The following narrative was transcribed from: Memoirs of the Harvard Dead in the War Against Germany, Volume 3, by Mark Antony De Wolfe Howe, Harvard University Press, 1922, pp. 82-98, re. Kenneth Pickens Culbert, Class of 1917. This publication can be found at Google Books. More information on him can be found here: Kenneth Pickens Culbert.
The paternal ancestors of Kenneth Pickens Culbert were English and settled in Canada, where his grandfather and uncle held government posts and bore an active part in the development of the country. On his mother’s side the descent was English, Scotch, and French, and more than fifty representatives of his ancestors are counted among those who bore arms in the American Revolution. He was born at Bellevue, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, August 22, 1895, the son of William Henry Culbert and Emma Leonie (Pickens) Culbert. During his childhood his parents moved from Pittsburgh to East Orange, New Jersey, where he attended a private school and then prepared for college at the East Orange High School and with private tutors. He graduated high school in 1913, valedictorian of his class. For four years he had played on the school football and baseball teams, and in 1913 he was captain of the school track team.
At Harvard, which he entered with the Class of 1917, he rowed on the freshman crew, became a member of the freshman football squad, of the University football squad in his sophomore year, and of the University crew squad in 1915, 1916, and 1917. He belonged to the Freshman Mandolin and University Musical Clubs, and served on the sophomore and junior entertainment committees of his class. His clubs were the Delta Kappa Epsilon Fraternity, Institute of 1770, Speakers’, Phoenix, Stylus, Signet, and Hasty Pudding. In addition to these interests and activities, Culbert applied himself so effectively to the task of “making” the Crimson that he led the competition for the paper in his sophomore year; in his junior year he was secretary of the Board of editors.
Culbert’s direct connection with the war began with his enrollment in the R.O.T.C., in which he rose, before the end of his senior year, to the rank of captain. Before that year ended, he left college to enter the U.S. Marine Corps training school at Quantico, Virginia. Here he received his commission as second lieutenant (M. C.), August 27, 1917, and was assigned to the 74th Company, 6th Regiment, Marines, stationed at Quantico. On September 17, he sailed with his regiment from Philadelphia for France on a vessel that was forced to put in at New York, from where its final departure overseas was made September 22. In this brief interval Culbert was married, September 19, to Miriam Edith Towle of Cranford, New Jersey (Wellesley, ’18), to whom he had been engaged for nearly a year.
Soon after reaching France, Culbert became so interested in aviation that he secured a transfer, October 16, to the First Corps Aviation Schools at Gondrecourt, where he was commissioned Student Naval Aviator, November 26. On February 5, 1918, he was assigned to Escadrille 217 of the French Army, operating in the Champagne sector. “For two months,” writes his friend and classmate, R.T. Fry, in the Triennial Report of the Class of 1917, “he flew with the French, but on April 1, 1918, was transferred back to the First Areo Squadron, then at Ourches in the Toul sector. During this time Culbert had become, as expressed by one of the majors of his former regiment, ‘one of our most skilful and daring aerial observers,’ a fact attested later by the award of the Croix de Guerre, made in recognition of his work during the battle of Seicheprey and other occasions.”
Three letters from Culbert to Professor C.T. Copeland show him in France at three stages of his experience, in the training school, with the French, and with the American Army. They are quoted here with some fullness, both for what they tell about war-time conditions, and also for their revelation of Culbert as an observer, not from the aerial point of vantage only.
