday morning so he could fly beneath a full moon when
darkness fell. His gigantic airplane would carry a three-man crew in addition to Fonck, and 2,500
gallons of gasoline were being poured in the tanks when the war hero arrived at the field. Dressed in
his crisp blue French Army uniform, replete with an array of medals, he looked very much the hero
beneath the headlights of the hundreds of automobiles that lined the airstrip to illuminate the
predawn darkness.
At 6 a.m. the fueling was complete and Fonck turned over the engines. With his crew aboard,
the S-35 weighed fourteen tons. It would require every yard of the one-mile runway, and every rpm
he could muster from the three big engines, to achieve the 80 mile-per-hour speed necessary to get the
huge airplane off the ground.
Take-off was almost a circus with motorists driving parallel to the S-35 as it lumbered down
the runway, slowly picking up speed. Even in the dim light of the early morning, it didn't take long
for the crowd to notice the trail of dust that followed the airplane as it's struggled to gain speed. As
the heavy plane had bumped and bounced across the airstrip, the landing gear on one side of the
plane had been damaged and began dragging across the field. The drag wouldn't allow Fonck to coax
more than 65 mph out of his engines.
To cut the engines at that point would deprive the pilot of any control over his speeding
airplane and would probably cause it to nose over. To veer away from the landing strip would
undoubtedly send the airplane careening into the crowds along the sidelines. Despite the futility of
the effort, Fonck had no choice but to continue straight ahead in hopes he could somehow get his
plane airborne.
183
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee L
Loon
nee E
Eaaggllee
It was a valiant, sacrificial effort against long odds. This time the pilot, who had defied the
odds again and again in the wartime skies over France, lost the gamble. The crowds watched in
shocked horror as the S-35 reached the end of the runway and tumbled out of sight into a gully.
Seconds later the morning skies were lit up by the brilliant eruption of 2,500 gallons of gasoline. As
the sea breezes whipped the heavy black smoke around, the stunned spectators saw Captain Fonck
climbing out of the gully, followed by Lieutenant Curtain. No one else appeared. The other two
French crewmembers died in the flames.
But for the freak incident that damaged Captain Fonck's airplane on take-off, few people
doubted that he would have been the first to claim the Orteig prize. The tragedy might have deterred
future attempts, but the men who pioneered aviation in its infancy were a special breed: daring,
adventurous, and willing to accept the risks. The advent of winter would prevent any further
attempts in 1926; but during those last months of the year, word began to circulate that several teams
were gearing up for an attempt the following spring. Amid the hype and anticipation, it became
known as "The Great 1927 New York-to-Paris Air Derby."
When Raymond Orteig established his prize, it became the responsibility of the National
Aeronautic Association to establish the guidelines and rules for any attempt to claim it. As 1926 faded
and the new year began, applications began coming in from an impressive array of contestants, all of
them determined to make 1927 the year of conquest.
Among the first to announce his intent was another war hero, Captain Charles Nungasser who
had shot down 43 enemy planes during the war to become France's third-leading ace. Nungasser
announced that he and his navigator, Captain Francis Coli, would attempt the flight from east to west
in the early spring.
Two U.S. Naval officers, Lieutenant Commander Noel Davis and
Lieutenant Stanton Wooster also submitted applications. Charles A. Levine,
a civilian and the well-known and somewhat eccentric president of the
Columbia Aircraft Corporation, announced he too would field a team,
playing his own effort for all the publicity and hype he could muster.
On February 25 Naval aviator Commander Richard Byrd, Jr. visited
the White House to receive the Medal of Honor from President Calvin
Coolidge. The previous year Byrd had become a National hero for his flight
over the North Pole. Now the newly decorated American aviation hero
announced he would also enter the New York-to-Paris air derby, not for the
prize but for the value of scientific research.
The mix of these four teams, all composed of men well known and revered for their courage
and accomplishment, provided great material for the early 1927 newspaper hype for the coming
spring. Almost lost among these four applications was a fifth. It had arrived with no mention of a
team or even an accompanying navigator.
It was signed simply "C.A. Lindbergh."
The media covered the preparations of the four leading contenders steadily in the early months
of 1927. The biggest question for all seemed not to be who would make the crossing first, but which of
the four would be first to make an attempt. Commander Byrd seemed to be the American favorite
with his large Fokker tri plane named America.
184
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee L
Loon
nee E
Eaaggllee
In the early spring Byrd took America up for a test-run over New Jersey. All went well until
the Commander brought it in for a landing. The nose-heavy airplane tipped over, breaking
Commander Byrd's arm in the resulting crash, and postponing the American hero's plans several
weeks.
The odds now seemed to favor the wealthy Levine, whose single-engine airplane named
Columbia was christened on April 24. Following the splash of ginger ale against its side, pilot
Clarence Chamberlain taxied down the runway for the maiden flight. During take-off one wheel fell
off the plane, forcing Chamberlain to use all his skills to land again on one wheel. In the process a
wing scraped the ground, putting the Columbia back in the hangar for repairs.
Lieutenant Commander Davis and Lieutenant Wooster were even less fortunate two days later
when they took their airplane named American Legion for a test flight over Virginia. Both men were
killed when their heavily loaded airplane stalled and crashed into a swamp during takeoff.
In Paris French war-ace Captain Charles Nungesser proclaimed, "I am attempting the flight to
bring honor to French aviation." All of France cheered as he and Captain Coli took off from Le
Bourget airfield on the morning of Sunday, May 8. Their boat-plane was last seen over Ireland as it
turned into the formidable North Atlantic. So intense was the anticipation of their success, even in
the west, that all eyes were on the heavens Monday morning and watchers reported seeing the plane
over the North American continent. The Monday morning newspapers in Paris eagerly announced in
a special headline edition that the two aviators had arrived to land on the water at the foot of the
Statue of Liberty amid a fleet of flag-flying welcome ships. It was wishful thinking. The White Bird
had disappeared into the vast Atlantic after last being seen over Ireland, and no trace of its fate would
ever be found.
As the French newspapers printed their retraction, an equally false rumor was written. The
two French aviators, it was reported, had been lost in a storm over the Atlantic because the
Americans had withheld weather information from the pilot and his navigator. A deeply despondent
French public was quick to believe the rumor, and such anti-American sentiment swept through Paris
that the American ambassador cabled Washington to advise that it would be unwise for any
American pilot to attempt to fly to Paris until the mood settled.
In fact, the American public was as heartbroken at the French tragedy as were the people of
that nation. The air derby had become less of a challenge between competing nations, and more of a
contest between man and the raging Atlantic. In little more than two weeks, the four leading
contenders in the New York-to-Paris contest had all met with tragedy. Nothing had been heard from
the fifth applicant, an unknown airmail pilot from St. Louis named C. A. Lindbergh.
185
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee L
Loon
nee E
Eaaggllee
WE -- A Man and His Plane
Little had been heard of the fifth applicant in the New York-to-Paris Air Derby because the
young man known only as C. A. Lindbergh was busy preparing to make history. He later wrote, "I
first considered the possibility of the New York-Paris flight while flying the mail one night in the fall of
1926. Several facts soon became outstanding. The foremost was that with the modern radial air-cooled
motor, high life airfoils, and lightened construction, it would not only be possible to reach Paris but,
under normal conditions, to land with a large reserve of fuel and have a high factor of safety throughout
the entire trip as well."
In December 1926, Slim Lindbergh went to New York to obtain the necessary details for his
own entry into the air derby, and then began designing the airplane he believed could help him
accomplish what no other man had done before.
While Commander Byrd had accomplished his North Pole flight in his famous Fokker triplane, Lindbergh reasoned that a monoplane would be more efficient for the long, nonstop flight to
Paris. A single wing had less resistance against the winds, making it far more fuel-efficient. As
opposed to men like Captain Fonck who had planned his flight aboard an airplane equipped with
three large engines, Lindberg also opted for a single, 200-horse-power radial air-cooled engine.
Multiple engines provided somewhat of a safety factor, for if one engine failed, others remained to try
and get the airplane to safety. In a single-engine airplane, mechanical failure would result in the
plane going down over the Atlantic--and almost certain death. Lindbergh felt confident in the newer
engines to be sufficiently advanced beyond the likelihood of failure.
Lindbergh estimated that the airplane he had in mind would cost about $10,000, five times the
$2,000 he had personally saved. He turned to air-minded businessmen in St. Louis, convinced them to
finance the project, and then made two more trips to New York early in 1927 to finalize the details.
On February 28 he placed an order with Ryan Airlines of San Diego to build his airplane, then went
to California to both plan and supervise.
The Ryan aircraft manufacturing plant was little more
than a crew of dedicated mechanics operating out of an old fish
cannery on the San Diego waterfront. When the contract was
signed on February 28, Lindbergh was promised his unusual
airplane would be completed in two months. If all went
according to plan, the stage would be set for an early spring
transatlantic flight. Lindbergh spent those two months nearly
living in the building where his plane was being constructed.
186
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee L
Loon
nee E
Eaaggllee
Slowly that special plane began to take shape--Spartan in appearance but practical in its
application. The big Wright engine was housed in a cowling covered by aluminum. The remainder of
the airplane was sheathed in tightly drawn fabric over a well-constructed frame. Gasoline tanks were
housed in the wings and supplemented by an additional tank behind the engine in the fuselage,
balanced carefully over the fixed landing gear. This large tank made it possible to store the extra fuel
needed for the 3,610-mile odyssey, but the need to balance that extra weight blocked the pilot's
forward view. Seated in his light, wicker seat behind the tank, Lindbergh would be required to
navigate solely by looking left or right through the side windows, or by using a crude periscope
constructed of tubing and two mirrors, to see what lay ahead. In honor of the businessmen in Iowa
who put up the money to build the gray monoplane, Lindbergh named it:
Spirit of St. Louis
Engine: 9 Cylinder, 220-HP, Air-cooled Wright J-5C Whirlwind
Wing span: 27'
Length: 27'8'
Height: 9'8"
Weight (empty): 2,150 lbs.
Tail Number: N-X-211
An expert mechanic, Lindbergh was involved in every step in
the construction of his airplane, working closely with Chief Engineer
Donald Hall. The dedicated staff worked long and hard to create in
the old warehouse, the airplane drafted on paper by Hall. Lindbergh
walked the floors of the plant regularly, to see his dream take shape.
He also spent long hours planning his trip...one he would make
alone. All other competitors in the Great Air Derby planned to make
the historic Atlantic crossing a team effort--at the very least
consisting of a pilot and navigator. Lindbergh planned to fly alone,
replacing the weight of a navigator with fuel. This meant he would
serve as both pilot and navigator.
187
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee L
Loon
nee E
Eaaggllee
While the Spirit of St. Louis took shape in the warehouse, Lindbergh worked out his
navigational plan. He would take off from New York to make the circle route to Paris: northeast over
Nova Scotia and Newfoundland, then across the North Atlantic to traverse Ireland at its southern tip,
across England and the channel that separated it from the European continent, and finally....if all
went well....PARIS!
On a flat piece of paper it appears that Lindbergh's route was a circuitous one, going out of his
way to avoid an endless expanse of ocean in a straight-line flight. In point of fact, because the planet
is a globe and not a flat piece of paper, his flight plan took advantage of the Earth's curvature to give
him the shortest route to Paris, a distance of 3,610 statute miles.
Lindbergh would navigate by dead reckoning, looking for landmarks to Boston, then Nova
Scotia and Newfoundland, before the 1,850-mile expanse of the North Atlantic. Flying at close to 100
mph, he would take compass readings and alter his course each hour. He estimated that this crude
system would suffice. Even if he reached Europe 300 miles off course, he would have enough fuel
remaining to reach Paris.
Lindbergh also carefully determined the necessary supplies he would
take on his flight, ever mindful of the fact that each additional item in his
inventory would demand extra fuel. The final shopping list provided him
sustenance for one full day, as well as emergency supplies in case something
went wrong. These would be stowed behind his wicker seat in the cramped
cockpit, along with a raft in case he went down over the Atlantic.
Though the undertaking the young pilot was endeavoring to achieve
was fraught with danger, Lindbergh was never foolish. Every aspect of his
airplane, every item it would carry, and every detail of the route and its
navigation was carefully thought out and planned for.
2 Flashlights
1 Ball of String
1 Ball of cord
1 Hunting Knife
4 Red Flares
1 Box of Matches
1 Large Needle
1 Canteen - 4 quarts
1 Canteen - 1 quart
1 Armbrust Cup
1 Air Raft with pump
5 Cans Army rations
2 Air Cushions
1 Hack saw blade
"Day and night, seven days a week, the structure grew from a few lengths of steel
tubing to one of the most efficient planes that has ever taken the air," Lindbergh later
wrote. "During this time it was not unusual for the men (of Ryan Aircraft
Manufacturing) to work twenty-four hours without rest, and on one occasion Donald Hall,
the Chief Engineer, was over his drafting table for thirty-six hours."
188
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee L
Loon
nee E
Eaaggllee
On April 28 the Spirit of St. Louis was completed and Lindbergh took it up for its test flight in
San Diego. Few outside of the close-knit family of dedicated workers at Ryan even took notice. All of
America's attention was focused on the East Coast where in previous days all three top American
contenders for the Orteig Prize had suffered setbacks, the two men flying the American Legion losing
their lives. The applicant known only at "C.A. Lindbergh" had been all but forgotten.
Throughout the following week, Lindbergh continued to test-fly Spirit of St. Louis, and word
began to get out about the unknown mail pilot who was the fifth contestant for the Orteig Prize. As
details of the plan emerged...that Lindbergh would fly a single-engine monoplane ALONE across the
Atlantic, media reports began to refer to him as a "flying fool." In the face of the failure of Fonck the
previous year, and the setbacks suffered by the rich and famous in the race this year, it was hard to
give Lindbergh serious consideration.
For Lindbergh, the final test flight of the Spirit of St. Louis would be the trip from San Diego to
New York. The distance was nearly equal that of the New York-to-Paris flight. Now more than
pleased with the performance of his airplane, Lindbergh was eager to get going when a storm moved
in from the Pacific to hand him his first setback. For three days he anxiously monitored the weather
report and was discouraged to still be stuck in San Diego on May 8 when Captains Nungesser and
Coli took off from Paris. He found no joy in the report the following day that both men had failed,
and were presumed lost, despite the good news from the San Diego Weather Bureau that the now 4day storm was clearing.
At 3:55 p.m. the following day, May 10, the Spirit of St. Louis took off from Rockwell Field.
Fourteen hours and twenty-five minutes later Lindbergh was welcomed at Lambert Field in St. Louis
by Harry Knight and Harold Bixby, two of the key financiers of the venture. In anticipation of the
main event, the fact that Charles Lindbergh had just completed the longest nonstop solo flight in
history went almost completely unnoticed.
"How long are you staying, Slim?" they asked. "We have several dinner invitations
for you."
"I'll stay as long as you want me to," Lindbergh replied. "But I think I ought to go
right on to New York. If I don't, somebody else will beat us to the take-off."
Indeed, Charles Levine had already announced that his Columbia was repaired and nearly
ready for its attempt, and Richard Byrd's America was undergoing final preparations at Curtiss
Field.
At 8:13 the following morning, Lindbergh departed Lambert Field to arrive at Curtiss Field at
5:33 p.m. New York Daylight Saving Time (5:33 CST).
On that final leg he had set another record, the fastest transcontinental flight in United
States' history.
189
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee L
Loon
nee E
Eaaggllee
From the moment of his arrival in New York on May 12,
1927, until his arrival in Paris nine days later, Charles Lindbergh
was a phenomenon unlike any previously witnessed in history.
While his historic flight revolutionized the way we view our world,
courageous and historic flights were common in the early decades of
aviation. Perhaps what set Charles Lindbergh apart from other
heroes of the day was not so much what he did, but who he was.
Lindbergh came to New York virtually unknown, the long
shot in the great Air Derby. During the Roaring 20s with its excesses,
over-indulgence, and social positioning, the young man was almost a
breath of fresh air. He didn't smoke, didn't curse, and possessed a
strong but gentle personality. He was self-confident, but certainly
not cocky. In fact, if anything he seemed genuinely shy and humble.
The New York Times reported:
"No one ever more perfectly personified youthful adventure than this young knight of
the air....There were many girls in the crowd who watched the good-looking pilot with
undisguised admiration. Lindbergh seems to be girl-shy, but they 'simply adore' him."
Following Lindberg's arrival at Curtiss Field, media attention reached new highs. Both the
Columbia and America were also at the field and Levine and Byrd had both announced the two
airplanes were nearly ready to go. The crews of both competitors were cordial to each other as well
as to the newly arrived airmail pilot, but the sense of competition was running at new levels. Poor
weather prevailed for days, but there were general consensuses that upon the first break in the skies
over the Atlantic, one if not all three airplanes, would be taking to the air.
For the first time now, Charles Lindbergh began getting heightened coverage in the daily
newspapers. The long shot has always intrigued Americans, who enjoy pulling for the underdog.
Lindbergh's unique approach...one engine, one wing, one man...also became the focus of great
discussion. While serious doubt existed that a lone pilot could endure the rigors of a thirty-six-hour
flight, the idea was inspiring. Somewhere the media coined a new nickname for Slim Lindbergh,
referring to him as The Lone Eagle. It, like the subsequent Lucky Lindy, was a moniker the young
man never liked and one that his friends avoided ever using.
For his own part, Lindbergh spoke as if his flight would be a team effort anyway. His
references to the Spirit of St. Louis placed the airplane on par with himself. He spoke of a collective
"WE," and such would be the title of his published biographical account of these events a year later.
Thursday, May 19, 1927
Rain was falling in New York and fog shrouded the coast all the way to Newfoundland. The
nearly week-old storm over the North Atlantic continued to preclude any hopes of the anxious
aviators to take off for Paris. Charles Lindbergh used the continuing delay to drive to Patterson, NJ,
to visit the Wright plant in the morning, and then returned to New York where he hoped to watch a
performance of Rio Rita. By six o'clock that evening he was en route to the theater with friends,
stopping only to check the weather forecast. He was surprised to learn that the front was breaking
up, and conditions were clearing over the Atlantic. Returning to his friends he announced, "Let's get
back to the airfield. I'm going to take off tomorrow morning."
190
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee L
Loon
nee E
Eaaggllee
At the airfield he arranged for final preparations, the servicing and final checks of his airplane
and a partial fueling of the tanks. Shortly after midnight, with his airplane entrusted to the care of
dedicated ground crews, Lindbergh returned to his hotel to try to get some sleep. His mind continued
to plot every eventuality, and sleep eluded him. Shortly before 3 a.m. he was back at the airfield
making final preparations.
Friday, May 20, 1927
The Spirit of St. Louis could not take off from Curtiss Field, so in the early morning hours it
had to be transported to Roosevelt Field. To accomplish this the tail was hoisted onto the bed of the
truck, then the silvery airplane was slowly towed backwards across the muddy roads to the field at
Long Island. Five motorcycle policemen escorted the airplane, arriving shortly before dawn.
