Trench Knives and Mustard Gas: With the 42nd Rainbow Division in France

Chapter 14 Home Again

144 TRENCH KNIVES AND MUSTARD GAS CHAP TE R FO U RTE E N Home Again F our days at the headquarters of the 96th Aero Squadron offered a welcome change from the depressing hospital scenes, but only spasmodic relief from persistently intruding memories of the Champagne. Shortly before I landed at the cluster of barracks and hangars , half-hidden in a grove near Gondrecourt, a group of flyers had buzzed off over the German lines in scout planes and had not returned. A gaunt hole upon the flying field, where a heavy motor had plunged into the earth, bore mute but impressive testimony of a recent crash in which two men had been killed. The aviators immediately made me feel at home. Most of them had trained with the other Hugh at Issoudun, while several had transferred to the 96th from the La Fayette Escadrille .1 I was soon a listening member of the crowd, who talked shop around the canteen. I couldn’t make heads or tails of the chatter about Handley-Paiges, “crates,” windage, Bréguets, three-point landings, etc. On the other hand I could appreciate the references to Quentin Roosevelt, with whom Hugh and his friends had trained, and the news of whose death had lately been reported.2 Pat Anderson and Farnsworth had already identified me as the fellow whose wandering Christmas box had been devoured with such relish in a remote past. Along with Hugh and others, they inveigled me into a game of draw poker and I pro- H O M E A G A I N 145 ceeded to contribute further to the upkeep of the Air Service. Jigsaw bits of social rules cropped out amid the cigarette smoke, banter, and clinking chips. Being a cash customer and being firmly rooted to terra firma besides, the local question of I.O.U.’s and their automatic cancellation by certain aerial events did not apply to me, but left me pop-eyed, nevertheless. Maj. Baldwin, the squadron medical officer, removed healthy scabs from my arm and shoulder wounds in the morning while Hugh, Pat, and Codman looked on, grimacing that the Air Service suited them. On the contrary, after things already seen and heard among the flyers, I was still quite satis- fied to take my war, if any, with both feet on the ground. The squadron prepared for flight in the afternoon. Hugh and Pat stroked a blackbird near the hangars, while the motor was tuned and lower wings loaded with sixteen bombs. I was forced to climb into both cockpits to examine the “crate” which, according to the joking proprietors, was the best in the lot. A red devil framed in a white triangle reposed upon the fuselage of each ship. In one hand the squadron mascot held a bomb ready for delivery upon nether territory. With the free hand the saucy demon thumbed his nose at various and sundry Boches. The bombers were soon in droning V-shaped flight, after an ear-splitting take-off in swirls of dust. Maj. Baldwin showed me through the photographic section while they were gone. Walls of a barrack shack were covered with pictorial evidence of damage done to the towns of Conflans and Metz. The flyers returned in a surprisingly short time, squirmed out of gloves, jerkins, and goggled helmets with raucous chatter and invaded the canteen. A few minutes later I was among the audience of mechanics in khaki jumpers who watched a spirited game of volleyball on an outdoor court. Drizzling rain kept my hosts at home during the rest of my visit. Hugh and I managed a sightseeing tour of nearby Domremy, the humble birthplace of Joan of Arc, before my leave was up. I parted with regret from the hospitable flyers, who took the dangers of their job with such élan. Hugh and Pat commandeered the squadron car and drove me back to the 146 TRENCH KNIVES AND MUSTARD GAS hospital via Neufchâteau and along the Meuse. War meant nothing, if not separation, I thought, when we said good-bye in front of the familiar wooden barracks at Base 116. I skipped over to see my bedridden friends Carson, Bunce, and Black, right away. Half an hour later, I was adding my voice to those of Jim Johnson from home, Delacorte of the 165th, and the rest of the yodelers, who serenaded...