November 21, 1917. …Perhaps a few words about myself will get me “oriented,” and give me a bit of a framework to build upon. I got my commission in the United States Marines without any trouble, thanks to your and other letters, and a long lanky frame. Darrah Kelley, was under-weight, and no amount of argument and pleading could make up for the deficiency. I felt extremely sorry, but was powerless to do anything. After a few months with the Sixth Regiment at Quantico, Va., — a place selected for a cantonment by a process that eliminated all logic, and brought politics to the fore, — we got off in the early part of September. As I stood a regular turn in the submarine watch, — two on and six off, — I can assure you very sincerely that the transports take no end of precautions to evade the “fish,” as commanders call them. In thirteen days we sighted France, going slowly up a tiny river into a small port, just as dusk settled. Some women were waving American flags on the porches, or rather the doorsteps, of their tiny white houses, and I felt thrills leaping from my heart to my head that I shall never forget. The spirit of France, her sacrifices and hardships, her maltreatment and loyal fight — a lot of boyish emotions made me stand up straight as an arrow. And I noticed the sternness of the expressions on the faces of the officers about me. We were beginning to realize why we were there.
Once on land we hustled to a camp and got shook down. Then we began the work which a vanguard must always do in preparation for that which is to follow. Of course, some of the work didn’t have much to do with the rifle and bullet, or the bayonet, but it was and is necessary; at present of vastly greater importance than the above. With the necessity of five men behind the lines for one at the front the adage about the acorn and the oak is reversed to a large extent as regards war. The gigantic proportions of the preparations that is necessary, — in ways of transportation, cantonments, supplies, etc., before we can really take care of the big armies which are to come in the next few years, — are most inconceivable. My one constant hope is that the desire to enter the fight as soon as possible will not cause some of the preparations to be hustled or slighted. Everything up front depends on the efficiency of the forces in the rear.
I with many other officers soon left the regiment for instruction in the ways and means of playing the game. And we’ve been getting it for the past couple of months in a manner that makes one itch for the actual hunting grounds. Sir, I admire, sympathize with, and love the French, but it’s the British to whom I give my respect. They’ve got the “spirit of the bayonet”; they’ve changed their easy-going temperament and, taught by bitter experience, answer the cry “Kamerad” with a short sharp jab; they’re fighting mad, playing the game for all that it’s worth. System? They’ve got everything down to a fine point; a great part of the time the Tommies don’t even realize that the games they are playing are developing just the traits of character and strength of muscle necessary to exterminate the Boche. Oh, the Germans are afraid of them. They know what lies in store for them when the English, the Canadians, or especially the Australians are opposite them, and in the still small hours they come sneaking over singly and in pairs to give themselves up. Which is what every sensible Boche ought to do right now, — in my humble estimation. Unfortunately very few of them are sensible.
So we’re passing the time training and hardening up, occasionally getting actual experience where “make-believe” no longer holds. I personally am to be the aerial observer of an infantry contact machine, a duty that to me is as interesting as it is important in battle. Before I came over O had never heard of such a man, indeed it’s been a succession of hearing, learning, and putting into practice new things, new methods of killing the enemy. The old-fashioned all round infantryman is but the shade of past glories; today everyone is a specialist in some one particular thing, and informed in all things generally. Gas, with its terrifying results, trench mortars, automatic rifles, grenades; bayonets, wire entanglements; trenches; communication systems; aeroplanes, — what not? War is even more highly specialized than modern industry in the heads of efficiency experts. And we’re going to keep on specializing until we’ve won. Surely it will take a few years; casualty lists will be heavy; mistakes will be made, but the point is we will win. Furthermore the sacrifices necessitated at home and the new ideas derived therefrom, are going to help the United States along considerably, in ways that will be more than subtle. Do you think I am mistaken, sir?
I heard of Billy Meeker’s [1 – see Vol. II, pp. 105-113] death with sadness. He was the first of our class to go. To me though, there was something glorious in his death, for the motives that permitted the possibility of death were of the purest. Many more will follow, — all gladly, –content in knowing that they are doing their share.
March 22, 1918.