Lindbergh quickly noticed America parked near the muddy airstrip, a few of its crew milling
around, but apparently only preparing it for another test flight. Either Richard Byrd had not heard
the weather report, or he had for some other reason determined that today was not the right day to
make his own attempt. Even at that early morning hour, more than 500 spectators had gathered at
the field; but on this morning they would witness the take-off of only one of the three remaining
entrants in the Air Derby.
The Spirit of St. Louis had been partially fueled at Curtiss Field so as not to add too much
weight during the trip to Roosevelt Field. Now a bucket brigade passed 451 additional gallons of
gasoline in 5-gallon containers to finish the job. The rain was easing to a slow drizzle, but the dirt
runway had turned to mud. Lindbergh, in an effort to reduce resistance during takeoff, greased the
wheels of his airplane. He ate one of six sandwiches he had been given, stowed the other five in the
cramped cockpit, and noted the presence of a slight tail wind.
At about 7:40 a.m. the big Wright engine was started and Lindbergh listened to its steady
throb. Everything, except for take-off conditions, seemed right. If he could get his heavy airplane off
the muddy runway, Lindbergh was certain this would be the moment he had dreamed of months
earlier while flying mail from St. Louis to Chicago. Richard Byrd and Clarence Chamberlain both
showed up at the airstrip, each shaking hands with the young airmail pilot and wishing him well. At
7:51 Lindbergh strapped himself in the cockpit, closed the door and leaned out the window to
exclaim: "What do you say...let's try it."
7:52 a.m. - Hundreds of spectators and reporters watched in anticipation as the large silvery airplane pushed its way down the
muddy airstrip, remembering well what had happened to Captain Fonck only six months earlier. The Spirit of St. Louis picked up
speed...lifted off the ground for a moment, then settled back into the mud as Lindbergh remained at the controls. Continuing to
pick up speed, power lines loomed ahead as the pilot struggled to coax more speed out of the engine.
Seconds later the Spirit of St. Louis was airborne, clearing the power lines by a mere twenty feet.
191
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee L
Loon
nee E
Eaaggllee
Once airborne, Lindbergh turned his airplane to the right to clear a small hill, and then
continued to climb. A Curtiss Oriole flew alongside him as he headed out over Long Island Sound, a
photographer capturing the first few miles for history. Then it turned back, leaving Charles
Lindbergh and the Spirit of St. Louis alone in the heavens.
The weather had indeed cleared, leaving a beautiful morning sky. Lindbergh flew low, often
only ten feet from the crest of the waves and passing within view of many fishing vessels in his threehour trek to Nova Scotia. After flying over the Gulf of Maine he sighted land before noon and
climbed to 200 feet. His landmarks told him that he was only two degrees (six miles) off course.
At the northern end of Nova Scotia he flew through a few storm clouds, but his route soon took
him away from the approaching front and across the ice-caked oceans. By six o'clock that evening he
was flying along the southern coast of Newfoundland. Taking his bearings, Lindbergh flew over St.
Johns, "so there would be no question of that fact that I had passed Newfoundland in case I was forced
down in the north Atlantic."
Fatigue had set in several times between Long Island and Newfoundland...it had already been
more than thirty hours since the young pilot had last slept. The situation only worsened as darkness
fell twelve hours after his departure. Storm clouds and heavy fog blanketed the angry Atlantic below
the Spirit of St. Louis and Lindbergh climbed to 10,000 feet. Ice formed on the wings as he flew
through a thunderhead, forcing him to turn back and make a circuitous route around the dangerous
storm. Despite the chill, Lindbergh kept the window of his airplane open to help him stay awake.
Boredom and fatigue were taking an increasing toll on his mind and body.
Saturday, May 21, 1927
Lindbergh's eastward course brought dawn at what would have been close to 1 a.m. New York
time. It was Saturday, May 21, in Paris. The light of the sun brought some relief to tired eyes, and as
the warming air opened holes in the fog, Lindbergh dropped down to 200 feet above the oceans.
Those early morning hours of the flight were filled only with intermittent glimpses of the angry
ocean below, before another bank of fog enveloped man and machine. It became among the most
difficult and dangerous hours of the flight. Again and again Lindbergh found himself falling asleep,
eyes open but mind shutting down. By 7:52 a.m. he had been forty-eight hours without sleep,
airborne for twenty-four hours, and with nothing but a deadly ocean beneath him. Time and again he
had seen shorelines in the distance "with trees perfectly outlined against the horizon...the mirages were
so natural that, had I not been in mid-Atlantic and known that no land existed along my route, I would
have taken them to be actual islands."
Fortunately, after that initial twenty-four-hour period, Lindbergh got his second wind, and
began watching the horizon in anticipation of a break in
the scenery. Two hours later the first fishing boats
began to appear on the waters below. Flying over the
first, he saw no signs of life and moved on to the next.
As he circled it a face appeared at the cabin window.
Cutting back on his engine to decrease the noise,
Lindbergh flew closer and yelled through the window of
his airplane, "Which way is Ireland?" When he was
unable to get a response, he straightened out and headed
back on course. An hour later he knew where Ireland
192
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee L
Loon
nee E
Eaaggllee
was...he was directly over Dingle Bay at the southern tip of the island...less than three miles from the
route he had mapped weeks earlier while in San Diego. Glancing at his watch he noted that it was
10:52 a.m. in New York (3 p.m. local time). He was two-and-a-half hours ahead of schedule.
Charles Lindbergh had safely negotiated the North Atlantic, and that realization revitalized
his weary mind and body. With luck, he might reach the coast of France before darkness fell once
again. He increased his airspeed to 110 mph and soon was winging his way over England, across the
channel, and then Cherbourg, France. In New York it was now nearly three in the afternoon, eight in
the evening in Paris, 200 miles distant. The only thing traversing Europe faster than the Spirit of St.
Louis was the news that the daring American pilot was on his way.
It was nearly 10 p.m. local time when Lindbergh
spotted the lights of Paris. He circled the Eiffel Tower
at four thousand feet, and then looked around for the
landing strip at Le Bourget Field. Fifteen minutes later
he was flying low over the field, identified easily by a
long line of hangars. He also noticed all roads into the
airfield were filled with cars. At 10:22 p.m. Paris time,
the Spirit of St. Louis taxied to a stop and an adoring
crowd of thousands of Parisians was rushing towards
the silver airplane in a friendly but frenzied mob.
Lindbergh quickly cut the switch to his engine to halt
the propeller and prevent it from killing someone.
Back in New York it was 4:22 p.m. Charles Lindbergh, the unknown airmail pilot from St.
Louis had done what no man had done before. Alone, in thirty hours and thirty minutes, he had
flown from New York to Paris.
The world had suddenly become a much smaller planet, and a true
WORLD hero had been born.
193
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee L
Loon
nee E
Eaaggllee
Ambassador Without Portfolio
Earlier concerns about French animosity after the tragic flight of Captains Nungesser and Coli
proved totally unfounded. Charles Lindbergh was welcomed at Le Bourget Airfield like few heroes in
history have been welcomed. For half-an-hour the adoring crowd carried him on its shoulders, and
the exhausted American airman might not have slept for even more days but for the resourcefulness
of some French military pilots. These managed to get their hands on Lindbergh's flight helmet, place
it on the head of a nearby American correspondent, and then shouted, "Here is Lindbergh." As the
crowd rushed over to hail a new world hero, the REAL Charles Lindbergh was secreted off to the
American Embassy where he would be the guest of Ambassador Herrick until his departure.
The French allowed the world's newest hero a
night of well-earned rest before clamoring for his
attention. The morning after his historic flight he
appeared with Ambassador Herrick on the balcony of
the American Embassy to greet the crowds. Already
he was wearing the first of several high honors to be
presented to him, the French Cross of the Legion of
Honor, bestowed earlier that day by the President of
the Republic of France. Next the Aero Club of France
presented the young man with its Gold Medal, and
then the American Club feted him with lunch. The
United States flag was flown over the Chamber of
Deputies in honor of Charles Lindbergh, setting an
historic precedent. Ambassador Herrick introduced
the shy twenty-five-year-old as "America's present
ambassador" and his winning smile and charismatic personality quickly made him America's
Ambassador to the world. In St. Louis the Star reported:
"He (Lindbergh) has done more to create good feeling and increase the prestige of the
United States in Europe, recently at low ebb, than any American since George
Washington."
Before departing France on May 28, Lindbergh paid a visit to the families of Captains
Nungesser and Coli, and then flew his now-famous silver airplane to Brussells where King Albert
personally welcomed him. The King pinned the Knighthood of the Order of Leopold on his chest;
making him the first foreigner to ever receive the highly coveted award.
From Brussells to London, Lindbergh was received and honored by all of Europe's royalty. At
Buckingham Palace the King presented him with the Air Force Cross. A short time later on his
return to Paris, Lindbergh was presented with a medal worn only by members of the famous World
War I Lafayette Escadrille. Lindbergh took it all in stride, unspoiled by all the attention, and intent
on enjoying an extended tour of Europe. At home, President Calvin Coolidge wanted America's
ambassador without portfolio to return. The Sprit of St. Louis was crated up, and the two world
travelers returned home aboard the American cruiser Memphis.
194
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee L
Loon
nee E
Eaaggllee
"Gentlemen, 132 years ago Benjamin Franklin was asked: 'What good is your
balloon? What will it accomplish?' He replied: 'What good is a new born child?'
"Less than twenty years ago when I was not far advanced from infancy M. Bleroit flew
across the English Channel and was asked, 'What good is your aeroplane? What will it
accomplish?' Today those same skeptics might ask me what good has been my flight from
New York to Paris.
"My answer is that I believe it is the forerunner of a great air service from America to
France, America to Europe, to bring our peoples nearer together in understanding and in
friendship than they have ever been."
Charles Lindbergh in one of his Paris speeches
June 13, 1927
Charles Lindbergh returned to New York to a reception
like none ever before witnessed. Already he had been feted in
Washington, DC, welcomed by the President, and awarded the
Distinguished Flying Cross. The parade in New York City,
replete with a snowstorm of ticker tape, was witnessed according
to one newspaper, by as many as 4 million Americans. Later the
Street Cleaning Commissioner reported that it took 110 trucks
and 2,000 "white wings" to clean up the streets.
Lindberg's reaction was typical of the atypical hero:
"I wonder if I really deserve all this!"
Deserved or not, the moment was Lindbergh's. The Providence Journal reported that it
doubted "Any man of any age in the world's history has ever been the recipient of such adulation and
such honors as have been heaped upon this youth of twenty-five in the last few weeks." Perhaps the
reasons behind it were more accurately surmised in the Jersey City Journal: "Lindbergh's actions in
the cockpit of the airplane were heroic, his utterances on land, when he faced adulation unequalled,
were the utterances of a hero who is as well-balanced in speech as he is adroit in his manipulations of
the airplane."
The bottom line was simply that Charles Lindbergh was a truly GOOD man, a man of courage
and imagination, a man of both dream and determination. When unprecedented honor was heaped
upon him in Europe, he did not revel in his own accomplishment, but saw the praise tendered him as
a tribute to his country. When he returned to the praise of his own people, he remained the same
simple, humble man he had been before his historic flight. President Coolidge perhaps spoke the
most accurate summary of Charles Lindbergh when he said:
"The absence of self-acclaim, the refusal to become commercialized, which has
marked the conduct of this sincere and genuine exemplar of fine and noble virtues, has
endeared him to everyone. He has returned unspoiled."
195
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee L
Loon
nee E
Eaaggllee
The Guggenheim Tour
In December 1925, millionaire aviation advocate Daniel Guggenheim created a $2.5 million
Fund for the Promotion of Aeronautics to speed development of civil aviation in the United States.
On June 4, 1927, Guggenheim opened the Daniel Guggenheim School of Aeronautics at New York
University. On July 20 under the auspices and support of the Fund for Promotion of Aeronautics,
Lindbergh and the Spirit of St. Louis began a tour of the United States. Over the next several months,
America's newest hero visited all 48 states, making 82 stops over 22,000 miles. In cities from coast to
coast he gave 147 speeches and rode in parades equaling 1,290 miles. Everywhere he went, Charles
Lindbergh was admired and greeted like no American in history. Humbly the young man accepted
his new role, not for his own glory, but to promote aviation. His influence paved the way for many
new advances. It also had a profound impact on those who saw him. The twelve-year old son of one
South Dakota farmer later wrote of his own experience during this time.
Sioux Falls, SD - August 27, 1927
"When we learned (Lindbergh) was going to fly into Sioux Falls, Pop and I were like beavers
after fresh timber. The whole family dressed up in our finest outfits, and Pop loaded us all into the
car and drove us to Renner Field, five miles north of town, to see the new American hero and his
airplane. Renner Field was little more than a hay patch, but it offered much more room for the
crowd and the cars than did the Sioux Falls airport.
"The crowd went wild as soon as the silvery speck appeared on the horizon. It came closer
and closer, finally setting down at the far end of the field. When the plane taxied to a stop, the
crowd mobbed it. A tall, thin figure climbed out and everyone roared and cheered and whistled
and applauded, while a band played patriotic and military music. I tried to get as close as
possible to the platform draped with red, white, and blue bunting surrounded by hundreds of
American flags.
"Moments later an official party escorted Lindbergh up onto the platform, and the noise was
enough to drown out the explosions in a dynamite factory. I broke through the edge of the crowd
and climbed up to the platform, eager to shake hands with my hero. I was only a few feet away
from Lindbergh when several men in military uniform grabbed me and threw me off the platform.
"I was too excited to be disappointed. In fact, I was so excited that I hardly heard a word
Lindbergh said as he greeted the crowd and told about his historic flight. Instead of listening, I
elbowed my way through the crowd to get over to Lindbergh's plane, which now stood
majestically alone, totally ignored by the people crowding around the platform. That silver airship
was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I dreamed of climbing inside and flying it away.
"All the way home I chattered excitedly. 'I'm going to be bigger than Lindbergh someday,'
I vowed to my father, more determined than ever to become a flier."
Frank Foss simply looked at his 12-year-old son Joe, and smiled.
The Guggenheim Tour at Mitchell Field, on October 23. Lindbergh spent a month at the
estate of Daniel Guggenheim, writing his much anticipated autobiography...simply titled WE. In it
the American hero wrote simply and honestly about his family, his interest in aviation, his military
training, and his airmail days. His account of the transatlantic flight comprised little more than a
single chapter, expressed with just the facts and no embellishment. When it became necessary, for the
sake of recording history, to relate the honors and praise bestowed upon him for his accomplishment,
the still humble Lindbergh opted to have his friend Fitzhugh Green relate it in a third person
narrative. No success could spoil the simple humility of this truly great American.
196
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee L
Loon
nee E
Eaaggllee
On December 14, 1927, the United States
Congress authorized a special award of the Medal of
Honor to Army Captain Charles A. Lindbergh. It was
presented by President Coolidge and would remain
perhaps the most controversial award of our Nation's
highest military Medal in its distinguished history.
Despite that controversy, surfacing only in later years
and for all the wrong reasons, Charles Lindbergh was
indeed a hero. Only three Army Airmen to that date
had earned Medals of Honor, all during World War I
and all of them posthumously. (Eddie Rickenbacker's
Medal of Honor was not presented until 1930.) Thus
Charles Lindbergh became the first living airman to
receive his Nation's highest honor.
That same month the American ambassador to Mexico requested that Lindbergh make a
goodwill tour of several South American nations on behalf of the United States. Everywhere
Lindbergh went, the people loved him, and for his own part the shy young man with a captivating
smile did not mind being used for the greater good of his own country. It was a fortunate goodwill
tour indeed, for in it Charles Lindbergh would find a new kind of love.
Charles and Anne Lindbergh
The American Ambassador in Mexico was a well-known and highly
regarded man, Dwight Whitney Morrow--the same man who two years earlier
had headed up the Morrow Board that had been so instrumental in the
subsequent changes in the American Air Service and its new role as the
American Air Service. Morrow's twenty-one-year-old daughter Anne was a
pretty, bright, but unusually shy young woman aspiring to be a writer. During
Lindbergh's goodwill tour, she fell madly in love with America's most eligible
bachelor. That was not unusual; nearly all of the single girls of the United States
had fallen in love with the tall, handsome hero with an engaging smile and
humble personality. What made this different was that this time, the hero also
fell in love with the young woman who adored him.
197
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee L
Loon
nee E
Eaaggllee
Early in 1928 Lindbergh completed his Latin American tour and returned home. On April 30
he flew Spirit of St. Louis from Lambert Field in St. Louis to Bolling Field in Washington, DC. It was
the last flight of the most famous airplane in history, retired after 789 hours, 28 minutes of flight.
That same spring Anne Morrow graduated from Smith
College, and the following year she and Charles were married.
Charles went to work for Transcontinental & Western Air (later
Trans World Airlines), which he was instrumental in founding, and
flew extensively to establish new air routes.
Anne usually
accompanied him as a passenger, becoming an avid aviatrix herself.
In January 1922 she piloted a glider near La Jolla, California, and
became the tenth person and FIRST woman in the United States to
earn a first-class glider license. Six months later on June 22, 1930, the
couple's first child was born, Charles Lindbergh, Jr.
In 1931 Anne Morrow Lindbergh earned her own pilots license
and joined her husband in a historic flight through Canada, Hudson's
Bay, Alaska and across the Bearing Sea to open air routes to the
Orient. The couple sailed to Shanghai when their Sirius was damaged
in October, then cut short their travels to return home to bury Anne's father.
Greater tragedy lay ahead in the following year. On March 1, 1932 the Lindbergh's son was
kidnapped. Ten weeks later the nineteen-month old boy's decomposing body was discovered, and the
Nation mourned along with the dream-couple, who to this point seemed to have everything going for
them. The subsequent trial and execution of Bruno Hauptmann, the accused kidnapper/murderer,
was called The Trial of the Century and became almost a media circus. For the Lindberghs, life would
never be the same again.
The birth of Jon Lindbergh in 1932 though a source of joy to Charles and Anne, could never
replace the sense of grief in the loss of their firstborn. The two found some relief in their 1933 flights
that ranged from Europe to South America, adventures dutifully recorded by Anne in her diary for
later publication. (In all Anne would write and publish 13 books, including 5 diaries.)
198
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee L
Loon
nee E
Eaaggllee
The five years of exploration accomplished by Charles and Anne did much to pave the way for
advancements in aviation, but memories of the kidnapping and murder could not escape them, nor
could they escape the incessant prying of the media into their private lives. In 1935 the Lindbergh
family moved to England to seek both solitude and safety.
The Albatross
Americans have always loved a success story. Ordinary people achieving extraordinary
heights against insurmountable odds tend to remind us that in The Land of Opportunity, anything is
possible. Our heroes give us hope that someday WE might achieve that of which we dream. Sadly, if
Americans love anything more than a success story, it is the scandal that ultimately brings those
heroes back down to our own level. Such would be the case with the man who had become perhaps
the most lauded American hero in our Nation's brief history. For Charles Lindbergh, that scandal
resulted from two personal character traits: a dedication to his country that demanded he answer his
Nation's call to duty, and a sincere honesty to speak the truth regardless of the consequences.
