I've always been lucky, although you wouldn't necessarily know it to look at me. Take now, for instance, 15,000 feet off the ground in the seat of a baby Nieuport, Archie bursting shells all around me, German Pfalz buzzing around like someone stirred up a wasps' nest, machine guns tracing lines of fire through the air. But not a single bullet-hole marring the canvas of my Nieuport, much less me.
Like I said, lucky.
A Pflaz roars past, guns chattering. I pull back on the stick hard, pulling up my machine's nose and climbing up after him. I roll to the side and come up right behind. The Hun pilot doesn't even see me. With a grin I get him in my sights and hit the trigger on the paired machine guns mounted on the nose of my machine.
They yammer out 650 rounds a minute, tracers lighting the way to the Pfalz's tail. I see smoke pour out in a steady stream and the Pfalz starts to go into a dive, the wind fanning the flames spreading across his tail. He's finished. I don't bother watching him go down, not when there are so many other tempting targets to deal with.
I climb up to 20,000, the ceiling of my little Nieuport, and look down, spotting another Pflaz some 4,000 feet below. I bank to the left and come down in a dive, putting the Hun directly in my sights. Machine guns roar and the tracers announce my attack, but too late. The Pfalz banks one way, then the other, trying to get away, but I stay on him, my rounds ripping through canvas and cracking framework, looking for a vital spot or the pilot himself.
I find it when some rounds reach the Pfalz's engine, which starts to smoke and the machine goes into a long, slow dive, trailing smoke like a flag of surrender. Making a close pass, I give the Hun pilot an ironic salute as he starts to drop, almost close enough to imagine he can hear me, even over the roar of the wind and the crackle of the flames starting to spout from his crippled engine.
"When you get to ground, tell 'em Nathan Zachary sent you!"
There's no reply, and I don't wait around for one, banking and climbing toward another Hun just above, less than a thousand feet. He thinks having the high ground gives him an advantage but he hasn't had to deal with the likes of me before. You'd think even the German pilots would know enough to quit when they're losing so badly, but if they want to be beaten there's no one better to do it than
"Nathan! Nathan Zachary! Mr. Zachary?"
***
The persistent shaking of my shoulder roused me from the end of what was turning out to be a very pleasant dream to look bleary-eyed up into a face considerably less pleasant, peering down at me.
"Mr. Zachary," the orderly said, "it's 0500, time for you to wake up for your patrol."
I managed something barely coherent in acknowledgement and levered myself up out of bed. I wanted more than anything to lapse back onto my thin mattress to finish up my dream of downing German planes, but it was time for me to take the opportunity to down a few Hun pilots and their machines for real. Glory waits for no man, even when it forces us awake at the crack of dawn.
In fairly short order I'd managed to force myself out of bed, splashed some cold water on my face, then showered and dressed. I skipped breakfast. I don't like to eat before I go up. Even though I have a pretty calm stomach, some of the maneuvers we're called to make are best performed on an empty one. I liked to think of eating as part of the reward for a job well done, and looked forward to a hearty breakfast upon returning to the aerodrome. As Lt. Quentin Roosevelt from the 95th once put it, "there's no sense in using up perfectly good food until you know for sure you're coming back." A bit morbid, but sound advice.
Dawn's first light was crawling up over the horizon, as reluctant as I was to get up and start the day. As I crossed the grassy field to the hangar, I was feeling considerably more ready to face whatever awaited us on the German lines. I was very young in those days, and eager to improve an already impressive reputation, if I do say so myself.
It was France, in May of 1917, in the aerodrome of Lafayette Escadrille. We were a unit of American pilots fighting under the command of the French in the early days after the United States enter the Great War, the first Americans to fly planes in wartime. How I miss the old Squadron some days. How I miss the old United States, for that matter. Like I said, I was young back then, and somewhat idealistic. I believed in fighting for my country, even if my country had never really done anything for me.
I was born Rom, what most folks call a "gypsy." My family probably once lived not too far from where our aerodrome was located in the north of France near Toul, although we were originally from further east in Europe. We're a traveling people. You only have to look at me for proof of that. I've traveled a long way and my traveling days are far from over, God willing.
Those were idealistic days, both for me and for America. I'd left my tribe behind, looking for a place where I felt I really belonged, were I wouldn't be looked upon as an outsider. Back in those days I kept quiet about my real heritage. With my dark coloring and olive complexion I could easily pass for any of the various Mediterranean folk that moved to the United States seeking opportunities in the New World. I was also a big lad for my age, which is how I managed to lie about my age and enlist in the Army at the tender age of 16. A pilot with the Escadrille for only a little over a month, I'd already shot down three enemy machines. Two more would see me made an Ace, the youngest Ace in American history.