It’s been long since I’ve written — almost four months now — so there’s much to say. For incursions or prolonged “Permissions” into the personal I hasten to apologize — yet after all, war can only be interesting through its reaction on every individual. Not that every one of the millions fighting — or helping those that fight — has a different reaction, but most Americans have, because we’re new at the thing, because we’ve come far to express in work thoughts that stirred our minds in oddly different ways! Somewhere I suppose Mars is complacently thinking to himself “I am he — I am the one who has revolutionized the thoughts of millions of men! I am he who saturated the minds of the Huns with lust for conquest; I am he who awakened the soul of America, and planted the seeds of nobility in her heart. I, I alone, have done all this!” Well, sir, from the mess some profit must come — and I believe that the individual as an individual is the recipient. Later the good will come to individuals bound together as a state — but not for years.
Perhaps my opinion is boyish! One thing is certain — the awakening desire to help is of inestimable benefit to a man; and the gradual changing of that eager desire for adventure and for glory to a pounding powerful determination to never relax until right is won is of even greater benefit. The slogan of the French poilus [Translation: hairy] exemplifies that; nothing but supreme respect exist in men when I hear them say “Ils ne passeront pas.” [Translation: They will not pass.] War for them is so vastly different than it is for us – as yet. But enough of reflections; “the froth is out of the bottle,” as Meredith says — so on to my story.
I intensely wish that you were here tonight. You would see the newest phase of warfare at its very best! The moon is high in a clear sky, stars are shining brilliantly and the intersecting rays of searchlights are restlessly shifting all over the heavens. I’ve just come in from watching it all. The roar of motors in the air is constant; the frequent bursts of our shells and the stray tak-tak of our machine guns is entirely drowned now and again by the terrific bursts of the bombs landing in the near distance; — it’s a game of give and take, with the odds in favor of bombing planes, for they are as needles in a mammoth haystack! The night is ideal for their work — so ideal that women, children, and civilian non-combatants in the towns back from the front will suffer heavily. It’s a powerful weapon — it’s demoralizing effect must be tremendous.
Frankly the first time our field was bombed — (or rather was the target of poorly placed bombs) — I was quite weak about the knees; now I have not even gone to the dugouts. You see when you figure it out: if the Powers that be decide that a mass of steel is going to fall so accurately from miles above that my little six by six semi-dugout is going to get hit — well, I guess I’m scheduled then for fair. Rank fatalism — isn’t it? Only truthfully, it’s not, for I’ve never thought up such an argument until this instant. It’s the coming thing in aviation. I believe that in another year twenty squadrons — not three — will bunch together and go miles and miles into Bocheland, seeking the most effective resting place for their burdens. Some of the larger, more destructive bombs are tremendous things, and well-dropped, their capacity to make buildings look like nothing at all is remarkable. Certainly they detract a bit from the horror of the San Francisco earthquake! But so it goes.
Of what Americans are doing I know nothing except that which I read in the French papers. Reports credit them with all the fighting spirit, bravery, and cool-headedness that the great majority of Uncle Sam’s soldiers possess. I believe we’re holding a part of the line in four or five different places — and holding it well. That’s splendid — glorious –indicative of that which is to come. And only as the latter can we — must we — view it. It’s like the delightful order of the roast which is to be eaten — the real thing is yet to come. I say “delightful” because years from now that is how every member of our part will be. There are millions on the other side, trained fighting machines, with as little milk of human kindness in their make-up as is allowed by the laws regulating the formation of mortals in God’s worship. One burst, or intermittent bursts, of American enthusiasm and patriotism will be worse, far worse, than nothing at all. Men, men, men, and more men must come; and to maintain them the necessary food, guns, material, gas equipment must be sent in ever increasing quantities. I know we have the older men at home who have the brains to arrange the extensive work required. It would be a sin if they could not profit from the early mistakes of our Allies — and simply get together to work for one end. But war has not touched home and, until it does, patriotic men with hearts and minds working normally, will constantly have to fight those smaller, meaner “things” whose hearts are sadly out of place, whose minds have degenerated from years of the commercial art of cutting throats. Yes, it’s a figurative expression only, but how terribly near it comes to being the truth. Fore every single man who offers his service to the government for nothing, I imagine there are many who see the war as an opportunity. Sir, if we can’t get into it whole-heartedly, with every physically able man fighting and all others helping behind the lines (their work is quite as important), it’s better that we get out of it at once.