In 1936 the German government invited Charles Lindbergh to inspect their air establishments.
With urging from Major Truman Smith, the American attaché in Berlin to comply in order to report
back on the condition of German airpower, Lindbergh went. It was the first of five trips, each of
which greatly impressed him with the German efforts to build an efficient and powerful air force.
During Lindbergh's visit in 1938, Hermann Goering presented Colonel Lindbergh with the
Verdienstkreuz der Deutscher Adler for his "services to aviation of the world and particularly his
historic 1927 solo flight across the Atlantic." In presenting its highest national honor to Lindbergh,
Germany did no more than any other European nation had already done to honor the man. In the
months that followed, however, Lindbergh's acceptance of the medal became a subject of great
controversy to the point that Anne Lindbergh referred to the decoration as "the Albatross."
Colonel Lindbergh, still a member of the Army Air Service Reserves, was certainly impressed
by the powerful German Luftwaffe. When asked to rate the air forces of the world, he spoke what he
believed to be the truth: "Germany number one. Great Britain number two." It was not a message
Americans wanted to hear, or believe, and Lindbergh's frank honesty coupled with the Albatross
began raising serious questions about his loyalty as an American.
In 1939 as war was brewing in Europe, the Lindberghs moved back to the United States.
Lindbergh's inspection tours had impressed him with the efficiency of the German air force...but it
had also frightened him...not for himself but for his country. He honestly believed that the American
Air Service had been so neglected as to be greatly inferior to the
forces being established in Germany. In his journal he wrote:
"There are wars worth fighting, but if we (United States) get
in this one, we will bring disaster to the country and possibly our
entire civilization. If we get into this war and really fight,
nothing but chaos will result...it won't be like the last, and God
knows what will happen here before we finish it."
The American hero of a decade past was not alone in this
belief. At the time of his return home, nine out of ten Americans
were opposed to the United States getting involved in the war
brewing in Europe. Even former president Herbert Hoover spoke
199
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
T
Th
hee L
Loon
nee E
Eaaggllee
in opposition. But when Charles Lindbergh began voicing his own opposition, he became an enemy of
the White House. Montana Senator Burton Wheeler recruited Lindbergh in an organization called
"America First." The group's philosophy was that events unfolding in Europe were Europe's
problems. The United States should concentrate on policies that strengthened and protected America
first, not on the rest of the world. Lindbergh sincerely believed in that credo, and became a key
spokesman for the group. Because of this, Lindbergh was soon being portrayed as anti-Semitic (he
was in fact, honestly critical of some practices that lent credence to this charge, though Lindbergh
deplored the treatment of the Jews by Nazi Germany and said so).
On April 25, 1941, President Franklin D. Roosevelt publicly attacked Lindbergh in a press
conference, going so far as to label the man treasonous and questioning his commission in the U.S. Air
Service Reserves. Reportedly, there was even talk of stripping Lindbergh of his Medal of Honor. On
Sunday, April 27, Lindbergh wrote in his journal:
"Have decided to resign. After studying carefully what the President said, I feel it is the
only honorable course to take. If I did not tender my resignation, I would lose something
in my own character that means more to me than my commission in the Air Corps. No one
else might know it, but I would. And if I take this insult from Roosevelt, more, and worse,
will probably be forthcoming."
The following morning Colonel Charles Lindbergh performed one of his most difficult and
most courageous acts. He submitted his letters of resignation to the President and to Secretary of
War Henry Stimson. In the months that followed, he spoke again and again urging his country to
avoid war. As a result he remained true to his own personal beliefs and became one of the most hated
and misunderstood men in America.
As meteoric as had been the rise of an unknown airmail pilot from St. Louis, so too became the
fall of a great hero. More than half-a-century later, Charles Lindbergh is still remembered by many
as a war protestor or a pacifist.
All too few know THE REST OF THE STORY...for everything changed on…
200
Older
Heroes
Eddie Rickenbacker
Charles Lindbergh
A Brand New War
War erupted in Europe in 1939 while the United States tried to remain neutral. In 1941, nine out
of ten Americans opposed any American intervention, among them the Army Air Service's two living
Medal of Honor heroes, Eddie Rickenbacker and Charles Lindbergh. Both had left military service,
Rickenbacker resigning his commission as a colonel in the reserves "in protest against the legalized
murder of the young Army pilots sent out to fly the airmail." Lindbergh resigned his own colonelcy in
1941 to avoid conflicts as he continued to be a high-profile speaker for the America First Committee,
which also numbered Rickenbacker among its members.
The two men had much in common: both were icons of American history, both had visited
Germany and witnessed that nation's burgeoning air force, both called for an increased and expanded
American air force, and both spoke in favor of American neutrality in the war at hand. Neither man had
garnered favor with the administration of President Franklin D. Roosevelt, but Lindbergh took the brunt
of the President's wrath. Rickenbacker's loyalty, despite his opposition to the brewing war, could not be
called into question. During World War I he had shot down more German aircraft than any other
American. Lindbergh had never fired a round at an enemy of the United States, making his loyalty a
more plausible target. In early 1941 an American hero fell from grace.
At nearly the same time, the other fell from the sky.
Rickenbacker's Atlanta Crash
February 27, 1941
It was after midnight on a rainy Thursday morning as Flight 21 from Washington, D.C. to
Brownsville, Texas, began a slow circle over the fog-shrouded airport near Atlanta where it would
make an intermediate stop. The weather was bad but Captain James Perry was doing his best. On
this night, his passenger list included his boss, Eastern Airlines president Eddie Rickenbacker.
Page 201
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
The big DC-3 sleeper carried 16 people
including the crew as it made a 180 degree turn, the
pilot unaware that he was 1,000 feet too low.
Suddenly the left wing clipped the tops of the trees
and Captain Perry quickly tried to adjust, the right
wing dropping and then sheering off as it too hit the
trees. The airplane nosed up, then hit the ground
and began a series of violent somersaults before
breaking in half, killing five instantly and seriously
injuring nine more.
Eddie Rickenbacker, the
legendary hero of World War I was among the
latter, laying amid the wreckage at the point where
the fuselage had broken in two.
Hours later he lay in a hospital bed in Piedmont, several ribs broken, two of them protruding
from the flesh in his side. His left hip socket was crushed, his pelvis broken on both sides, his knee
broken, and his left elbow had been crushed. It had taken rescue workers an hour to pry his
shattered body from the wreckage, two photographers capturing the grisly scene for their
newspapers. Rickenbacker's left eye hung loose from the socket, connected only by nerves and tissue.
The flash of their bulbs blinded the other eye. News of the tragedy was heard...and seen... across the
country almost before Rick reached the hospital. At the hospital Rickenbacker was examined by an
intern, who remarked, "He's more dead than alive. Let's take care of the live ones."
A priest offered to administer last rites, only to be rebuffed by the man who refused to die.
Then Dr. Floyd McRae, head surgeon at the Piedmont hospital, arrived and took charge. It was not
the first time Dr. McRae had seen Rickenbacker. More than two decades earlier he had assisted in
the mastoid operation in Paris that enabled the young pursuit pilot to return to duty and achieve what
no other fighter pilot of World War I could match.
By the following morning hope began to surface that Rick would survive. Dr. McRae had his
patient served a milkshake laced with brandy. Rickenbacker responded, "I want a bottle of beer and a
ham-and-egg sandwich." Rick got what he wanted, as well as a body cast that left him only one arm
free, that he didn't want.
Three days later the Rickenbacker boys, David and Bill, were on their way to school when the
bus was halted by a patrol car. Rick had taken a turn for the worse, and Dr. McRae had called his
wife Adelaide from her hotel room to hurry back to the hospital. Her call to the Georgia State Police
now had the two young boys returning to their dying father's bedside at 90 miles per hour while lights
flashed and sirens screamed. The troopers couldn't avoid a stop outside Atlanta for gas, urging the
attendant to hurry as they were taking Eddie Rickenbacker's boys to his bedside.
"You don't need to hurry," the man who pumped their gas replied. "The news just came over
the radio--Rickenbacker died an hour ago."
But Rick wasn't dead yet. Like too many reports in that horrible first week after the Atlanta
crash, those who reported the news underestimated the will-to-live of the fifty-year-old American Ace
of Aces. Later that evening when Walter Winchell's voice came over the radio in Rickenbacker's
hospital room to announce that Rick was dying and not expected to live another hour, Rickenbacker
smashed the radio with a well-aimed pitcher using his one good arm. "Get on the phone," he told
Adelaide. "Call the top men at the radio networks. Tell them to make their commentators quit talking
like that. They're not helping me any by telling me I'm dead. I'm not dead, and I'm not going to die."
202
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
Six weeks later most of the cast had been whittled away and
Rickenbacker was doing his best to reassure an anxious America that
the will to survive can be greater than "Slipping into that sensuous and
beautiful state... into that lovely land where there is no pain."
Four months later Rickenbacker walked slowly, and painfully,
out of the hospital. With his family he moved to a small cottage on
Candlewood Lake in Connecticut, where he continued to work on
rehabilitation.
In December Rick and Adelaide were planning for a move to a
warmer climate—a houseboat in Miami where Rick would continue
trying to build up his broken body. Rick was wrapping things up in
New York, working in his office in the early morning to wrap up
correspondence. He frequently worked on Sundays just for this
purpose, for there was no one else around to distract him. This particular Sunday would prove to be
full of distraction. It was a morning that would change life forever. It was the morning of:
December 7, 1941.
DECEMBER 8, 1941
"Now we have been attacked, and attacked in home waters...I can see nothing to do
under these circumstances except to fight. If I had been in Congress, I certainly would
have voted for a declaration of war."
DECEMBER 11, 1941
"All that I feared would happen has happened. We are at war all over the world, and we
are unprepared for it from either a spiritual or a material standpoint."
DECEMBER 12, 1941
"Now that we are at war I want to contribute as best as I can to my country's war effort. It
is vital for us to carry on this war as intelligently, as constructively, and as successfully
as we can, and I want to do my part.
Charles Lindberg
(In His Wartime Journal)
December 8, 1941
Pearl Harbor changed everything. It had been less than a year
since Colonel Charles Lindbergh had resigned his commission to pursue
his efforts in America First; efforts to keep the United States from
entering a war he believed would be disastrous for the entire world. Now
that the war had come despite those efforts, it was difficult for him to
imagine himself having any role that did not involve defending the nation
he loved.
203
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
On December 12 he wrote in his journal:
"My first inclination…was to write directly to the President, offering my services, and
telling him that while I had opposed him in the past and had not changed my convictions, I
was ready in time of war to submerge my personal viewpoint in the general welfare and
unity of the country."
In these personal memoirs, unpublished for a quarter-century, Lindbergh went on to explain
his concerns...
"The president has the reputation, even among his friends, of being a vindictive man.
If I wrote to him at this time, he would probably make what use he could of my offer from
a standpoint of politics and publicity and assign me to some position where I would be
completely ineffective and out of the way."
In the end, Lindbergh made his request for a return to military service through Air Corps
chief, General Henry Hap Arnold. That letter was composed on December 20, less than two weeks
after the attack on Pearl Harbor.
On December 30 the press announced that Charles Lindbergh had volunteered for service in
the U.S. Air Corps. General Arnold had apparently released news of the December 20 letter, and
Lindbergh took this as a ray of hope that his request was under consideration. He realized that even
Arnold could not take action without the acquiescence of the President and had written the letter in
such a way that General Arnold could deal with his offer according the manner he felt most advisable.
The two men had worked together in Air Corps business two years earlier, and Lindbergh had a
sincere respect for the air chief.
Over the two following weeks Lindbergh waited anxiously for news, hoping that something
would break his way. During the period he met with Colonel William Wild Bill Donovan who was
heading up an intelligence organization in need of an aviation expert. The World War I Medal of
Honor hero and father of our modern intelligence services was friendly in efforts to recruit
Lindbergh, though he did note that any such move would require the approval of the President.
Neither man was confident that Roosevelt could put the past animosities between himself and
Lindbergh aside.
On January 12 Lindbergh went to Washington, DC for a late afternoon meeting with
Secretary of War Henry Stimson. The Secretary greeted him warmly, speaking first of a 1930
situation when Charles Lindbergh had answered a call from the State Department for assistance in a
potentially disastrous political situation. To Lindbergh it sounded like the Secretary was saying, "I
owe you one...for old time's sake." Then the conversation seemed to go downhill.
Stimson advised Lindbergh that he was reluctant to put him in a command situation due to his
prior antiwar views. He doubted the man's ability to pursue the current war aggressively enough.
Lindbergh replied that his views on the war had not been altered but: "Now that we were in the war
my stand was behind my country, as I had always said it would be, and that I wanted to help in whatever
way I could be most effective." At last Secretary Stimson did agree to arrange a meeting between
Lindbergh and General Arnold. It took place the following day.
General Arnold met with Lindbergh in the office of Assistant Secretary of War Robert Lovett.
Both men assured Lindbergh that there were many ways he could serve the Air Corps, but voiced
doubts that the public or the media would respond well to him taking an important position in the
204
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
command structure. After a half-an-hour Lindbergh finally stated, "In view of the feeling which
existed it seemed...it would be a mistake...to return to the Air Corps." Instead, he would seek to make
his contribution to the war effort through the commercial aviation industry such as Pan American
Airways, Curtiss-Wright, or United Aircraft. "It goes against my grain to be out of the Air Corps in
time of war," he wrote in his journal that evening, "but I am convinced it would be inadvisable for me to
push my way back into it.
"Both Arnold and Lovett seemed friendly personally, but I constantly had the
impression that they were thinking of orders from higher up. They were both in a difficult
position...the situation was loaded with political dynamite and (they) handled themselves
accordingly."
Two days later (January 15, 1942) Lindbergh was walking out the door when he bumped into
Eddie Rickenbacker. The two agreed to have dinner at Rick's apartment that evening, and did.
During that dinner Lindbergh spoke of his own efforts to serve his country in time of war, and
Rickenbacker echoed a similar sentiment. The great ace of a war long past advised Lindbergh that
the (President's) Administration was making it "as difficult as possible for him due to his past stand in
opposition to their war policies."
For Lindbergh, it would only get worse. The following Monday he offered his services to Pan
American, his first choice among the commercial air lines now turning their efforts towards
supporting the war. One week later he received his reply..."obstacles had been put in the way."
Lindbergh knew that those obstacles were insurmountable, most certainly coming from President
Roosevelt.
His suspicion was confirmed a week later in a meeting with Juan Trippe of Pan Am who told
him that the War Department had been open to Lindbergh working on Pan American's war projects.
But, when Trippe had approached the White House for approval of the matter however, they were
very angry with him for even bringing up the subject. They advised that they did not want Lindbergh
"connected with Pan American in any capacity."
On February 11 Lindbergh was advised not to pursue work with United, which had recently
come under political attack and suspicion for its sale of aviation materials to both Japan and
Germany in the pre-war years. Though Lindbergh had no involvement in these, it was deemed that
the hero's own personal baggage would only make matters worse.
Next Lindbergh turned to the Curtiss-Wright Company. On February 25 he was advised that
the situation was loaded with dynamite and that the company's "officers are afraid of the vindictiveness
of the White House, and they have good reason to be."
Later that night Lindbergh wrote in his journal:
"I am beginning to wonder whether I will be blocked in every attempt I make to take
part in this war. I have always stood for what I thought would be to the best interest of this
country, and now we are at war I want to take my part in fighting for it, foolish and
disastrous as I think the war will prove to be. Our decision has been made, and now we
must fight to preserve our national honor and out national future. I have always believed
in the past that every American citizen had the right and the duty to state his opinion in
peace and to fight for his country in war. But the Roosevelt Administration seems to think
otherwise."
205
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
Ultimately, only one man dared to stand up to the President, a man who had also been a
member of America First. On March 24 Lindbergh met with the owner and officers of a B-24
bomber factory at Willow Run near Detroit. They advised Lindbergh that they could make good use
of his knowledge and experience if he would accept a position as a civilian advisor and aeronautical
engineer. Lindbergh reminded the men of his previous problems gaining employment with Pan Am,
United, and Curtiss-Wright and advised them to first bring the matter up with the War Department.
Henry Ford responded that it "Annoys him to think he has to ask anyone about what he wants to do in
his own factory."
At last, Charles Lindbergh found the man that would give him the opportunity he had
struggled to achieve for four months...to serve his country in time of war...if only as a civilian. Three
weeks earlier Eddie Rickenbacker too had returned to the service of his country, thanks to an old
friend well placed in the Army Air Service.
Time to Play an Ace
"How are you doing Eddie?" Asked the voice of an old friend across the phone lines. "Are you
recovering from that horrible crash in Atlanta okay?"
"Doing well," replied Rick. "After the Japs hit Pearl last December, I told Adelaide I had more
reason than ever to get fit again."
"Eddie, I've got a very important mission for you. I can't tell you over the phone. When can you
come to Washington?"
"I'll be there bright and early Monday morning, Hap," Rick replied to his old friend from
World War I, now America's air chief, General Henry Hap Arnold. When the call had ended Rick
thought with excitement about what had just transpired.
"I had no idea what job he had for me, I knew that it would be an important one, one
related to the mission of the Air Forces in our fight for freedom. I thanked God for
sparing me to fight again for America. War is hell, but sometimes a necessary hell."
Monday, March 9, 1942
General Arnold shook hands with his old friend and sized him up to see if indeed Eddie
Rickenbacker had sufficiently recovered from the airplane crash the previous year to undertake the
mission the air chief had summoned him to the Capitol to lay out. Rick looked tired, walked with a
cane and a noticeable limp, but there was still fire in his eyes.
"I'm concerned about the reports I'm getting from combat groups in training, Eddie," he
announced. "I'm told that they are indifferent, that they haven't got the punch they need to do the
job they're being prepared for. I want you to go out and talk to these boys, inspire them, put some
fire in them. And while you're there, I want you to look around and see what our problems are."
After all the roadblocks Rick had faced from the Administration due to his prewar sentiments,
this was exactly what he wanted to hear. The fifty-one-year-old war hero didn't mind at all becoming
the cheerleader for a new group of would-be heroes, and the mission directive also gave him
opportunity to observe and offer constructive ideas to improve the Air Service. "I'll be ready to go in
ten days," he eagerly replied.
206
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
"Eddie, some of these units will be on their way overseas in ten days," General Arnold
remarked. The following day, March 10, Rickenbacker was back in Florida...this time to visit and
motivate young fliers at a unit in Tampa Bay. On Wednesday he was in Savanna, GA, to do the same;
on Thursday he was in South Carolina; on Friday in Tallahassee, and in New Orleans on Saturday.
Rick took Sunday off to write a report for General Arnold, and then continued the hectic pace in the
weeks that followed.
