In a few days, the 42nd Division was ordered out of the line in order to prepare themselves for the affair which we afterwards learned was Chateau Thierry, and the 77th, which was the first National Army unit to go in the trenches, was ordered in the line. Their Artillery was not yet ready for work, so, some of the 42nd Artillery stayed over to support them. The first morning after the 77th took its place in the trenches the Germans pulled off a raid, the result of which put about six hundred of the 77th in the hospital from gas and wounds.
When the raid came off, the first reports we got were from the French at daybreak. They said that the boche had attacked along the entire divisional front from Domévre to Badonvillers, and that we should send out a plane at once and find the line in order that the General might know where to send reinforcements. It was Lieut. Hopkins’ turn on alert duty, so, he took off right after daylight in the execution of his first mission over the lines. Hopkins had lots of courage—he was a brave fellow—he got tangled up with the “archies” and a huge piece of shell tore away a part of his knee, but he stayed right up there trying to execute his mission until he realized he was losing consciousness from loss of blood. I knew nothing about the attack and was still in bed when they dragged old Hoppy in.
This looked like exciting business for us so when they dragged Hoppy in, I got up and began to pay attention. Meanwhile they had got the next man on the “H” list—Lieutenant Armin F. Herold—whom I knew quite well and he had already been sent out to get the line. I helped lift Hopkins into the ambulance to be taken to the hospital and then went over to get my breakfast. I was about half finished when some one rushed in and said that Herold was also coming in. Of course, we hurried out just as the plane taxied up to the hangar. The mechanics lifted Herold out of the plane with his right leg shattered at the ankle by machine gun bullets fired from the ground. He, of course, had been unable to get the line of our troops, but gamely stated he had gone the limit to find our troops having flown most of the time at about two hundred meters.
I saw Brereton looking around for a new crew to send out. I knew my name began with “H,” but I knew also that I had been put on the resting list, and furthermore was sick, according to the doctor, so my mind was perfectly at ease. There were others in our squadron whose names began with “H”—among them, Henderson, Harwood and Hinds, and we were not restricted to “H’s.” But Major Brereton was known to do funny things. I was starting into the mess shack to finish my breakfast when I heard that familiar voice and its equally familiar inflection demand with a tone of final decision, “Where’s Haslett?” I had a creepy feeling run all over my ribs for I knew it was an off-day. Brereton came into the mess hall after me. I certainly had not gone out to seek him. Then he showed the first and only sign of weakness I ever knew him to display—“Haslett,” he said, “do you want to go and finish this mission?” Always before he would have said “Haslett, go and do this mission.” I neither answered “Yes” or “No” for I could not honestly answer “Yes” and I dared not answer “No.” I simply started to get my flying clothes. Johnny Miller, who had been the pilot for Hopkins on the first attempt, and who afterwards was killed at Chateau Thierry, begged Brereton to be permitted to finish the job. Brereton agreed.