Tonight at dinner, for instance, we had a poilu [Translation: hairy] as guest of honor. At the tables were the ten French officers of the escadrille, Saunders (a southern chap of the finest character), myself and the poilu. The latter was a man of forty-five; he has been in the war for two years and a half, serving at present with a battery of 155’s in the woods north of here. The inspiring part of the incident was that he was the father of the first lieutenant commanding the escadrille. Yes, because the war is in France, and not in the United States, it throws a different light on the question of personal contribution, but in that incident is food for thought for those at home not helping, even vicariously. We’ve got a big, sober, horrible task before us as a nation. Only by realizing it as that alone can we hope for anything save weak memories. For those Americans who have died, countless thousands must come to die, and so on and on until that glorious time when American shall be synonymous with “honor” and the rights of man and woman, — in the eyes of all the world. Eventually — not now — we shall win, for we must win. We must!!!! We have no alternative, we want none.
How I wish that everyone at home could see the front, could see ruins that once were peaceful country villages, shelled ground that once was productive fields, miles of stumpy lands that were once quite forests, picnic places perhaps for the peasantry. How I wish they could see stalwart men huddled together, white bandaged over their eyes, blinded from gas; or a few of the chaps reached by liquid fire! You see it’s not the old-time warfare of rifles and bullets, or even the later warfare of huge shells — but it’s the newest and most horrible warfare of a combination of all things terrible. The worst part only comes in war of movement, it is true, such as had occurred in this sector for the last few days — but the rest of the time the trench life is pretty much of a bore, I imagine. When I’m not in the air (and a three hour turn finishes the day’s flying) I often hop a truck to spot a mile or so from the trenches (for we have a big mountain as part of the trench system, with our troops on the summit, which affords a fairly good approach) and wind my way through communications trenches to the front lines. It’s a useless sort of warfare, three or six months waiting in caves and mud for a few days of attack, and attack which regardless of its outcome means a resumption of the dugout life. The men are comfortable, as that goes, in their dugouts, huge holes which shoot twenty to thirty feet underground in this particular sector — and the shells which fall ordinarily do nothing save cut up the ground a bit more, if such a thing is possible. Those men are the real heroes of this war, though. Theirs is the hardest task, theirs the greatest sacrifices, the greatest personal hardships. It makes you stop in supreme admiration when you think of men having lived that life for over three years and still cheerfully, grimly, sticking on and on — that the “bells” in the German village churches shall not ring in announcement of new victories. At such times America’s duty shines most brightly before my eyes! We are late — unquestionable — but I trust not too late.
You’ve probably wondered — as many others have — when the proposed German drive is to come. Perhaps the rumblings from distant sectors, and the recrudescence of artillery fire that has occurred in this sector within the last few days are the beginnings. Who knows? At all events the French are calmly, confidently awaiting the big test; and from what I’ve seen of them, I have gathered great confidence in their military system and their soldiers. They are better prepared at this moment, the morale of their army is better, and, all told, the entire situation is brighter than it has been at any time since the beginning of hostilities. Of the British I have seen little — nothing — of late, but they are better soldiers than the Huns and the Huns know it.
Myself, I finished training in January, and since then have been with Escadrille 217, in the Champagne sector. My work takes me over Rheims daily. You can imagine how beautiful the semi-ruined cathedral is as the oblique rays of the sun, striking it, make it loom up above the tiny houses cluttering about. It is a dream picture, — one which I would like to look down upon for hours, but I am generally otherwise occupied.