At each of several daily stops over the next month, Rickenbacker spoke to the war-bound
airmen, often for more than an hour. It was a tiring pace, but Rick was dedicated and determined
despite the toll it took on his own body, still not fully recovered from the crash. He also carefully took
note of all he observed, reporting back to General Arnold frequently. In Tallahassee he spoke to a
group of Black pilots, all of who still carried enlisted rank. He wrote a letter to Arnold observing:
"They are a grand bunch of kids and great pilots, but something should be done immediately to
commission them, they are deserving of it." Almost immediately the Air Service acted, and the men
received the gold bars of a second lieutenant.
In Long Beach, California, Rick visited with the new
pilots of his old 94th Aero Squadron. It was a thrill marred
only by a ruling years earlier by the adjutant general's office
that the famous hat-in-the-ring insignia could not be used by
the modern-day 94th Squadron.
The young pilots
communicated to Rick that they wished to resurrect the
historic trademark, and Rick went directly to General
Arnold. In an April 12 letter General Arnold thanked
Rickenbacker for his efforts over thirty-two days during
which he had visited 41 groups of Army airmen. In that
letter he advised: "Uncle Sam's Hat-in-the-Ring insignia of
the 94th Pursuit Squadron which you commanded with such
distinction during the first world war is now being returned to
that unit."
When Rickenbacker wrapped up the tour on April 13, he organized his thoughts based upon
all he had observed, wrote his report, and then went to see General Arnold. When he walked into the
air chief's office, it was not as a military man but as a successful chairman of a board. Rick had been
out of uniform for more than a decade and had conducted his recent tour as a civilian.
"Cut off the telephones," he announced, "I want three hours of your uninterrupted attention."
"That's impossible, Eddie," the air chief replied. "I want to hear what you have to say, but
you've got to be quicker than that."
"Hap, you're the head man of this outfit. If you won't listen to me, then there's no sense in my
continuing my efforts to be of help to you," Rickenbacker stated flatly. Arnold advised Rick that all
the top generals were on site, and encouraged him to go in and talk to them.
"I've been all over the country talking to them," Rickenbacker retorted. "I want YOU there, too.
Unless you go in with me and listen to what I have to say, then there is no point of my carrying on. I'll
walk out right now, and we'll forget the whole thing."
For seven hours General Arnold and the top brass listened as Eddie Rickenbacker reported on
all he had observed, and made his recommendations for improvement. Rickenbacker had built a
successful airline in the 1930s through hard work, attention to detail, and a frankly, blatant
207
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
leadership style. Now he brought it to Washington, DC, and it was exactly what the fledgling Army
Air Service needed most.
Shortly after that important day, at the direction of Secretary Stimpson, General Arnold
called a meeting of all major airline executives. Arnold was speaking to the distinguished assembly
when he noticed Rickenbacker's walk in and offered him the podium. Rick's style remained the
forceful, no B.S. approach that had made him an American success story:
"First thing I've got to say is that all of you guys get rid of the chisels that you've got in
your pockets. I know. You brought a pocketful of them down here so that you could chisel
your way out of doing things that you're going to have to do whether you like it or not.
This is the time when you're going to have to think about your country first and your
airline second. Because if your country doesn't win this war, you won't have any airline!"
Rickenbacker's keen mind and frank manner got things done, and he continued to work with
General Arnold throughout the summer of 1942 to bring necessary changes to the Army Air Service.
His genius, his leadership, and his dedication did not go unnoticed. On September 14, 1942, he
received a letter from Secretary of War Henry Stimson himself. It said, in part:
Dear Captain Rickenbacker:
This spring you did a magnificent job in evaluating the fighting spirit and training of our men
in the Army Forces. I am writing you at this time to ask if you would undertake to go to England
and visit the various Army Air Forces stations in the bomber and fighter commands, as a
continuation of your tour of inspection in March and April.
I am, of course, fully aware of the high-spirited confidence and efficiency of the AAF air and
ground crews. Nevertheless, my interest in our Army airmen overseas is so deep that I would
welcome a first-hand report by a non-military observer on how they are getting along.
If you accept this assignment, as I hope you will, I am happy to authorize you to proceed to
England and visit the various AAF stations. On your return to this country, you would report to
me directly.
Of course Rickenbacker accepted the assignment. "My personal reason for going on these
missions, indeed the foundation of my life," he later wrote, "can be summed up in one sentence:
"Men grow only in proportion to the service they render their fellow
men and women."
Following Rickenbacker's earlier tour of the stateside installations, he had been offered and
declined a commission as a brigadier general. Now, Arnold and Stimson upped the ante, offering him
the two stars of a brigadier. Again the former colonel, who had always preferred the title Captain
Eddie, declined. Rick felt he could best serve as a civilian, unencumbered by military protocol.
208
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
"When I return from these missions, I want to be able to pound the table, point to the
facts and insist on what I believe to be the most efficient way of doing things."
Rick went to England, therefore, as a civilian, with unprecedented
authority from the Secretary of War to order field commanders to assist
him in the completion of his mission. He took with him as his personal
aide, Colonel Hans Adamson, a valued personal friend. Adamson had
handled the media during Rick's U.S. tour months earlier.
On
Rickenbacker's secret mission to Europe during the fall of 1942 Adamson's
job was reversed...keeping the press away from the American hero.
For his services, the War Department negotiated a modest salary
with Rickenbacker who had asked for nothing at all. He was paid $1 (one
dollar) per year. Rickenbacker even paid his own expenses throughout the
mission.
In England Rick paid particular attention to two key areas:
 A survey of the conduct of the air war in general
 Evaluation of American equipment and personnel in general
Amid his tours of the flying fields, he met with key American and British air strategists. He
had hoped to meet the famous Air Marshall Sir Hugh Trenchard, but the legendary hero of World
War II was abroad. Instead, he left Rickenbacker a copy of his own secret report to the Air Ministry.
Rick's fifty-first birthday came and went almost without notice on October 8. The man had
far more important things to consume his time. Before he departed England three days later he paid
a visit to Lieutenant General Dwight Eisenhower. This was during the period where the European
commander of United States Forces was planning the greatest invasion in history to that point, the
landing at North Africa. Three copies of the top-secret plans were to be sent to Washington to insure
that at least one copy arrived. One copy traveled west by Navy cruiser, a second by special courier.
When Rickenbacker departed England on October 11, he carried with him the third copy.
On Tuesday, October 13, Rickenbacker reported directly to Secretary Stimson, and received
his next assignment. There would be no rest for the American hero. On Wednesday the War
Department issued orders authorizing Rickenbacker to make a similar tour of the Pacific including a
visit to the headquarters of General Douglas MacArthur. Secretary Stimson communicated a special,
highly sensitive message to Rickenbacker to relay to the Pacific commander. Since it was so highly
secret that it could not be written on paper, Rick memorized it for delivery.
On Saturday night Rickenbacker and Colonel Adamson left New York for the West Coast.
Rick spent Sunday visiting his mother in Los Angeles, then departed the following day on a Pan
American Sikorsky Clipper for Hawaii by way of San Francisco. At 10:30 p.m. Tuesday
Rickenbacker and Adamson climbed aboard a B-17-D at Hickam Field for the flight from Hawaii to
General MacArthur's headquarters at Port Moresby, New Guinea. In addition to the airplane's fiveman crew there was one more passenger, Alexander Kaczmarczyk whom everyone called "Alex".
Alex was recently discharged from a hospital in Hawaii and was returning to his unit in Australia.
209
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
Brigadier General William Lynd, commander of Hickam
Field, personally drove Rick and Colonel Adamson to the airfield.
As the pilot, Captain William Cherry, tried to take off a tire blew
sending the plane out of control. Skillfully he managed to maneuver
the big B-17 back on the runway and halt it before it could plunge
into the bay beyond the airstrip.
The mission had started off poorly…almost ended before it
began. It was about to become even worse for the fifty-one-year-old
hero of a war long past. Shortly after midnight a replacement Flying
Fortress taxied off the runway, taking Eddie Rickenbacker and seven
American servicemen into the dark clouds of the tropical sky. Three
days later the news spread around the world.
An American legend was:
Lost At Sea
Three small rafts rose with the twelve-foot swells of the South Pacific,
barren but for the slowly sinking B-17 Flying Fortress that had become lost en
route to New Guinea. .
The first hint of trouble had come early that morning at about 8:30 when
Captain Cherry had dropped from cruising altitude to about 1,000 feet to watch for the four-by-eightmile island of Canton where the plane would land for refueling. When the 9:30 estimated arrival
time came and went without sight of the small speck that interrupted thousands of miles of ocean,
concern aboard the B-17 began to grow. At 10:15 Rickenbacker inquired how much fuel remained,
as pilot and navigator struggled to find what had gone wrong. "A little over four hours," Cherry
replied.
The crew made radio contact with the American outpost at Palmyra, another of the small
islands that dotted the Pacific. Captain Cherry climbed to 5,000 feet while the ground crew at
Palmyra began firing antiaircraft shells set to detonate at 7,000 feet to mark the island's location.
From the cockpit he could see nothing. From the windows behind him in the cargo compartment the
anxious crewmen who scanned the horizon for any sight of life were equally fruitless.
It was obvious that the airplane was lost in the endless expanse of blue sky
and dark green waters. With fuel running low, shortly after noon Sergeant
Reynolds sent out an SOS. By now the airplane was so far off course that the call
for help wasn't heard even at Palmyra. Captain Cherry pushed forward on the
controls and dropped closer and closer to the waves below in preparation for the
inevitable moment when the fuel was gone and the engines died. Behind him
Rickenbacker and the crew of the airplane were hastily breaking out rafts and
gathering provisions for the anticipated days at sea, mentally steeling themselves
for the imminent impact.
210
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
Captain Cherry handled that fateful and dangerous moment skillfully, setting his airplane
down in the trough between two waves. Had he been even one or two seconds off in his calculations,
the B-17's nose would have plunged into a 12-foot wave, sending it immediately to the bottom of the
ocean. Sergeant Reynolds continued to bang out his SOS in Morris Code until the moment the
airplane slammed into surface, tossing provisions and human cargo from wall to wall.
.
Quickly the green-blue water of the ocean began to fill the B-17 as injured
and dazed men struggled to release the rafts and exit the doomed airplane.
Captain Cherry, Sergeant Reynolds, and co-pilot Captain John Whittaker got into
one of the two larger rafts. Lieutenant John De Angelis, the crew's navigator,
struggled to inflate the smaller two-man raft for himself and Alex. He
maneuvered it as close as he could to the floundering B-17, struggling against the
heavy swells, while Alex tried to reach it. When the nearly drowning man tried to
climb in, the raft capsized in the 12-foot swells, forcing both he and DeAngelis to
fight even harder for survival. Both men swallowed large amounts of the salty
seawater, but found within themselves the determination to right their raft and
climb back into its cramped but buoyant confines.
Rickenbacker and Sergeant John Bartek, the flight engineer took the remaining raft. They
held it steady next to the slow-sinking B-17 as Colonel Adamson slid out onto the wing of the dying
airplane. At age 53, Adamson was the oldest of the eight men that went down in the Pacific that day;
and he was in severe pain. His back had been injured in the crash that had hurtled men and loose
provisions around the airplane's compartment; and it was all he could do to slide from the wing and
into the waiting arms of Eddie Rickenbacker.
Quickly the eight men took stock of their situation, glancing anxiously at each other across
waves that quickly separated them. Despite the efforts to gather water, rations and emergency
supplies in the minutes before the crash, when the moment of truth had come, none of the men had
managed to transfer these to the rafts. It would probably have been impossible anyway, as everything
had been scattered about inside the fuselage upon impact.
The big B-17 remained afloat for six minutes,
causing the men to later regret the decision not to
quickly return for water. Then the end came, the nose
dropping and the tail raising heavenward as it plunged
to the ocean floor. Rickenbacker looked at his watch...it
was 2:36 p.m. Honolulu time on October 21, 1941.
The heavy seas swamped all three rafts, and the
men bailed with abandon, at first unmindful of the fact
that the current was pushing them further and further
away from each other. Quickly Rickenbacker called
them all back in, all of them paddling furiously to join
their comrade. Then the three rafts were lashed
together in a line. Rickenbacker later echoed his
sentiment at the time, a philosophy that should be well
remembered by any man in crisis:
211
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
"A strong man may last a long time alone but men together somehow
manage to last longer."
None of the eight men dared guess at how long they might have to survive
at sea. Their B-17 had been lost when then fuel ran out and no one capable of
mounting a rescue effort would know where to begin looking. The Pacific Ocean
was a mighty big place.
To further complicate matters, there was a war on.
Day 1
Colonel Adamson was in the worst shape, lying almost motionless in Rickenbacker's raft and
struggling against intense pain. All of the men were seasick and went through an initial period of
vomiting that eventually faded...except for the young Alex who had swallowed much of the briny
ocean when his raft capsized. His body retched for hours into the evening and, though relatively
uninjured, he seemed to be suffering nearly as badly as Adamson. The plane's impact had thrown
Reynolds, still pounding out his SOS until the last minute, against the radio console cutting a deep
gash in his nose. The only other major injury was to Bartek who shared the second raft with
Rickenbacker and Adamson. He had ripped his fingers to the bone on a piece of metal while
untangling the ropes to push the rafts out of the forward hatch when the plane crashed.
As the afternoon wore on the eight survivors took stock of their situation. The rafts held no
drinking water and all the emergency rations rested on the ocean floor inside the B-17. Rickenbacker
had a chocolate bar in his pocket, Alex nearly half a dozen, but these had been destroyed when his
raft capsized. Captain Cherry had stuffed four oranges in his pockets moments before the crash, and
these comprised the full compliment of food the men would have available in the coming days.
Rickenbacker was still fully dressed in a blue, summer-weight business suit complete with
necktie and pocket-handkerchief. Colonel Adamson was still in full uniform as well, and the pilot and
copilot had their flight jackets. The other men had stripped for the swim from the sinking plane to
the rafts, their bodies now lying exposed to the elements.
Three men were crammed into each of the
larger, five-man rafts with De Angelis and Alex sharing
the smaller two-man raft. Rickenbacker wondered who
had determined the raft's rated capacity. Each of the
larger ones measured only 6'9" long and 2'4" wide.
The three men in each were literally forced to overlap
each other in the pitching seas that threw them from
swell to swell.
Almost as soon as the rafts began their odyssey,
the eight survivors began noticing that they were indeed
not alone. From day one until the rescue twenty-four
days later, large sharks followed the men, patiently
waiting for a meal. As night enveloped the eight men, stillness fell across the Pacific, broken only by
the agonized groans of Colonel Adamson and the sound of Alex retching in dry heaves as the smaller
raft trailed the two larger ones.
Day 2
212
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
Throughout the first long, cold night the men had
kept up a system of two-hour watches, scanning the
darkness for any signs of light from a passing airplane or
ship in the distance. During the night the rafts were
bumped again and again by the sharks that followed, a
grim reminder of the only alternative to the cramped
quarters of the small rafts. Rick suffered in agony, his
body still not fully recovered from the Atlanta crash. He
had still been walking with a cane when the B-17 was lost
at sea, undergoing regular daily treatments to his broken
body. The stiffness and chill of the night now left him in
great pain.
Early morning revealed a calming of the high waves, and the three rafts pulled closer together.
Rickenbacker was made custodian of the four oranges that comprised the men's rations. The men
determined that they would split one orange every two days, spreading them out to last a week and a
day. Now Rick carefully cut the first orange in half, then quarters, and finally eights. Each man
thankfully consumed his breakfast, the only meal scheduled for the day.
The ocean surface became mirror-calm that second day, and the sun became unbearably hot
as it rose into the morning skies. By noon the exposed bodies of the men who had stripped for the
swim to the rafts began turning pink, then brilliant red. Blisters rose as skin baked in the unrelenting
heat. Rickenbacker had three large handkerchiefs in his suit pocket, and passed these around. The
men tied them bandit-fashion below their eyes to protect their faces. A battered hat Adelaide had
threatened to burn for years now sheltered Rick's eyes from the blazing sun. He was thankful it had
survived not only his fashion-conscious wife, but also the plane crash and its aftermath.
When darkness fell on the second night, Captain Cherry brought up the subject of the 18
flares and Very gun for firing them. These, along with two pistols carried by the pilot and copilot,
were among the meager lot of survival gear that reached the raft. Despite the fact that the men were
not sure whether or not their errant flight path had taken them into Japanese-controlled waters, it
was decided to fire three flares each night for six days in hopes of attracting rescue.
The first flare was shot upward as soon as the darkness was complete. The shell was a dud
and emitted no signal light to be seen, even if some human other than the eight men been anywhere
near that part of the ocean. Rather than wait the planned interval to release the second flare, Cherry
reloaded and fired again. This time the flare burst to burn dimly for a few seconds. It was better
than the first, but not what the men had hoped for.
Days 3 - 7
Captain Cherry fired the third flare of that night shortly before dawn broke. The seas
remained totally calm; the rafts idle on the surface. The sun continued to broil flesh and cause
multiple blisters and seeping skin ulcers. Colonel Adamson still could barely move from his pain, and
Alex continued to retch and shiver. The other men seemed stronger, and for a brief time determined
to survive. At that however, death seemed almost preferable to torture. The salty water of the Pacific
coated the bodies of the men, then evaporated to leave a white, salty film.
Rickenbacker later described the men's first six days at sea as the worst days of his life--far
more painful and miserable than the Atlanta plane crash. The fourth night, and each night thereafter
until the flares were exhausted, Captain Cherry fired three signals. On the fourth day, Rickenbacker
213
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
cut the second orange into eighths and the men had their second meal. Most of the men savored their
morsel as long as they could, eating even the rind. Rickenbacker and Cherry saved their rinds for
bait. Two hooks and fishing lines had been among the supplies that survived the crash, but the men
had no bait. In the clear, calm waters the men could see hundreds of fish around their rafts. None of
the fish, sadly enough, had an appetite for orange peelings.
On their fifth day at sea the men decided to eat the third orange, primarily out of concern for
Adamson and Alex who seemed only to become sicker and weaker. Temperaments began to fray and
discouragement became as pervasive as the hot sun during the day or the chill at night. Almost to a
man, bodies were blistered, raw, and oozing puss. Conditions in the small rafts were cramped as the
men tried to keep from stiffening up. Any time one man moved in the raft to ease a cramp or find
comfort in a new position, his body would brush up against the raw flesh of his comrades, causing
pain for all of them.
Lieutenant Whittaker, the forty-one-year-old copilot of the ill-fated B-17,
watched the fruitless efforts of Rickenbacker and Cherry to catch fish. When the
orange peelings failed to entice a bite, Rick had even fashioned Adamson's keychain as a makeshift spinner. The fish nosed it curiously, but refused to take the
hook. Whittaker took one of the oars, tearing away the flat paddle with pliers and
attempted to sharpen it to a point. The next shark that bumped against the raft
felt the point of Whittaker's makeshift spear, far to dull despite the man's best
efforts, to penetrate the thick skin. After several more jabs Whittaker tossed the
useless spear, now equally useless as an oar, into the bottom of the raft.