I made my way into the hangar, returning the nods and hails of the mechanics-who were up far earlier than I-working on the machines. There I spotted the real Ace of the Lafayette Escadrille, Lieutenant Edward Rickenbacker, my commanding officer, and the man I most admired in the world.
When I'd run away from my tribe I didn't know what I was going to do with my life. I had some vague notions about becoming wealthy and settled, a respected man about town, but I was only a young gypsy boy with nothing to my name but the clothes on my back and all my worldly possession in a small satchel. Not long after I set out on my own, I happened by a rally, a huge gathering of folk to stir up support for the war effort. The rumors were that the United States was going to declare war on Germany and the government was drumming up support among the people.
The man speaking at the podium was none other than Eddie Rickenbacker. The son of European immigrants, he'd already made a name for himself as a racecar driver in the states. Now he was talking about how Europe needed American support, not just money and guns, but soldiers to help protect France and Great Britain from German aggression. His motto was "The Three M's - Men, Money, and Munitions."
I stood and listened, enraptured by his speech, and felt a surge of patriotism for the first time. Here was this man, his own family newcomers to this nation, proclaiming his intention to fight for what every American was supposed to value. It was the first time I considered myself an American rather than an outsider and I knew then and there what I wanted to do. I went straightaway to the local recruiting office and signed up. Little did I know that my desire to be a pilot would see me serving with the man whose speechmaking inspired me in the first place.
"Morning, Nathan," Rickenbacker said, an easy and genuine smile splitting his handsome face. "Fine day for hunting, wouldn't you say?"
I returned the smile in full measure. "Yes, sir," I said. "It certainly is." A number of the other pilots called Lt. Rickenbacker "Rick" or "Eddie". He certainly wasn't a stickler for protocol. In those days in the Escadrille things were far less military than it was among the rank-and-file soldiers. But I was honestly in awe of Rickenbacker and his impressive record of victories, so I didn't think of calling him anything other than "sir". I suspect he found it amusing.
"We're just waiting for Peterson and Johnson, then we'll be on our way," the lieutenant replied casually, like we were embarking for nothing more than a stroll around the field, rather than an assigned patrol. I nodded and started changing into my flight suit while the mechanics did the final checks on our machines, making sure everything was ready. Each machine in the Escadrille had three mechanics assigned to it, whose job it was to look after that particular machine alone and ensure it was always in top operating condition. Because there are always so many things that can go wrong when you're dealing with something as complicated as an aeroplane.
"Good morning, Rick," said David Peterson, late of Honesdale, PA . Peterson was Lt. Rickenbacker's wingman this morning, only a few years older than I, with what folks call "corn-fed" good looks, and an easygoing manner. I liked Peterson a great deal, everyone in the Squad did, even the somewhat distant Rickenbacker. The two exchanged pleasantries and I acknowledged Peterson's wave as I climbed up onto my Nieuport to check things out. Then another voice rang out in the hangar.
"Gentlemen! I'm in the mood to bag me some Huns!"
Johnny Johnson made a strong contrast to the quiet modesty of Peterson and Rickenbacker. Johnson was a loud-mouthed braggart, considered himself God's gift to womankind, and was quite proud of his own record as a flyer, overly proud, in my opinion. Johnson was a good pilot, to be sure, but he wasn't an Ace. In fact, he had only one confirmed victory to his credit, although he would have us believe it was many times that, but circumstances robbed him of his rightful accounting because enemy planes fell on the wrong side of No Man's Land or weren't counted by the French authorities.
I could have handled Johnson's good-natured exaggeration of his abilities. It was practically a sport for aviators, then as now. The thing that put me off about the man was, beneath his pleasant and joking exterior, I sensed a man who didn't really understand it what it meant to be a soldier and didn't respect or honor the code we fought by. Johnson was a man who believed in winning at all costs, without acknowledging that some costs are simply too high to pay. He was the type of man I'd have problems with in the years ahead.
I gave Johnson a nod as well and hopped down from my machine to gather with him and Peterson around Lt. Rickenbacker as he explained our morning's mission.
"We've been getting sporadic reports of Hun spotter planes crossing the lines," Rickenbacker said, "photographing sites on our side, probably earmarking them for possible attack. There's been more activity behind their lines, so keep a sharp watch up there. I don't want any surprises, understood?" At our acknowledging nods the lieutenant smiled and clapped Peterson and I on the shoulder.
