Captain “Deacon” Saunders, who has since been killed, had been one of my instructors at school and he had been designated by Brereton as Chief Observer. “Deac” was a wonder. It was his duty to round up the wild observers and present them to the Commanding Officer, who cross-questioned them as to their experience and the like. So, “Deac” grabbed me eventually during the morning of the second day and took me over to meet His Royal Majesty, the Commanding Officer of an actual American Squadron at the front. He was quartered in a wooden hut commonly known as an “Adrian Barrack.”
Saunders gave a sharp military knock of three raps and I, of course, expected to hear a nice, soft, cultured voice say, “Won’t you come in?” What I heard, however, was considerably different. “Who in the hell’s there?” The voice was sharp and impatient, and it suddenly made me feel “less than the dust beneath thy chariot wheel.”
Captain Saunders spoke up, “Sir, I have a new observer reporting and would like to present him to you.”
“What’s his name?” gruffed the irate voice.
“Lieutenant Haslett, Sir,” replied Captain Saunders.
“Who in the devil asked for him?” came from the inside.
“Sir,” said my godfather, “he was included in the list sent down by Headquarters.”
“Well! Is he there now?” said the power within.
“Yes, sir, right with me now,” was the reply, and I began to pull down my blouse and otherwise mill around in preparation for my entrance, for this last question was encouraging.
“Well,” came the growl, after a discomforting hesitation, “I don’t want to see him. I’m writing a letter to my wife and I can’t be bothered.”
I felt about as welcome as a skunk in a public park. In all my military experience I cannot remember anything that really hurt me so much. I wanted like a starving man wants food, to be a plain buck private in the Infantry, for this was the most inconsiderate sort of a bruise; it hurt me more, of course, because I was an officer and was wearing my pride on my coat sleeve. The only thing that bolstered me up was the fact that I had finally gotten to the American front and I was willing to sacrifice practically anything to stay there, but I certainly realized that the man who put the “boiled” in “hardboiled” was no other than Major Lewis H. Brereton.