Adamson, as a colonel, was the ranking member of the group. He was also
in great pain, sick, and often delirious. Twenty-seven-year-old Captain Cherry
held up reasonably well and continued to command his crew. But it was Eddie
Rickenbacker, the aging legend of a war past, who became leader, mentor, father
figure...and villain for the doomed group. When the weaker men began losing
hope and giving in to the seductive serenity of death; he tried to shock their senses
and motivate them to continue on.
At age twenty-two, poor Alex was the youngest of the eight. He was also in
the worst shape, shivering uncontrollably even while the sun blistered his body.
Unknown to the others, his unquenchable thirst had driven him to drink seawater. Much of the time
he was delirious, chanting "Hail Mary", crying out for his mother, or rambling about a girl he called
"Snooks". During his few lucid moments he would pull a photo of "Snooks" from his wallet, talk to
it, and pray over it. He was now convinced that he would never see his young sweetheart again. It
was obvious to the other men that Alex was fading fast and had given up the fight.
Rickenbacker pulled the rope that tethered his own raft to that of De Angelis and Alex in the
rear of the string, drawing them closer until he was face to face with Alex. "What is wrong with you
kid? Why the hell can't you take it?", Rick shouted as loud as his weakening voice would allow. It
was brutal, but in Rick's mind, it was also a necessary shock treatment to motivate the young man to
fight for his life. The other men looked at Rick in shock and disdain, unaware that this outburst had
been a calculated effort to save the man's life. It was only as a result of the argument that followed
that Rick learned that the young man was recently released from the hospital after contracting a
tropical disease of the mouth that left him perpetually thirsty. He had been fragile before the crash,
now he was close to death.
214
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
On the sixth day at sea, Rickenbacker split the fourth and final orange. Already it was drying
out and probably wouldn't have survived another day. It vanished along with the last shreds of hope.
Until the last orange was consumed, the men had something to look forward to. Now, nothing
remained for tomorrow but hot sun, shivering nights, and more doldrums on the surface of the ocean.
Tempers continued to flare, bickering was constant, and even the stronger men were totally falling
apart.
Rickenbacker had noticed Sergeant Bartek, who shared the middle raft with himself and
Adamson, reading daily from the New Testament he carried in his jumper pocket. Rick told the
others to pull their rafts closer, and instituted twice-daily services of Bible reading and prayer. Two
of the men initially objected, both professing a lack of religious conviction. Rick insisted that all of
them contribute, each finding and reading a passage of scripture at each of the twice-daily prayer
services. In the days that followed, some of the men became bitter when they failed to see answers to
their prayers, but the practice went on. Rickenbacker later wrote:
"Under the baking sun on the limitless Pacific, I found a new meaning, a new beauty
in its (The Bible) familiar words."
Day 8
Captain Cherry had just finished reading the Morning Prayer service and each of the eight
men had prayed in turn and sung a hymn. Rick was dozing off as the ceremony gave way to small
talk when a light on his head pressure awakened him. At once he guessed it must be a sea gull and a
quick glance at his companions through told him he must be right.
All eyes were on Rick's hat.
Slowly Rick began moving his arms, reaching his
hands alongside his ears and then upward. All the while
he resisted the strong urge to grab quickly for the bird
lest it escape. A deep hush fell across the group of men
and all eyes remained riveted on Rick's every move.
Rick sensed his hand near the brim of his hat and
continued to move in slow, even, calculated motions. He
couldn't see the bird, could only guess at its position on
his head. When his hands were close to where he thought
the gull must be, he closed his hand, and felt the welcome
texture of a leg.
In a fraction of a second he wrung its neck and stripped its feathers to reveal moist, dark meat.
He divided it equally among the eight men, saving the intestines for bait. When the men had savored
the sinewy but delicious sea gull, Cherry dropped his fishing line from his raft with a piece of the
bird's intestine. Almost immediately he landed a small mackerel about 12 inches in length. This meat
was cool and moist, satisfying thirst as well as hunger. Rickenbacker was equally successful when he
dropped his own fishing line into the water, landing a small sea bass. It was kept for the following
day's repast.
Day 9
215
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
His spirits buoyed by the two-course meal on his
ninth day at sea, Rickenbacker dozed off when darkness
fell. At midnight he woke with a jar...something was
happening...for the first time in a week he felt movement.
Around the raft waves were picking up and a wind
was whipping through his tattered clothes, illuminated
now by flashes of bright lightening. The men could smell
rain, and quickly stripped off their clothing to capture the
first drops. The storm teased them for two hours and
then, as Rick leaned his head face up over the edge of the
raft, he felt the first drops hit him in the face, followed by
another, and then another.
And then the rain stopped, almost as quickly as it had started.
Lightening still lit the clouds above, and the men could see a squall in the distance. "It's over
there," Rick shouted, as the men picked up oars and paddled with what little strength remained.
Somehow, in desperation, they found the strength and were soon being tossed about in the middle of
the squall.
In the heavy waves disaster struck before water could be collected. A rope came loose and the
small raft containing De Angelis and Alex was drifting away into the darkness. The men in the
remaining rafts continued to paddle furiously, searching the dark waters for their comrades and
fearing they were lost. Then a white flash of a cresting wave backlit the small craft. The men paddled
towards it and, before all was lost, resecured the line.
The rain revived even the quickly fading Adamson enough that he could pitch in to collect
water. The men used the first raindrops to rinse out their salt-caked clothes, and then spread them
out again to capture the fresh water and wring it out into containers before disaster struck again.
The lead raft with Cherry, Whittaker and Reynolds capsized, throwing the men into the now-raging
surf. Rick recalled, "Determined men who won't give up can do anything." Somehow, with the help
of their comrades, the three men clung to the hand lines along their raft until it could be righted and
they were pushed and pulled back in.
The water collected that night was meager in comparison to the need, but it brought some
relief and more importantly, some new hope. During the morning the men ate the small fish Rick had
caught the previous day, washing it down with each man's ration of water. As the day wore one,
Alex's condition worsened and Rick increased the dying man's water ration. As evening fell, Rick
transferred Bartek to the tailing raft with De Angelis and
carefully moved the convulsing, nearly lifeless body of
Alex to his own raft.
For two nights and two days Eddie Rickenbacker
cradled the quivering body of young Alex in his own,
much like a father cares for his own. It was a gentle side
of his nature Rick had not yet revealed during this
dangerous time, opting instead to motivate his comrades
by making them angry enough to survive. Indeed, not all
of Rick's outbursts had been calculated...he was human
and prone to his own weak moments of irrational thought
216
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
and irritable behavior. But for forty-eight hours he did his best to nurture the quickly fading young
sergeant. It was not difficult for anyone to see that the gesture was futile.
On the evening of the twelfth day at sea during one of his few lucid moments, Alex asked to be
placed back in the trailing raft. In the darkness that night Rickenbacker listened to the young man's
shallow breathing across the still ocean. Somewhere in the passing of time Alex gave a long sigh.
Then, all remained quiet.
Day 13
It was obvious in the early morning darkness that Sergeant Alex Kacamarczyk had died, but it
was not so easy to accept. At daybreak Bartek paddled up to Rickenbacker's raft where Eddie
checked for a pulse, a heartbeat, or a shallow breath. The body was already stiff, but Rick refused to
do what had to be done unless he was certain all hope had passed for Alex. Captain Cherry and
Lieutenant Whittaker verified Eddie's determination. De Angelis did the best he could to offer the
young man a Catholic burial service, and then the body of the young sergeant was rolled over the
edge and into the sea. It didn't sink as they thought it would. Instead, the lifeless body of Alex
Kacamarczyk followed the rafts for some distance, floating face down on the swells of the Pacific.
Days 14 - 18
The death of Alex served a crushing blow to the morale of all seven survivors, reminding them
that death was near and forcing them to come to grips with their own mortality. The loss of one man
left the smaller raft slightly more spacious, and Bartek asked De Angelis to change places with him.
De Angelis consented to give up the small raft, but preferred to float with the other officers,
generating a series of changes that might have been comical but for the desperate situation of the
seven men. Sergeant Reynolds joined Rickenbacker and Adamson in the middle raft, Lieutenant De
Angelis joined Captain Cherry and Lieutenant Whittaker in the lead raft, and Sergeant Bartek
floated alone in the trailing smaller raft.
In the early darkness before daybreak, Rickenbacker sensed something wrong. No longer
could he feel the tug of a rope behind his own raft. Bartek's small raft was adrift, and Rickenbacker
was sure that it hadn't been an accident. When light began streaking across the horizon, Bartek
could be seen in the distance. His lone-wolf venture hadn't got him very far and at the insistent yells
of the other men, he paddled back to tether his raft in its proper place. He later admitted honestly
that he had untied the raft himself during the night. No one asked him why.
Despite his pain and constant delirium, Colonel Adamson had made daily notations on the side
of his raft with a pencil. With the water from the storm five days earlier gone and the doldrums
returning to the glassy-smooth Pacific, he wrote the last notation of the odyssey: "Fourteenth day.
Rick and I still alive." It appeared to be his epitaph. His body burned to a pulp, his back and neck
wracked with pain, and his mind fogged by nearly constant delirium, he was obviously close to death.
For Rickenbacker it was especially disheartening. Adamson had been a long-time, close personal
friend and confidant. Now he was wasted away, dying, and there was nothing Rick could do to
intervene.
Sometime during the night Rick felt the raft lurch violently. His first thought was that a shark
had attacked. Then he noticed there was more room in the raft. Adamson was gone.
217
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
Reaching over the side, Rick felt Adamson's shoulder. In despair, his friend had apparently
decided to put an end to his misery. Rick would not let him die, holding tightly to him but too weak to
pull him back into the raft. Only with help from the lead raft was the flaccid body of Colonel
Adamson returned to its position at the rear of the raft.
Daylight brought some clarity to Adamson's fogged mind and, realizing what had happened, he
tried to force a smile and stuck out a weak hand towards Rickenbacker. Eddie recognized the sincere
apology for what it was...and then did what he claimed was one of the most difficult actions of his life.
"I don't shake hands with your kind," he snarled at his best friend, ignoring the proffered
handshake. "If you want to shake hands, you've got to prove yourself first!"
Hans Adamson sadly withdrew his hand, mulling over his close friend's rebuke. For Rick it
was an emotional moment. Chances were very good that Hans was close to death, and his last
memory of Rickenbacker would certainly be a sorrowful one. Rickenbacker honestly believed it was
at that moment that Adamson determined to fight...to survive...to live.
"Rickenbacker, you are the meanest, most cantankerous (expletive) that ever lived," one of the
other survivors shouted across the water. Within hearts that had been crushed by too much pain and
suffering, anger arose. Several of the men determined in their hearts that they "would live for the
sheer pleasure of burying Rickenbacker at sea," and later admitted the same to Rick.
In his own mind, Rickenbacker refused to give up, or to let anyone else give up.
"It was clear to me," he later recalled, "that God had a purpose in keeping me alive.
It was to help the others, to bring them through. I had been saved to serve. It was an
awesome responsibility, but I accepted it gladly and proudly.
"I did not forget that I myself still had a mission to perform and a message to deliver to
General MacArthur."
.
Despite the anger and profane words exchanged among the seven men, the twice-daily prayer
services continued until about the seventeenth day. That was the day the men finally decided to part
ways in hope of rescue. Against Rick's better judgment, he had always felt the men had the best
chance of rescue by remaining together, the others convinced him it was time to separate. The hope
was that the three healthiest men might be able to break out of the current that drifted all three rafts
southeast, and perhaps find a transport ship or airplane.
With most of the remaining water and all of the
remaining oars, the three Air Service officers in the lead
raft set out in the early afternoon. As darkness fell, little
headway had been made. When morning dawned
Rickenbacker looked across the green swells only to find
the three rafts still floating nearly side-by-side. It was a
great source of disappointment, diverted only by an
unexpected rainfall.
The run of good fortune continued into the night
when a pack of sharks began feasting upon a school of
mackerel all around the rafts. In the frenzy that
followed, one mackerel jumped into Rickenbacker's raft,
followed by another that jumped into Cherry's raft.
218
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
Day 19
The rain that had refreshed the seven survivors intermittently became steadier with the dawn.
By early afternoon the waves had become large, white-capped swells. Water collected the night
before might well last for several more days. Suddenly Captain Cherry yelled above the howl of the
winds:
"I hear a plane. Listen!"
Peering intently into the distance, all seven men strained their eyes against the dark clouds.
Then they saw it, a single-engine pontoon boat flying low through the squall about five miles away.
Bartek stood up in the raft he now shared with Rickenbacker and Adamson, Rick steadying him
against the crash of the ocean swells, to wave his shirt. All seven men, including Adamson, yelled at
the top of their voices. Then the dark clouds obscured the small plane in the distance and it
disappeared. The men had gone unseen on the dark waters.
Still, for the first time in nineteen days the doomed men saw signs of life beyond the rims of
their raft. A new optimism began to grow.
Day 20 & 21
Two similar airplanes appeared in the distant skies the following day. The men had no way of
knowing if they were American or Japanese aircraft, but by this time it mattered little. Besides,
neither pilot noticed the three small rafts that floated on the wide expanse of the Pacific Ocean.
Four more airplanes appeared on the distant horizon early the following day, but again the
men in the rafts went unseen. During the afternoon the survivors were able to scoop up several small
minnows that swarmed around the raft, a most welcome meal at a time when hopes began once again
to sag. As the day wore on, no more aircraft were spotted. Rick feared that perhaps the rafts had
been near an island base, then floated on past.
Tempers flared at about six o'clock that evening, and a great argument broke out between
Captain Cherry in the lead raft, and De Angelis in the smaller raft that trailed in the chain. Cherry
wanted his navigator to give up the small raft, so that he could then set out alone seeking help. "I'm
going to try to make land. Staying together is no good. They'll never see us this way."
219
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
Rickenbacker sided with De Angelis and tempers flared, but Cherry remained insistent. He
told Rickenbacker, "I won't go unless you agree it is all right for me to." Against his better judgment,
Rick finally consented. In the fading twilight he watched as the B-17's captain floated alone into the
distance.
De Angelis and Whittaker took up the refrain, wanting to strike out on their own as well along
with the nearly dead Sergeant Reynolds, too ill to add his own preference to the argument. Tempers
continued to rule until Rickenbacker was too tired to continue, realizing it was fruitless. When
darkness finally fell, three separate rafts floated on the dark swells, each separated by miles of water.
Days 22 & 23
Three men floated alone, now almost too sick to despair their situation. Rickenbacker tried to
give Adamson and Barteck their rations of water, but both men were so weak they could hardly lift
their heads to drink. During one brief lucid moment Bartek asked, "Have the planes come back?"
"No, there haven't been any since day before yesterday," Rick replied weakly.
"They won't come back," Bartek repeated again and again, fading back into delirium.
Day 24
Rickenbacker was awake, but his mind had numbed after days of torment and repeated
disappointment. He could see or hear nothing until he felt Bartek pull feebly on his shirt and whisper
weakly through parched lips:
"Listen, Captain--planes! They're back. They're very near."
Rick struggled to stand but could only raise his frail body to a seated position as he waved the
battered remnant of his old hat at the two passing airplanes. His heart sank as he watched them fade
into the distance. He knew this had been the last chance for any of them...and now it had vanished.
"Half an hour later we heard them again, much closer. They came directly out of the
sun, straight for us. The first dived right over the raft. We yelled like maniacs. The plane
was so low that I could see the pilot's expression. He was smiling and waving. Not until
then did I look at the insignia. It was the U.S. Navy and gratitude and happiness filled me.
I waved and waved, out of a half-crazy notion that the pilot must be made to understand
we were not three dead men on a raft."
Incredibly, the planes vanished again. Hope washed away in the fear that they would not
return. Darkness was falling. And then they were back, one circling overhead as the other landed on
the ocean swells and taxied up to the raft.
Colonel Adamson was so close to
death, he was hoisted into the cockpit.
Lieutenant W.F. Eadie advised Rick
that they were in hostile waters, and
had to watch for Japanese ships. An
American P.T. boat was en route to
ferry the men to safety, but first the
Navy floatplane would have to taxi
across the water. With a full cockpit,
Rick was strapped in a sitting position
on the airplanes left wing, Bartek on
220
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
the right. For half-an-hour the wind whipped across the two men as Lieutenant Eadie taxied towards
the waiting P.T. boat.
Throughout the journey Rick kept shouting:
"This is heaven!" "Thank God!" "God bless the Navy!"
Rickenbacker and Bartek were transferred from the
flying boat to the waiting P.T. boat a short time later; and
were rushed to a hospital at the nearby American base.
Colonel Adamson, so near death his survival was still
uncertain, was flown on to the hospital.
En route, Rick received the best news he could have
hoped for. Two days earlier the raft with Whittaker, De
Angelis and Reynolds had reached a small island after a
dangerous brush with violent surf and preying sharks.
There they camped for the night and the following day
were surprised to meet a group of friendly natives. The
natives rowed them from the small island to safety, where
American rescue forces picked them up. They informed
these to look for the remaining rafts.
That same afternoon a Navy pilot had spotted the raft carrying Captain Cherry. A short time
later he too, was pulled from the waters of the Pacific. All seven survivors had been rescued and
were being transported to the hospital. The following morning the men enjoyed their first real
meal in twenty-four days:
SOUP & ICE CREAM
Later on that Saturday afternoon, five of the seven survivors were flown to a larger hospital
at Samoa, only Reynolds and Bartek left behind, too critical to move. Hans Adamson was worse
221
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
even than those two, but doctors determined that the advantages of the larger, better-equipped
hospital outweighed the dangers of moving him. Despite three transfusions of plasma and
intensive medical care, the fifty-two-year-old man was dying.
The Mission:
Despite the ordeal he had just been through, Eddie
Rickenbacker hadn't forgotten the reason he had come to the Pacific
nearly four weeks earlier. In his first contact to Secretary Stimson he
requested and received permission to continue that mission. Two
weeks later on December 1, Rick checked in on his recovering
comrades from the adventure at sea, then boarded a B-24 transport to
fly to Australia.
Over the next four days, as he traveled, Rick continued to visit
air bases along the route. He maintained his grueling schedule,
despite the fact that his body was still weak and 55 pounds lighter for
his ordeal.
General MacArthur refused to allow Rick to fly to Port
Moresby in an unarmed plane and sent a heavily armed B-17 to
transport him. Rick arrived in time to spend the weekend with the MacArthurs--and to deliver his
communiqué from Secretary Stimson. Few secrets of World War II have survived the revealing
light of the decades. One that has is the content of that message.
Ten days later Rick was back in Samoa after stopping to visit with American airmen at
other stations along the way. His stops included a visit to Henderson Field on the small island of
Guadalcanal, "A miserable little airstrip" where "it was difficult to see how men could even exist
under such conditions, much less carry on the highly skilled warfare of the twentieth century."