"Then let's go hunting, shall we, gentlemen?"
***
In short order, we took off from the aerodrome and climbed to an altitude of 16,000 feet. The sky was brightening quite well by the time we were off, although it remained bitterly cold, especially at the heights we were flying at. One of the other pilots called Rickenbacker an "Esquimo" for his ability to fly at such heights for hours without any concern for the temperature. I was too filled with excitement and anticipation to really notice the cold as we took our places in formation and headed for the German lines.
Our patrol that morning was to take us from Pont-A-Mousson in the east, near the Moselle River, to St. Mihiel in the West, following along the German lines and keeping a sharp eye out for any signs of Hun aircraft along the way. Our Nieuports were quick little machines, so we reached the river in no time at all, banked, and headed west along the lines.
The trenches far below snaked across terrain that was once rich farmland, now a No Man's Land of barbed wire and mine fields between the German trenches and those dug by the Allies, girded with machinegun nests. I certainly didn't envy the soldiers on duty in those trenches, either the Huns or our own boys. The trenches were one of the reasons the war dragged on; one side would fire artillery bombardments at the other, but the opposing soldiers would simply retreat into their bunkers. When the shelling stopped, the enemy soldiers emerged from their trenches to charge the lines, but their opposite numbers simply came out of their bunkers and manned the machine guns, cutting down anyone trying to cross No Man's Land. It was a long, ongoing stalemate.
The United States hoped to break that stalemate, and our presence in France was a part of that effort. If we could do that, put and swift end to the war and prove the value of the aeroplane in war as well as peacetime, so much the better, I thought.
My thoughts were interrupted by a dull thump that made my little machine shake like a bucking bronco, startling me out of my daydreaming and making me look toward 6 o'clock and my plane's tail. A cloud of dark smoke spread not a 100 yards behind me, a clear sign announcing Archie's presence. Several more thumps and puffs of smoke made that quite clear.
"Archie" was our nickname for the German anti-aircraft artillery. Batteries were set up all along the German lines, much like our own anti-aircraft guns were. They fired heavy shells in an attempt to down enemy aircraft, an attempt that was mostly a symbolic gesture since Archie was notoriously inaccurate. Still, at that moment, with shells bursting around my machine, I was starting to reconsider my opinion.
None of the other pilots seemed disturbed by the barking shells. In fact, Lt. Rickenbacker waggled his wings a bit, as if he were taunting the Archie crew below, showing his complete and utter contempt for their efforts. The Huns answered with several more shells, none of which came anywhere near their mark. Still, we didn't linger over the area long enough to let the Huns get in too much target practice. No sense in helping the enemy to improve their skills. In short order, we left Archie behind and continued along the lines.
We were about halfway I estimated, not far from Seicheprey, when Lt. Rickenbacker waggled his wings again, as if saying, "Look there, fellows." I craned my neck to look past the fuselage of my Nieuport and down some 2,000 feet, where a German Albatross was flying sedately along, on a direct heading for our lines! It looked to be just over a mile away, well within striking distance. Rickenbacker must have agreed, because he began a slow climb to higher altitude, and we began to follow, maintaining formation.
The Albatross was a two-seater German machine, typically used for aerial reconnaissance missions, flying over the lines to photograph vital enemy sites and to hunt for places like our own aerodrome, so the Huns could plan future attacks. The photographer/lookout also doubled as the rear gunner, operating a swivel-mounted machine gun, while the pilot controlled the machine's forward-mounted guns. Compared to the Nieuport the Albatross was large and slow, but it had a higher ceiling. If we allowed it the opportunity to get high enough, the Albatross would be beyond our reach, but still able to fire down at us. Lieutenant Rickenbacker clearly intended to deny them any such opportunity.
We leveled off at 18,000 feet, closing on our unsuspecting prey. The Albatross grew larger below us. With a dip of his wing, Rickenbacker turned into a dive and plunged after the target, with Peterson following in close formation. I saw Johnson waggle his wings, trying to signal that he wanted to take the lead when we followed our senior officers. I shook mine in response, like an emphatic "fat chance!" There was no way I was going to allow Johnson to take the lead on this one!
Just as we prepared to make the dive ourselves, and help finish off the Albatross, I caught a glimpse of something in the glare of the late-morning sun behind us. Turning to 7 o'clock I saw four dark shapes silhouetted in the glare as they screamed down from the clouds high above. Hun Pflaz!
It was a trap!