Upon his return to Samoa he checked in on his friend Hans, who was improving but still in
serious condition. "I'm going to Upola Island this weekend," Rick advised. "I'll be back here on
Monday. If you are strong enough, you can fly out with me to Hawaii then." Rick's promise was
just the motivation Hans needed; and at 5 p.m. on December 14, the two men were back in Hawaii.
Rick left Hawaii on December 15, leaving Hans
behind in a hospital to continue his recovery.
Eventually it would be complete, and the intrepid
colonel who had come so close to death in the Pacific,
lived a long and fruitful life. On December 19 Rick
reported personally to Secretary Stimpson.
The
following day from his home in New York,
Rickenbacker gave a stirring and patriotic radio
address to the Nation. He told America,
"You can never approximate the sacrifices our
men are making on the battlefront for you and me. If I
can only help you understand that, then I will be able to
enjoy the first Sunday afternoon I have spent at home in
222
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
many, many weeks."
Eddie Rickenbacker was quickly approached by Life Magazine for the
story of his incredible ordeal and survival at sea. Over the next month he
wrote it and it was published in three parts in three consecutive weeks
beginning on January 25, 1943. In that story Rick wrote of his "21 days
adrift in the Pacific". The $25,000 fee he received for the story was
contributed to the Army Air Forces Aid Society, and was presented to the
wife of General Hap Arnold who served as that organization's vice
president.
Later that year when he published the same account in a book titled
Seven Came Through, he again referred to his "21 days at sea." Only
later did he realize that after being lost on October 21, the total time at sea
was not twenty-one, but TWENTY-FOUR days.
The date of that rescue was Friday the Thirteenth (November, 1942).
Ironically, only hours before Eddie and his comrades were plucked from the Pacific, hundreds
of miles to the southwest the USS Juneau was sunk following the Naval Battle of Guadalcanal.
As Rickenbacker, Adamson and Bartek were being ferried to safety on a Navy flying boat, more
than 100 survivors from the 595-man crew of the Juneau were floating at sea, many of them in
rafts like Rickenbacker's. In that sad case, only TEN came through...ten men out of 595.
Among the losses were five brothers serving aboard that ship together--The Fighting Sullivans.
*
New War – New Heroes
While Eddie Rickenbacker was returning home from his
inspection in Europe and preparing to visit the Pacific, another
legendary airman was on his way home. This was no older hero from a
previous war, but a twenty-seven-year-old hero of this new war. Flying
out of Henderson Field on Guadalcanal after arriving on August 20,
Major John Lucian Smith had led his Marine Fighting Squadron 223 in
achieving an unbelievable record of aerial combat--95 confirmed
victories. Smith had personally knocked down 16 enemy planes,
making him the Ace of Aces of this new war. By the time the squadron
was sent home on October 12, Smith had upped his tally to 19, just 7 shy
of Captain Eddie's WWI record.
223
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
On December 7, 1942, even as Rickenbacker was touring Guadalcanal just two weeks after
being rescued at sea, Major Smith was featured on the cover of Life magazine. He was the first Medal
of Honor recipient of this new war to be so honored. It was a distinction that he would share with
Audie Murphy and only one other Medal of Honor hero of this new war (exclusive of Rickenbacker's
appearance on the January 25, 1943, issue).
That third man was making history flying out of Henderson Field during the time
Rickenbacker was lost at sea. The day before Rick started his Pacific tour, the young pilot became an
ace. Three days after Rickenbacker's B-17 went down in the Pacific, that young Marine pilot shot
down four Japanese airplanes in a single day. On the day Rickenbacker was dividing up the third of
his four oranges in a life raft, that Marine pilot was shooting down four
more Zeroes--equaling the record of Major Smith. On that same
November 7 afternoon, that young pilot himself went down in the Pacific,
but was rescued and returned to his unit within forty-eight hours.
For weeks in the Fall of 1942, talk among pilots in the Pacific
centered on who would be the first airman of this new war to equal the
record of America's Ace of Aces, Eddie Rickenbacker. Three days after
Rickenbacker was pulled from the sea, that same young pilot on
Guadalcanal was this new war's undisputed Ace of Aces with 23 victories.
Less than one month later, the intrepid Marine pilot shot down three
planes in one day to tie the record of Captain Eddie Rickenbacker of
WWI.
Eddie was most gracious, sending both a congratulatory letter and
a case of scotch to the young man. For the kid from South Dakota, it was
a thrill. Eddie Rickenbacker had been one of his two greatest heroes since his youth, second only to
the one man he admired most--Charles Lindbergh.
America's newest hero was a young man who fifteen years earlier had tried unsuccessfully to
work his way through a crowd to shake Lindbergh's hand, then said to his father on the ride home:
"I'm going to be bigger than Lindbergh
some day!"
A New Ace & and Old Hero
Summer, 1943
Major Joseph Jacob Foss was finally back to work, away from what
he later called "The Dancing Bear Act" that had followed his earning the title
Ace of Aces, his appearance on the cover of Life magazine and the
presentation of his Medal of Honor. He was assigned to the Marine base at
Santa Barbara, California, where he was building the new VMF-115 and
training his pilots in the new F4U Corsairs. All of his nearly 100 Marine pilots were young, green,
and in need of solid leadership. Authorized to recruit his own top officers, Foss requested
assignments for several of the men who had served with him on Guadalcanal.
224
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
The new Corsairs were supposed to be highly superior to the old Wildcats men like Foss had
flown out of Henderson Field a year before, but Major Foss was finding them temperamental. They
tended to cut out at altitudes above 21,000 feet, and several crashes had occurred during testing and
training, some of them fatal. Foss brought the matter to his commanding officer, who quickly put
Foss on the phone to General Bill Wallace who was in charge of Marine aviation for the entire West
Coast.
"General, I'm having a terrible time with these Corsairs," he stated bluntly.
"You'll have an expert tomorrow," the General promised. Foss smiled to himself; military men
are quite used to such promises and their probable outcome, or lack thereof.
Two days later Foss was working in his cramped office when someone knocked on the door.
"Come in," he intoned routinely, scarcely looking up from his work as a tall, slender man in plain
Khakis with no military insignia walked in.
"Major Foss," the gentleman announced, "It's good to meet you. I'm Charles Lindbergh."
"The REAL Charles Lindbergh?" Foss asked incredulously as he looked more closely at the
new arrival. Lindbergh simply nodded his head.
"Come in, come in!" Foss said, hardly able to contain his excitement. "When I was a kid I
wanted to meet you in the worst way when you flew into South Dakota, but the cops threw me off the
stand. And here you are. Gosh!"
Lindbergh smiled and looked a little embarrassed. "General Wallace sent me over to see if I
can help you solve the Corsair problem."
Lindbergh spent several weeks with Foss who not only finally got the handshake he had
wanted fifteen years earlier, but gained a friend for life. (Foss later served as cochairman of the
nonprofit Lindbergh Foundation.) Foss also learned quickly that the man abhorred being called
Charles or Lucky Lindy. "He wanted to be known either as Slim or Charlie."
To Major Foss' great relief, Lindbergh was indeed the expert he needed, and quickly the
problems with the Corsairs were fixed. At the end of the month the time came to say "good-by."
Lindbergh asked Foss if he could address the men before his departure. Naturally, Foss quickly
consented.
"I just want to thank you for your generous support of my efforts here," Lindbergh told the
young men who would soon be off to war. "I've really enjoyed working with you, and there's only one
more thing I'd really like to do. I'd like to fly tail-end Charlie with this outfit."
The applause was long and earnest before Foss announced, "You've got a job flying with us any
time you show up. But if I have anything to do with it, you won't be flying tail-end Charlie. I want you
up the line."
May 25, 1944
It was a somber day as Major Foss returned to his operations office on Emirau Island in the
Pacific. He and his VMF-115 had been back at war for more than three months, and he was
returning from the funeral of one of his pilots who had died the previous day in the test flight of a
Corsair. As he got closer to his tent he noticed a new Corsair on the airfield indicating he had
225
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
company. A tall, slender man in khaki but devoid of military rank or insignia was walking towards
him, hand outstretched.
"Hi Joe," he greeted the squadron commander. "You remember what you said? You promised
me I could fly with you."
Major Foss returned a warm but firm handshake, smiled and said, "Charlie, Consider yourself
on duty right now!"
Over the weeks that followed, Lindbergh fulfilled his job as an observer, flying missions with
the men of VMF-115. Indeed he felt that if he was to understand the problems with the Corsairs, he
would need to experience the same problems the young Marine pilots were experiencing. Thus when
they took to the skies for bombing or strafing missions, one of the Corsairs flying formation in the
hostile skies was piloted by Lindbergh himself.
"He flew from morning till night, and he taught us some tricks. Charlie was no
coward. I remember one time we were bombing Kavieng, going after an oil dump that had
been spotted there...The area was heavily fortified and the hidden entrenchment of
antiaircraft fire was intense. The order was to drop our loads and get the hell out of there.
I looked back and saw number eight--Charlie--turn around and go back for a second
round. When he was coming down the first time he'd noticed a major dump hidden off to
the side, so he made a swing around for a second run by himself with all that AA fire
concentrating solely on him. Apparently he hit something, because there was a big
explosion and clouds of smoke billowed.
"When we got back to base, I jumped out of my plane and walked over to chew him
out. "Charlie, you just don't do that. There's no way you're supposed to go back after a
target alone. It's a sure way of dying young."
Joe Foss
Sadly, too few Americans knew then, or are aware even today, of the combat courage of
Charles Augustus Lindbergh.
Lindbergh flew every combat mission with VMF-115 from
the date of his arrival until the unit was sent home on June 1. He
arrived a celebrity to the young Marines on Emirau, but became an
admired friend, not for what he'd done twenty years before but for
his courage and dedication in this new war.
During his visit to Foss and VMF-115 a photographer
snapped a photograph of Charlie and Foss, which was promptly
printed in Parade magazine, finally advertising to the world the
man's presence in the war zone. *
Major Foss was suddenly deluged with letters, hundreds of
them, from citizens on the home front who had seen that photo.
Most of the letters admonished Foss for associating with "bad
company" and advised him to avoid Charles Lindbergh.
*
The Navy, without the knowledge or assent of the President, had sanctioned Lindbergh's Pacific mission.
226
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
Foss was furious, as were the other men that flew missions with Charlie, and as a unit they
undertook to answer each and every one of more than 700 such letters. Foss pulled no punches in his
own replies, stating:
"Lindbergh's out here fighting a war at his own expense while
YOU'RE at home!"
Lindbergh's Pacific Mission
The Pacific mission had been proposed early in 1944. Lindbergh would visit the combat air
units as a representative of United Aircraft Corporation, which produced the new F4U Corsair. His
job was to observe the men in the field, and help them correct problems with the "Bent-winged Flying
Coffins." He would wear a Naval uniform devoid of any rank or other insignia, for his status was
strictly that of a civilian.
Though vilified by civilians at home, the Marines welcomed him warmly upon his arrival. In
early May Charlie made a gunnery flight to learn his guns with John L. Smith, now a Lieutenant
Colonel. On May 19 he arrived at Henderson Field at Guadalcanal, then traveled to Bougainville
before arriving at Eirau in search of Joe Foss on May 25. There he flew with VMF-115 until they
went home, and continued to fly with VMF-222 after Foss' departure. During the period he also
accompanied a PT boat crew on a combat mission.
By the time his work with the Marines was completed, he flew more than a dozen combat air
missions in the Corsairs, both bombing and strafing. Marine Corps commanders looked the other
way when the civilian fired his guns on these missions...even a civilian had a right to defend himself.
When the Army Air Forces learned of
Lindbergh's presence and his success in helping the
Marine pilots solve problems with their Corsairs, they
invited Charlie to visit their own airbase and observe
their P-38s in action. He arrived at New Guinea on
June 15, quickly checked out on the P-38 (which was
one of the few aircraft he had never piloted), and soon
was flying with the Army pilots. In the following two
weeks he completed four combat missions with the
475th Fighter Group commanded by Colonel Charles
H. MacDonald, who emerged from World War II as
the third-leading American Ace in the Pacific with 27
victories. During these missions Lindbergh discovered
a way to effectively conserve fuel consumption and
extend the airplane's range by 400 miles. Before his concepts could be effectively put into use
however, Charlie got some bad news.
On the evening of July 5, Lindbergh received word that "a rumor was circulating to the effect
that I was flying combat in New Guinea, and that, if true, there should be no more of it." To answer
these charges, Lindbergh was called to Australia, arriving at Brisbane on July 12 to meet with
General George Kenney, commander of the Allied Air Forces in the Southwest Pacific.
227
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
"Kenney told me that a situation had arisen which caused some of the officers at
headquarters much concern: that somehow I had managed to get into the forward areas in
New Guinea without their knowing about it; that rumors had filtered back to the effect that
I was flying combat with the Army squadrons; and that, of course, flying combat as a
civilian was against all the regulations there were.
"He went on to tell me that if I were caught by the Japs, I would have my head chopped
off immediately if they found out I was flying combat as a civilian.
"I told him...that I didn't want to go back to New Guinea and sit on the ground while
the other pilots were flying combat."
"Kenney spoke about Army regulations, the 'reaction back home' if I were shot down,
etc. I asked him if there wasn't some way to get around the regulations. He became
thoughtful and his eyes twinkled. 'Well, it might be possible to put you on observer's
status, but, of course, that would not make it legal for you to do any shooting. But if you
are on observer's status, no one back in the States will know whether you use your guns or
not.'"
Lindbergh didn't care what his status was; he just wanted to be able to do his job. Later in
that same afternoon, Charlie echoed this once again...in a private meeting with General Douglas
MacArthur himself. MacArthur was impressed with Lindbergh's ideas to nearly double the effective
range of the P-38 through his fuel-conservation ideas, and was eager for Lindbergh's knowledge and
experience throughout his air command. He even promised Lindbergh he "Could have any plane and
do any kind of flying" he wanted to.
Lindbergh spent two days visiting Australia, content to move about at will since the press did
not know he was there, and no one recognized him. On July 15 he flew back to New Guinea to
resume his work with the three combat squadrons of the 475th Fighter Group.
Throughout the last two weeks of July Lindbergh spent his time teaching the Army Air Force
pilots his techniques for extending the range of their flights: Cruise Control--reduce standard 2,200
rpm to 1,600, set fuel mixtures to "auto lean," and slightly increase manifold pressures. Properly
applied, it stretched the range of the P-38 Lightening by as much as 400 miles--a nine-hour flight.
Lindbergh also continued his flights: bomber protection,
reconnaissance, strafing. He flew with the best. In addition to
being the command of Colonel MacDonald, the 475th Fighter
Group was the home of Major Thomas McGuire, well on his way
to becoming America's all time Ace of Aces. (Before his death on
January 7, 1945, Major McGuire claimed 38 aerial victories,
earning a Medal of Honor and making him the second-leading
American ace of World War II.) All of them quickly gained a
great respect for Lindbergh, both for the mechanical genius he
brought to aviation, as well as for his courage in the air. He was
accorded officer's privileges, but addressed as Mr. Lindbergh due
his civilian observer status. He was also treated as one of the
squadron, taking the same kudos for a job well done and a goodnatured ribbing when he erred. On one mission Lindbergh began
dropping behind the rest of the formation as quickly as it had
taken off, unaware he had forgotten to retract his landing gear.
228
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
Ahead of him, one of the pilots quipped into the radio,
"Charlie, get your wheels up! You're not flying the Spirit of St. Louis."
July 28, 1944
Captain Saburo Shimada and Sergeant Saneyoshi Yokogi were flying a rescue mission to
locate a downed comrade in their two-seat, armed Mitsubishi 51 Sonias. Both were veterans, well
trained and schooled in the crucible of aerial combat. Returning home, the two Japanese pilots had
the misfortune to run into the US Army Air Force's Captive Squadron (9th Squadron, 49th Group).
In the distance Colonel MacDonald and Charles Lindbergh were returning with their own
flights, listening to their American counterparts barking directions over their radios as the dogfight
stretched into half-an-hour.
"There he is now! Go in and get him."
"Can't somebody shoot him down?"
"Damn...I'm out of ammunition."
"Somebody get him who's got some ammunition."
"The (expletive) is making monkey's out of us."
"Who's got some ammunition?"
With great skill and cunning, Captain Shimada and Sergeant Yokogi were weaving in and out
of cloud cover to escape--much to the frustration of Captive Squadron. Only the Japanese pilots'
experience and skill was preventing disaster, as they twisted and turned in an aerial ballet that would
have been comical were it not so dangerous. In the distance MacDonald's pilots circled, eager to
locate the enemy planes and enter the fray.
"What's the matter, Captive, having trouble?"
Captive Squadron didn't acknowledge the good-natured jibe. They didn't want MacDonald's
squadron swooping in to claim the credit on this one. As the two Jap Sonias broke and ran for home,
two Captive Squadron pilots managed to flame Yokogi's aircraft and send it into the sea.
Diving in from 3,000 feet, MacDonald found Captain Shimada's Sonia and stitched a few
bursts of machinegun fire across the fuselage. It was at that point Shimada realized there was no
hope in trying to outrun his pursuers, and turned to fight. Banking sharply Shimada lined up and
dove on the first P-38 he saw. It belonged to the second element leader in MacDonald's formation,
Charles Lindbergh, who later recalled that deadly day:
"We are spaced 1,000 feet apart. Captain (Danforth) Miller gets in a short deflection
burst with no noticeable effect. I start firing as the plane is completing its turn in my
direction. I see the tracers and the 20s (20-mm cannon) find their mark, a hail of shells
directly on the target. But he straightens out and flies directly toward me.
"I hold the trigger down and my sight on his engine as we approach head on. My
tracers and my 20's splatter on his plane. We are close--too close--hurtling at each other
at more than 500 miles an hour. I pull back on the controls. His plane zooms suddenly
upward with extraordinary sharpness.
"I pull back with all the strength I have. Will we hit? His plane, before a slender toy
in my sight, looms huge in size. A second passes--two--three--I can see the finning on his
engine cylinders. There is a rough jolt of air as he shoots past behind me.
229
W
Wiin
nggss ooff V
Vaalloorr –– P
Paarrtt 11
O
Ollddeerr H
Heerrooeess –– B
Brraan
ndd N
Neew
wW
Waarr
"By how much did we miss? Ten feet? Probably less than that. There is no time to
consider or feel afraid. I am climbing steeply. I bank to the left. No, that will take me into
the ack-ack fire above Amahai strip. I reverse to the right. It all has taken seconds.
"My eyes sweep the sky for aircraft. Those are only P-38s and the plane I have just
shot down. He is starting down in a wing over--out of control. The nose goes down. The
plane turns slightly as it picks up speed--down--down--down toward the sea. A fountain of
spray--white foam on the water--waves circling outward as from a stone tossed in a pool-the waves merge into those of the sea--the foam disappears--the surface is as it was
before."
It was Charles Lindbergh's first (and only) aerial victory. It would never be officially credited
to his military record however. Captain Shimada was shot down over the Pacific by a civilian
observer, and a rather well known one at that.
Three days later the tables were reversed...and it was very nearly Charles Lindbergh who was
shot down. The American icon never saw the enemy aircraft, or heard Colonel MacDonald shouting
into the radio, "Zero on your tail!" until a stream of tracers was reaching out for his P-38. The only
thing that saved Lindbergh in that first fateful moment was the Jap pilot's poor gunnery skills.
Lindbergh didn't panic, but went immediately into a high-speed turn as MacDonald shouted over the
radio, "Break right! Break right!" Lindbergh coolly stayed his course, leading the trailing enemy
into the range of MacDonald, who intercepted with a series of tracers of his own. The crippled Zero
broke and ran, and the American P-38s returned home, now low on fuel.
August 1 was the day the first man to make a solo flight across the Atlantic, was nearly lost
over the ocean half-a-world away. It was also the day that ended the combat exploits of Charles
Lindbergh. Word of the flight three days earlier, and Lindbergh's first aerial victory, had reached
higher echelons.
Colonel MacDonald was reprimanded, and then grounded for sixty days. Lindbergh noted, "I
am fully as much to blame for the flight as he; but unfortunately he must carry the responsibility, as he
commands the group." Ultimately, Colonel MacDonald's grounding was lessened to a sixty-day leave
at home, a welcomed opportunity for him to see the son that had been born in his absence. Lindbergh
continued to fly for ten more days, and then visited other airfields en route to Australia.
On August 22 Charles Lindbergh and Douglas MacArthur met again--just the two of them.
But for Lindbergh's detailed War Journal, MacArthur's reaction to the controversial flight of July 28
would never have been known:
"How many Japanese planes have you shot down?" MacArthur asked.
"One," Lindbergh replied frankly and honestly.
"Where was it?"
"Off the south coast of Ceram." MacArthur smiled at that.
"Good! I'm glad you got one."
On September 16 Lindbergh arrived in San Francisco. The man had spent four months in the
war zone, flown fifty combat missions with the warriors of a new generation, and proved he was still
the hero he had been seventeen years before.
230
EPILOGUE
The end of World War II found the older heroes of decades past returning to active but
relatively quiet lives. Eddie Rickenbacker turned his attention back to running an airline and
continuing to promote aviation. He died in Zurich, Switzerland, on July 23, 1973, at the age of 82,
and was buried in his hometown of Columbus, Ohio.
In 1947 Billy Mitchell's dream of a separate United States Air Force came true, and Charles
Lindbergh worked for a time as a consultant to its new chief of staff. In 1954 President Dwight
Eisenhower restored Lindbergh's commission, appointing him a brigadier general in the U.S. Air
Force. Until his death on August 26, 1974, he devoted much of his time to conservation, campaigning
for the protection of endangered species and the world environment. He was buried on the grounds
of the Palapala Ho'omau Church in Kipahulu, Hawaii.
In the shadow of the two great men, America found a new generation of heroes...men who rose
to the challenge thrust upon the United States at Pearl Harbor on a calm Sunday morning in
December 1942. In the four years of warfare that followed, millions of young men and women rose up
to defend freedom and save our world, proving that within their breast beat the same heart of
courage that had inspired their fathers to greatness. Each step of the way, these new heroes were
encouraged, motivated, and inspired by heroes of the past.
Page 231
APPENDIXES
C
Ch
heerr A
Am
mii
F
Frraan
nkk L
Lu
ukkee A
Aeerriiaall V
Viiccttoorriieess
E
Eddddiiee R
Riicckkeen
nbbaacckkeerr A
Aeerriiaall V
Viiccttoorriieess
A
Am
meerriiccaan
nA
Acceess ooff W
Woorrlldd W
Waarr II
W
Woorrlldd W
Waarr II A
Aiirr S
Seerrvviiccee O
Orrggaan
niizzaattiioon
n//V
Viiccttoorryy C
Crreeddiittss
i
Cher Ami
Dear Friend
The ability to communicate is essential to soldiers in the field. Without communications to
their commanders or support units in the rear area, soldiers on the front line can't send messages
about their progress, request needed supplies, or call for help when things reach their worst.
During World War I, messages were sometimes transmitted by wire (telegraph or field phone),
but two-way radio communications had not yet become available.
Sometimes a unit was ordered to attack over a broad and often difficult
terrain, making it impossible to string the wire necessary for
communications. In these situations, a field commander often carried
with him several carrier pigeons.
Pigeons served many purposes during the war, racing through
the skies with airplanes, or even being fitted with cameras to take
pictures of enemy positions. But one of the most important roles they
served was as messengers. An important message could be written on a
piece of paper, then that paper neatly folded and secured in a small
canister attached to a pigeon's leg. Once the pigeon was released, it
would try to fly to its home back behind the lines, where the message
would be read and transmitted to the proper military planners.
The United States Army is divided among several different specialties, the men from each
specialty trained for a particular kind of work. Infantrymen are trained to fight on the ground,
artillerymen are responsible for the big guns, armor refers to the men who fight in tanks, and the Air
Service was the name for the group of soldiers who fought in the air during World War I. One of the
oldest of these groups of soldiers was the U.S. ARMY SIGNAL CORPS. Since the birth of our
Nation, it was these men that were responsible for insuring that messages between all units, (including
messages to other branches of service like the Navy and Marines), got through. The Army Signal
Corps identifies itself by a torch with two crossed flags. These represent SIGNAL FLAGS, a common
way that messages were passed using code.
When the United States entered World War I in 1917, the Army Signal Corps was given 600
pigeons for the purpose of passing messages when a signal flag or field phone couldn't do it. The
pigeons were donated by bird breeders in Great Britain, and then trained for their jobs by American
soldiers.
ii
During the Meuse-Argonne Offensive, the two-month battle that finally ended World War I,
442 pigeons were used in the area of Verdun to carry hundreds of messages. This is how the system
worked:
When a commander in the field needed to send a message, he first wrote it out on
paper, trying to be both brief and yet as detailed as possible. Then he called for one
of his Signal Corps officers, who would bring one of the pigeons that went with the
soldiers into battle. The message would be put in the capsule on the bird's leg, and
then the bird would be tossed high in the air to fly home.
The carrier pigeon would fly back to his home coop behind the lines. When he
landed, the wires in the coop would sound a bell or buzzer, and another soldier of the
Signal Corps would know a message had arrived. He would go to the coop, remove
the message from the canister, and then send it by telegraph, field phone or personal
messenger, to the right persons.
Carrier pigeons did an important job. It was also very dangerous. If the enemy
soldiers were nearby when a pigeon was released, they knew that the bird would be
carrying important messages, and tried their best to shoot the pigeon down so the
message couldn't be delivered.
Some of these pigeons became quite famous among the infantrymen they worked
for. One pigeon named "The Mocker" flew 52 missions before he was wounded.
Another was named "President Wilson." He was injured in the last week of the war
and it seemed impossible for him to reach his destination. Though he lost his foot,
the message got through to save a large group of surrounded American infantrymen.
Cher Ami
Probably the most famous of all the carrier pigeons was one named Cher Ami, two French
words meaning "Dear Friend." Cher Ami served several months on the front lines during the fall of
1918. He flew 12 important missions to deliver messages. Perhaps the most important was the
message he carried on October 4, 1918.
Mr. Charles Whittlesey was a lawyer in New York, but when the United States
called for soldiers to help France regain its freedom, Whittlesey joined the Army and
went to Europe to help. He was made the commander of a battalion of soldiers in the
77th Infantry Division, known as "The Liberty Division" because most of the men came
from New York and wore a bright blue patch on their shoulders that had on it the
STATUE OF LIBERTY.
On October 3, 1918, Major Whittlesey and more than 500 men were trapped in a small
depression on the side of the hill. Surrounded by enemy soldiers, many were killed and wounded in
the first day. By the second day only a little more than 200 men were still alive or unwounded.
Major Whittlesey sent out several pigeons to tell his commanders where he was, and how bad
the trap was. The next afternoon he had only one pigeon left, Cher Ami.
During the afternoon the American Artillery tried to send some protection by firing hundreds
of big artillery rounds into the ravine where the Germans surrounded Major Whittlesey and his men.
Unfortunately, the American commanders didn't know exactly where the American soldiers were,
and started dropping the big shells right on top of them. It was a horrible situation that might have
resulted in Major Whittlesey and all his men getting killed--by their own army.
iii
Major Whittlesey called for his last pigeon, Cher Ami. He wrote a quick and simple note,
telling the men who directed the artillery guns where the Americans were located and asking them to
stop. The note that was put in the canister on Cher Ami's left leg simply said:
"We are along the road parallel to 276.4.
"Our own artillery is dropping a barrage directly on us.
"For heaven's sake, stop it."
As Cher Ami tried to fly back home, the Germans saw him rising out of the brush and opened
fire. For several minutes, bullets zipped through the air all around him. For a minute it looked like
the little pigeon was going to fall, that he wasn't going to make it. The doomed American infantrymen
were crushed; their last hope was plummeting to earth against a very heavy attack from German
bullets.
Somehow Cher Ami managed to spread his wings and start climbing again, higher and higher
beyond the range of the enemy guns. The little bird flew 25 miles in only twenty-five minutes to
deliver his message. The shelling stopped, and more than 200 American lives were saved...all because
the little bird would never quit trying.
On his last mission, Cher Ami was badly wounded. When he finally reached his coop, he could
fly no longer, and the soldier that answered the sound of the bell found the little bird lying on his
back, covered in blood. He had been blinded in one eye, and a bullet had hit his breastbone, making a
hole the size of a quarter. From that awful hole, hanging by just a few tendons, was the almost
severed leg of the brave little bird. Attached to that leg was a silver canister, with the all-important
message. Once again, Cher Ami wouldn't quit until he had finished his job.
Cher Ami became the hero of the 77th Infantry Division, and the medics worked
long and hard to patch him up. When the French soldiers that the Americans were
fighting to help learned they story of Cher Ami's bravery and determination, they gave
him one of their own country's great honors. Cher Ami, the brave carrier pigeon was
presented a medal called the French Croix de guerre with a palm leaf.
Though the dedicated medics saved Cher Ami's life, they couldn't save his leg. The men of the
Division were careful to take care of the little bird that had saved 200 of their friends, and even
carved a small wooden leg for him. When Cher Ami was well enough to travel, the little one-legged
hero was put on a boat to the United States. The commander of all of the United States Army, the
great General John J. Pershing, personally saw Cher Ami off as he departed France.
Back in the United States the story of Cher Ami was told again and again. The little bird was
in the newspapers, magazines, and it seemed that everyone knew his name. He became one of the
most famous heroes of World War I. Years after the war a man named Harry Webb Farrington
decided to put together a book of poems and short stories about the men and heroes of World War I.
When his book was published, it contained a special poem dedicated to Cher Ami.
iv
Cher Ami
By Harry Webb Farrington
Cher Ami, how do you do!
Listen, let me talk to you;
I'll not hurt you, don't you see?
Come a little close to me.
But, Cher Ami, upon my word,
You modest, modest little bird;
Now don't you know that you forgot?
Tell how your breast and leg were shot.
Little scrawny blue and white
Messenger for men who fight,
Tell me of the deep, red scar,
There, just where no feathers are.
"Oh, yes, the day we crossed the Meuse,
I flew to Rampont with the news;
Again the bullets came like hail,
I thought for sure that I should fail.
What about your poor left leg?
Tell me, Cher Ami, I beg.
Boys and girls are at a loss,
How you won that Silver Cross.
The bullets buzzed by like a bee,
So close, it almost frightened me;
One struck the feathers of this sail,
Another went right through my tail.
"The finest fun that came to me
Was when I went with Whittlesey;
We marched so fast, so far ahead!
'We all are lost,' the keeper said;
But when I got back to the rear,
I found they hit me, here and here;
But that is nothing, never mind;
Old Poilu, there is nearly blind.
'Mon Cher Ami--that's my dear friend-You are the one we'll have to send;
The whole battalion now is lost,
And you must win at any cost.'
I only care for what they said,
For when they saw the way I bled,
And found in front a swollen lump,
The message hanging from this stump;
So with the message tied on tight;
I flew up straight with all my might,
Before I got up high enough,
Those watchfull guns began to puff.
The French and Mine said, 'Tres bien,'
Or 'Very good'--American.
'Mon Cher Ami, you brought good news;
Our Army's gone across the Meuse!
Machine-gun bullets came like rain,
You'd think I was an aeroplane;
And when I started to the rear,
My! the shot was coming near!
You surely had a lucky call!
And so I'm glad. I guess that's all.
I'll sit, so pardon me, I beg;
It's hard a-standing on one leg!"
But on I flew, straight as a bee;
The wind could not catch up with me,
Until I dropped out of the air,
Into our own men's camp, so there!"
"Cher Ami" and Poems From France, Rough & Brown Press, 1920
v
Cher Ami died of his multiple war wounds on June 13, 1919--less than a year after he had
completed his service to the United States Army Signal Corps. Upon his death a taxidermist
preserved the small pigeon for future generations, a bird with a story that became an inspiration to
millions over the years.
Today, visitors to the National Museum of American History, Smithsonian Institution,
Washington, DC, can still see Cher Ami, preserved for history alongside the French Croix de Guerre
with palm that was awarded to him by the French government. In the years following Cher Ami's
death, there were rumors the bird had also been awarded the Distinguished Service Cross. Though
there is ample documentation that General John J. Pershing did in fact, award a "silver medal" to the
brave carrier pigeon, there is NO record of the DSC being awarded.
CARRIER PIGEON – "CHER AMI"
One of 600 birds donated by the pigeon fanciers of
Great Britain for use in France during the World War.
Trained by American pigeoneers and flown from
American lofts 1917-18, "Cher Ami" returned to his loft
with a message dangling from the ligaments of a leg cut
off by rifle or shell shot. He was also shot through the
breast and died from the effects of his wound June 13,
1919.
TRANSFERRED FROM THE UNITED STATES SIGNAL CORPS
Cher Ami on display at the Smithsonian Institution
vi
W
Woorrlld
dW
Waarr II A
Aeerriiaall V
Viiccttoorriieess
Lieutenant Frank Luke, Jr.
Phoenix, AZ
27th Pursuit Squadron, 1st Pursuit Group, A.E.F.
Date
Type
Place
1
September 12, 1918
Balloon
Marieulles
2
September 14, 1918
Balloon
Buzy
Balloon
Boinville
Balloon
Boinville
5
Balloon
Boinville
6
Balloon
Chaumont
Balloon
Reville
Balloon
Romagne
Balloon
Mars la Tour
3
4
7
September 15, 1918
September 16, 1918
8
9
10
September 18, 1918
Balloon
Mars la Tour
11
Fokker D. VII
St. Hilaire
12
Fokker D.VII
St. Hilaire
13
Halberstadt C
Jonville
Balloon
Betheniville
Hanover CL
Monthainville
Balloon
Avocourt
17
Balloon
Avocourt
18
Balloon
Avocourt
14
September 28, 1918
15
16
September 29, 1918
Killed in Action September 29, 1918
Frank Luke Aerial Victories - WWI
vii
W
Woorrlld
dW
Waarr II A
Aeerriiaall V
Viiccttoorriieess
Captain Eddie Rickenbacker
Columbus, OH
94th Pursuit Squadron, 1st Pursuit Group, A.E.F.
September 25, 1918
Date
1 April 29, 1918
2 May 07, 1918
3 May 17, 1918
4 May 22, 1918
5 May 28, 1918
6 May 30, 1918
7 September 14, 1918
8 September 15, 1918
9 September 25, 1918
10
11 September 26, 1918
12 September 28, 1918
13 October 01, 1918
14 October 02, 1918
15
16 October 03, 1918
17
18 October 09, 1918
19 October 10, 1918
20
21 October 22, 1918
22 October 23, 1918
23 October 27, 1918
24
25 October 30, 1918
26
DSC w/8 OLC
Type
Pfalz
Fokker
Albatros
Albatros
Albatros
Albatros
Fokker
Fokker
Fokker
Halberstadt
Fokker
Balloon
Balloon
Rumpler
LVG
Fokker
Halberstadt
Balloon
Fokker
Fokker
Fokker
Fokker
Fokker
Fokker
Fokker
Balloon
Place
Baussant, France
Preny, France
Rochecourt, France
St. Mihiel, France
Boise Rate, France
Jaulny, France
Villa Waiville, France
Bois-de-Waville, France
Billy, France
Billy, France
Billy, France
Clery-le-Petit
Pieieux
Clery-le-Grand
Dannevoix
Villenes
Montfaucon
Marvaux, France
Doulcon
Doulcon
Clery-le-Petit
LeGrande Carre Farme
Grandpre
Boise-de
St. Juvin
Remonville
Eddie Rickenbacker Aerial Victories - WWI
viii
DSM w/9 OLC
Notes:
DSC
DSC 1st OLC
DSC 2nd OLC
DSC 3rd OLC
DSC 4th OLC
DSC 5th OLC
DSC 6th OLC
DSC 7th OLC
Medal of Honor
DSC 8th OLC
American Aces of WWI
A total of 118 Americans became Aces (5 or more victories) during World War I. Seventy-one
of these American Aces achieved their victories as part of the U.S. Air Service, or as a combination of
service with one of the allied nations (England, France, Italy) and the U.S. Air Service AFTER the US
Air Service began operation in January 1918. These men are listed below, alphabetized in order of
their number of victories. Victories indicated in red parenthesis (#) denote additional victories earned
prior to January 1918 while in service to an allied air service.
Name
1 Rickenbacker, Eddie
2 Luke, Frank, Jr.
3 Vaughn, George A.
4 Kindley, Field E.
5 Springs, Elliott W.
6 Landis, Reed G.
7 Swaab, Jacques M.
8 Baer, Paul P.
9 Cassady, Thomas G.
10 Hamilton, Lloyd A.
11 Wright, Chester E.
12 Clay, Henry R., Jr.
13 Coolidge, Hamilton
14 Donaldson, John O.
15 Erwin, William P.
16 Hunter, Frank O.D.
17 Jones, Clinton
18 Meissner, James A.
19 Stenseth, Martinus
20 White, Wilbert W.
Rank Victories
Unit:
Captain
26
94th Pur. Sqd.
2nd Lt.
18 27th Pur. Sqd.
1st Lt.
13 17th Pur. Sqd.
1st Lt.
12 148th Pur. Sqd.
1st Lt.
(4) 12 148th Pur. Sqd.
1st Lt.
(2) 10 British R.A.F.
1st Lt.
10 22nd Pur. Sqd.
1st Lt.
9 103rd Pur. Sqd.
1st Lt.
9 28th Pur. Sqd.
1st Lt.
(1) 9 17th Pur. Sqd.
1st Lt.
9 93rd Pur. Sqd.
1st Lt.
8 148th Pur. Sqd.
Captain
8 94th Pur. Sqd.
2nd Lt.
8 British R.A.F.
1st Lt.
8 1st Obs. Sqd.
1st Lt.
8 103rd Pur. Sqd.
2nd Lt.
8 22nd Pur. Sqd.
Captain
8 147th Pur. Sqd.
1st Lt.
8 28th Pur. Sqd.
2nd Lt.
8 147th Pur. Sqd.
21 Burdick, Howard
2nd Lt.
22 Chambers, Reed M. 1st Lt.
23 Cook, Harvey W.
1st Lt.
24 Creech, Jesse O.
1st Lt.
25 Holden, Lansing, C.
1st Lt.
26 Robertson, Wendel A. 1st Lt.
27 Rummell, Leslie J.
1st Lt.
28 Schoen, Karl J.
1st Lt.
29 Sewall, Sumner
1st Lt.
30 Beane, James D.
1st Lt.
31 Biddle, Charles J.
Captain
32 Campbell, Douglas
1st Lt.
33 Curtis, Edward P.
1st Lt.
34 Guthrie, Murray K.
1st Lt.
35 Hammond, Leonard C. 1st Lt.
36 Hays, Frank K.
2nd Lt.
37 Hudson, Donald
1st Lt.
38 Knotts, Howard C.
2nd Lt.
39 Lindsay, Robert O.
1st Lt.
40 MacArthur, John K.
2nd Lt.
41 Ponder, William T.
2nd Lt.
42 Putnam, David E.
1st Lt.
43 Stovall, William H.
1st Lt.
44 Tobin, Edgar G.
1st Lt.
45 Vasconcells, Jerry C. 1st Lt.
46 Wehner, Joseph F.
1st Lt.
47 Badham, William T.
2nd Lt.
48 Bair, Hilbert L.
1st Lt.
49 Bissell, Clayton L.
1st Lt.
50 Brooks, Arthur R.
2nd Lt.
51 Buckley, Harold R.
1st Lt.
52 Cook, Everett R.
1st Lt.
53 D'Olive, Charles R.
1st Lt.
54 Easterbrook, Arthur L. 1st Lt.
55 Furlow, George W.
1st Lt.
56 George, Harold H.
1st Lt.
57 Grey, Charles G.
1st Lt.
58 Haight, Edward M.
1st Lt.
59 Healy, James A.
1st Lt.
60 Keating, James A.
1st Lt.
61 Knowles, James, Jr. 1st Lt.
62 Larner, G. DeFreest 1st Lt.
63 Luff, Frederick E.
1st Lt.
64 O'Neill, Ralph A.
2nd Lt.
65 Owens, John S.
2nd Lt.
66 Porter, Kenneth L.
2nd Lt.
67 Ralston, Orville A.
1st Lt.
68 Seerley, John J.
1st Lt.
69 Strahm, Victor H.
Captain
70 Todd, Robert M.
2nd Lt.
71 Vernam, Remington D. 1st Lt.
(1) 7 17th Pur. Sqd.
7 94th Pur. Sqd.
7 94th Pur. Sqd.
7 148th Pur. Sqd.
7 95th Pur. Sqd.
7 139th Pur. Sqd.
7 93rd Pur. Sqd.
7 139th Pur. Sqd.
7 95th Pur. Sqd.
6 22nd Pur. Sqd.
(1) 6 103rd Pur. Sqd.
6 94th Pur. Sqd.
6 95th Pur. Sqd.
6 13th Pur. Sqd.
6 91st Obs. Sqd.
6 13th Pur. Sqd.
Haulman, Danial (Editor), USAF Wartime Aerial Victory Credits, Air Force Historical Research Agency, Maxwell AFB, AL
ix
6 27th Pur. Sqd.
6 17th Pur. Sqd.
6 139th Pur. Sqd.
6 27th Pur. Sqd.
6 103rd Pur. Sqd.
(7) 6 139th Pur. Sqd.
6 13th Pur. Sqd.
6 103rd Pur. Sqd.
6 27th Pur. Sqd.
6 27th Pur. Sqd.
5 91st Obs. Sqd.
(1) 5 British R.A.F.
5 148th Pur. Sqd.
5 22nd Pur. Sqd.
5 95th Pur. Sqd.
5 91st Obs. Sqd.
5 93rd Pur. Sqd.
5 1st Obs. Sqd.
5 103rd Pur. Sqd.
5 139th Pur. Sqd.
5 213th Pur. Sqd.
5 139th Pur. Sqd.
5 147th Pur. Sqd.
5 British R.A.F.
5 95th Pur. Sqd.
(2) 5 103rd Pur. Sqd.
5 British R.A.F.
5 147th Pur. Sqd.
5 139th Pur. Sqd.
5 147th Pur. Sqd.
5 148th Pur. Sqd.
5 13th Pur. Sqd.
5 91st Obs. Sqd.
5 17th Pur. Sqd.
5 22nd Pur. Sqd.
The following Americans became Aces while serving in the Air Service of allied nations, earning their
victories before the U.S. Air Service statistics were enumerated:
Name:
Gillet, Frecerick W.
Beaver, Wilfred
Kullberg, Howard
Lambert, William
Iaccaci, August T.
Iaccaci, Paul T.
Coler, Eugene S.
Lufbery, G. Raoul
Rose, Oren J.
Libby, Frederick C.
Unger, Kenneth R.
Baylies, Frank L.
Bennett, Louis
Lord, Frederic I.
Warman, Clive W.
Lussier, Emile J.
Pearson, James W.
Knight, Duerson
Le Boutillier, Oliver
Larsen, Jens F.
Callender, Alvin A.
Connelly, James A.
Parsons, Edwin C.
Simon, Walter
Air Service: Victories:
20
Britain
19
Britain
19
Britain
18
Britain
17
Britain
17
Britain
16
Britain
16
France
16
Britain
14
Britain
14
Britain
12
France
12
Britain
12
Britain
12
Britain
12
Britain
12
Britain
10
Britain
10
Britain
9
Britain
8
Britain
8
France
8
France
8
Britain
Buchanan, Archibald
Dodds, Roy E.
Griffith, John S.
Hale, Frank L.
Hartney, Harold E.
White, Harold A.
Bissonette, Charles
Catto, Charles G.
Cooper, Norman
Ingalls, David S.
Pineau, Cleo F.
Rogers, Bogart
Boysen, Howard K.
Brown, Sidney M.
Callahan, Lawrence K.
Magoun, Francis P.
Orr, Osborne J.
Peterson, David M.
Shoemaker, Harold
Taylor, Edgar
Thaw, William
Tipton, William D.
Tod, Gordon
Haulman, Danial (Editor), USAF Wartime Aerial Victory Credits, Air Force Historical Research Agency, Maxwell AFB, AL
x
Britain
Britain
Britain
Britain
Britain
Britain
Britain
Britain
Britain
Britain (US Navy)
Britain
Britain
Britain
Britain
Britain
Britain
Britain
France
Britain
Britain
France
Britain
Britain
7
7
7
7
7
7
6
6
6
6
6
6
5
5
5
5
5
5
5
5
5
5
5
W
Woorrlld
dW
Wa
arr II A
Aiirr S
Seerrvviiccee O
Orrg
ga
an
niizza
attiioon
n&
&V
Viiccttoorry
yC
Crreed
diittss
1st Pursuit Group
Victory Credits*
Victories:**
27th Pursuit
Squadron
94th Pursuit
Squadron
95th Pursuit
Squadron
147th Pursuit
Squadron
86
85
71
61
34 Airplanes
22 Balloons
54 Airplanes
13 Balloons
35 Airplanes
12 Balloons
28 Airplanes
3 Balloons
* Victory credits are based on the French Air Service system of counting one full credit for each pilot and/or observer involved in
an aerial shoot-down.
**Victories represent the actual number of enemy aircraft confirmed destroyed.
2ND PURSUIT GROUP
13th Pursuit
Squadron
22nd Pursuit
Squadron
49th Pursuit
Squadron
60
60
35
29 Airplanes
44 Airplanes
2 Balloons
24 Airplanes
Victory Credits*
Victories:**
* Victory credits are based on the French Air Service system of counting one full credit for each pilot and/or observer involved in
an aerial shoot-down.
**Victories represent the actual number of enemy aircraft confirmed destroyed.
3RD PURSUIT GROUP
Victory Credits*
Victories:**
28th Pursuit
Squadron
93rd Pursuit
Squadron
103rd Pursuit
Squadron
213th Pursuit
Squadron
32
44
68
27
15 Airplanes
31 Airplanes
1 Balloon
47 Airplanes
2 Balloons
15 Airplanes
1 Balloon
* Victory credits are based on the French Air Service system of counting one full credit for each pilot and/or observer involved in
an aerial shoot-down.
**Victories represents the actual number of enemy aircraft confirmed destroyed.
xi
4TH PURSUIT GROUP
17th Pursuit
Squadron
139th Pursuit
Squadron
141st Pursuit
Squadron
148th Pursuit
Squadron
57
74
6
71
Victory Credits*
* Victory credits are based on the French Air Service system of counting one full credit for each pilot and/or observer involved in
an aerial shoot-down.
1st Army Observation Group
1st Corps Observation Group
24th Observation
Squadron
91st Observation
Squadron
1st Observation
Squadron
12th Observation
Squadron
30
62
24
10
Victory Credits*
* Victory credits are based on the French Air Service system of counting one full credit for each pilot and/or observer involved in
an aerial shoot-down.
3rd Corps Observation Group
5th Corps Observation Group
88th Observation
Squadron
90th Observation
Squadron
99th Observation
Squadron
104th Observation
Squadron
20
8
6
4
Victory Credits*
* Victory credits are based on the French Air Service system of counting one full credit for each pilot and/or observer involved in
an aerial shoot-down.
Victory
Credits*
8th Observation
Squadron
50th Observation
Squadron
135th Observation
Squadron
168th Observation
Squadron
8
2
24
6
* Victory credits are based on the French Air Service system of counting one full credit for each pilot and/or observer involved in
an aerial shoot-down.
U.S. Air Service Bomber Squadrons
Victory Credits*
11th Bomber
Squadron
20th Bomber
Squadron
96th Bomber
Squadron
166th Bomber
Squadron
64
48
94
30
* Victory credits are based on the French Air Service system of counting one full credit for each pilot and/or observer involved in
an aerial shoot-down.
Haulman, Danial (Editor), USAF Wartime Aerial Victory Credits, Air Force Historical Research Agency, Maxwell AFB, AL
xii
Bibliography
Introduction
Ault, Phil, By the Seat of Their Pants, Dodd, Mead & Company, New York, 1978
The Literary Digest, Vol. 93, No. 13, June 25, 1927
Rickenbacker, Edward V., Rickenbacker, Prentice Hall, 1967
Chapter 1: The Balloon Buster
Hall, Norman S., The Balloon Buster, Arno Press, New York, NY, 1972
Hartney, Harold E., Up and at 'Em, Ayer Company Publishing, 1979
Mizrahi, Joseph V., "The Flying Madman," Man's Magazine, September 1960
Rickenbacker, Edward V., Fighting the Flying Circus,
Rickenbacker, Edward V., Rickenbacker, Prentice Hall, 1967
Shirreffs, Captain Gordon D., They Met Danger, Whitman Publishing Company, Racine, WI, 1960
Information on individual pilot victories confirmed are based on records recorded by the US Air Force Historical Research
Agency: http://www.maxwell.af.mil/au/afhra/wwwroot/aerial_victory_credits/avc_index.html
Chapter 2: The Lost Battalion
Cooke, Donald E., For Conspicuous Gallantry, C.S. Hammond and Co., 1966
Hartney, Harold E., Up and at 'Em, Ayer Company Publishing, 1979
Hopper, James, Medals of Honor, John Day Company, New York, 1929
Johnson, Thomas M. and Pratt, Fletcher, The Lost Battalion, 1927
McCollum, Lee Charles (Buck Private), History and Rhymes of the Lost Battalion, 1919
Miles, Capt. L. Wardlaw, History of the 308th Infantry 1917-1919, G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York and London, 1927
Schott, Joseph L., Above and Beyond, The Story of the Congressional Medal of Honor, G.P. Putnam's Sons, New York, 1963
Shirreffs, Captain Gordon D., They Met Danger, Whitman Publishing Company, Racine, WI, 1960
Chapter 3: Ace of Aces
Cooke, Donald E., For Conspicuous Gallantry, C.S. Hammond and Co., 1966
Manning, Robert, Above and Beyond, Boston Publishing Company, Boston, MA, 1985
Rickenbacker, Edward V., Fighting the Flying Circus,
Rickenbacker, Edward V., Rickenbacker, An Autobiography, Prentice Hall, 1967
Runyon, Damon and Kiernan, Walter, "Capt. Eddie Rickenbacker," Dell Publishing Company, New York, NY, 1942
Chapter 4: Billy Mitchell's Aerial Armada
Ault, Phil, By the Seat of Their Pants, Dodd, Mead & Company, New York, 1978
Burlingame, General Billy Mitchell - Champion of Air Defense, McGraw-Hill Book Company, New York, NY, 1952
Davis, Burke, The Billy Mitchell Affair, Random House, New York, NY, 1967
Manning, Robert, Above and Beyond, Boston Publishing Company, Boston, MA, 1985
Meilinger, Col. Phillip S., Airmen and Air Theory, Air University Press, Maxwell AFB, AL, 2001
Rickenbacker, Edward V., Rickenbacker, An Autobiography, Prentice Hall, 1967
Chapter 5: The Fight For Survival
Burlingame, General Billy Mitchell - Champion of Air Defense, McGraw-Hill Book Company, New York, NY, 1952
Davis, Burke, The Billy Mitchell Affair, Random House, New York, NY, 1967
Manchester, William, American Caesar, Little, Brown and Company, 1978
Manning, Robert, Above and Beyond, Boston Publishing Company, Boston, MA, 1985
Meilinger, Col. Phillip S., Airmen and Air Theory, Air University Press, Maxwell AFB, AL, 2001
xiii
Rickenbacker, Edward V., Rickenbacker, An Autobiography, Prentice Hall, 1967
Runyon, Damon and Kiernan, Walter, "Capt. Eddie Rickenbacker," Dell Publishing Company, New York, NY, 1942
Chapter 6: The Lone Eagle
Ault, Phil, By The Seat of their Pants, Dodd, Mead and Company, New York, NY 1968
Cook, Donald, For Conspicuous Gallantry, C.S. Hammond & Company, Maplewood, NJ, 1966
Foss, Joe and Donna, A Proud American, Pocket Books, 1992
Lindbergh, Charles A, WE, Grosset & Dunlap, New York, NY, 1927
Lindbergh, Charles A, The Wartime Journals of Charles A. Lindbergh, Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc., New York, NY
1970
Manning, Robert, Above and Beyond, Boston Publishing Company, Boston, MA, 1985
"Why the World Makes Lindbergh Its Hero", The Literary Digest, June 25, 1927
Chapter 7: Older Heroes
Cook, Donald, For Conspicuous Gallantry, C.S. Hammond & Company, Maplewood, NJ, 1966
Foss, Joe and Donna, A Proud American, Pocket Books, 1992
Lindbergh, Charles A, The Wartime Journals of Charles A. Lindbergh, Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc., New York, NY
1970
Manning, Robert, Above and Beyond, Boston Publishing Company, Boston, MA, 1985
Rickenbacker, Edward V., Rickenbacker, An Autobiography, Prentice Hall, 1967
Rickenbacker, Edward V., "Pacific Mission" (Parts 1, 2 and 3), LIFE Magazine, January 25, February 1 & February 8, 1943
Runyon, Damon and Kiernan, Walter, "Capt. Eddie Rickenbacker," Dell Publishing Company, New York, NY, 1942
xiv
HomeOfHeroes.com Electronic Books
HomeOfHeroes electronic books are a unique feature of the HomeOfHeroes.com website,
which currently maintains more than 20,000 pages of American history. These books are
available in .pdf OR Microsoft®Word® format for easy single-file download and printing. Once
you have downloaded the file, you can print multiple copies of these books to distribute freely for
patriotic and educational purposes. Other electronic books currently available include:
Day of Infamy
Go For Broke
The Brotherhood of
Soldiers At War
A chronology of the events at Pearl
Harbor on December 7, 1941, with
highlights of the stories of 15 men
who received Medals of Honor.
The story of the Japanese-Americans
who defended freedom during World
War II, detailing the actions of the
100th Infantry and 442nd RCT.
Twelve stories of brothers, either
biological or fraternal, who pulled
together when the “chips were down”
to protect and serve each other.
A Splendid Little War
Shinmiyangyo
Above and Beyond
A chronology of the stories of heroism
and the events of the SpanishAmerican War..
A 50-page history of the Other Korean
War – the American invasion of Korea
in 1871 called Shinmiyangyo..
A 50-page tribute to the recipients of
the Medal of Honor, all written by
eight graders at a school in Louisiana.
Additional Electronic Books Coming Soon:
 Men of Valor – Men of Faith
 Wings of Valor
 Profiles in Courage
HomeOfHeroes.com electronic books can be found online at:
www.HomeOfHeroes.com/books
HomeOfHeroes.com, Inc.
3111 Thatcher
Pueblo, CO 81005
(719) 564-1755
About The Author:
DOUG STERNER
“Mr. Doug Sterner, in the truest sense of the word, is a
genuine “All American.” As a patriot he is the best of the
best. His passion for our country, our citizens and our
children runs deep in his veins. He feels in his soul the great
indebtedness we have to our country for the freedoms we
enjoy.
Doug speaks with great enthusiasm and a
tremendous fervor, leaving you with your heart racing,
standing taller and possibly drawing a tear from your eye,
feeling proud to be an American.
Peter C. Lemon, Recipient
Congressional Medal of Honor
Doug Sterner is a popular author, speaker, Webmaster and historian who has dedicated his
life to preserving the stories of some of our Nation’s greatest heroes. He has single-handedly authored
more than 20,000 web pages in his popular site at www.HomeOfHeroes.com. A dedicated public
servant in his hometown of Pueblo, Colorado; he initiated and organized several programs to
introduce Medal of Honor recipients to the community, including a series of school assemblies that
brought history and inspiration to more than 32,000 youth in one day of activities. He and his wife
Pam’s continuing programs resulted in the community bidding for and hosting the Medal of Honor
convention in Pueblo in September 2000. Other activities have resulted in local schools promoting
and passing legislation in two states authorizing distinctive Medal of Honor license plates.
Doug is a decorated, two-tour veteran of service in Vietnam
where he served as a squad leader in the US Army. Following
discharge from active duty, he spent six years as a member of the
Montana National Guard. In 1998 the Congressional Medal of
Honor Society recognized the continuing efforts of the Sterner
Family when it presented Doug with its prestigious and unique
Distinguished Citizens Award. In 1999 Governor Bill Owens
appointed Doug to the Colorado State Board of Veterans Affairs. In
2001 he was elected to a two-year term as Chairman of the Colorado
State Board of Veterans Affairs.
"As a patriot, speaker, writer and historian you are among the best.
"The fact that Doug laughed at my jokes in Da Nang (Vietnam) in 1971
has nothing to do with the praise I give him.
"Okay, It helped a little!"
Mr. Bob Hope
Doug Sterner
3111 Thatcher – Pueblo, CO 81005
(719) 564-1755
Email: Doug@HomeOfHeroes.com