Aviation is comfortable, interesting life. There’s none of the constant noise of shells, there’s none of the blood and gore of things once men, there’s none of the stationary cave life of the trenches. We have good bunks, good food, comfortable quarters. In a way it’s a remarkable existence, mixing hours of idleness and moments of intense danger. Removed from war in its horror, it’s still an integral part of it. Frequently our machines don’t come back — but death has no disgusting nauseating effects, for the plane falls far from here, and life goes on as before. I believe it’s the nicest part of the war, the life is very pleasant, and there’s an element of sport in it. It’s clean in life, and death. One could not ask for more than that in war times. When my duty here will be over I don’t know, however, as soon as the 1st, to which I am attached, has its machines, I reckon. Six months have gone by, with new experiences and varied life. My baptism of fire — in trench and in the air — is a thing of the past. First fears are gone, my real duty has gotten under way. Needless to say I am no end happy. One’s part in the war is so small at best that you have to keep right at it in order to make a showing at all commensurate with your own hopes.
It has been the sort of warm spring that brings thoughts of Cambridge, of a good paddle on the river, a cold shower and a chocolate milk (what I would give for one at the College Pharmacy right now) afterwards, and a quiet evening in my room, or at Wellesley, — the abode of my dear wife. Sounds funny, doesn’t it, sir, but I married the sweetest girl just before I left, and I’m forced to write you of it in my great happiness thereof.
How is Cambridge? Do chaps still seek the light in upper Hollis on Monday nights — or have you changed the evening? The regiment — is it flourishing in high and martial style? Oh! there’s just one trouble with France — it’s too silly far from home and old times. The Tommy, the poilu, the Jock get home once in four months for a fortnight. Were that so with us, I’d be serenely happy. As it is I am anyway — which is not quite logical — but true withal.
May 21, 1918 (at night).
When I last wrote you the moon was almost translucent in a cold clear sky; tonight it seems tinged with the blood of men and mellowed with the endless succession of years Apple blossoms are on the trees, the air is soft and soothing, and below in the valley at our feet the Meuse is running quietly along; which means that winter has slipped by, and summer has come. Again I wish you could be here — not to be in the midst of an air-raid tonight, but to enjoy the beauty of this spot. Were it not for the faint rumbling of cannons in the distance you would imagine that ours was a hunting lodge in the Maine woods. For our huts are lost in a tiny batch of fir-trees on the upper slope of a hill; below is the river, and across the valley is a typical tiny French village.
It is hard to reconcile such peaceful rural scenes with war — somehow cows browsing by the side of a stream, the fragrance of apple blossoms in the air, and the clear notes of church-bells are in no way connected with the general notion of war. Yet one has but to tramp over the hill and see the tiny black crosses on the planes (which denote Hun bullet holes, or shrapnel from “Archies”); or amble along the country road and watch French and American troops resting from their turn in the trenches; or cut cross the field to the hospital to realize that war has left its marks here as in all places.
That is one big thing Great Britain and the United States will never have to contend with — simply because Germany will never be able to reach their lands — and because France has had to put up with that for so long a man’s heart very readily goes out in sympathy for the country people of France. How hard it must have been for them to see the places they were born in, and had lived in and loved, shattered and destroyed. Why! the little towns are nothing short of heroes. There’s only one solution, one remedy, one sedative. Regardless of all errors we may make, regardless of the quickly passing time, regardless of all political and industrial obstacles, we must gather together the men and material with which to carry the war into German territory. For just as British and American civilians are in a comparatively safe position, so are the civilians of hated Germany. And it is a regrettable fact that the temper of the people at home is the biggest influence on that of those at the front. United States has the resources — and for once we must tap them without mourning over the cost; seeing only the results that are to come.
Copey, there are so many things that seem queer and inexplicable — but it’s neither loyal or opportune to criticize! I only hope the men in whose hands the industries and preparations must lie realize that the lives of the men at the front are dependent directly upon them, that red tape and petty differences back home are identical to the stabs of the Hun bayonets and the burst of Hun shells to the man at the front — in the trenches, at the batteries, or in the air. Men with imagination realize that — here’s hoping those chaps who work and act solely by precedent are soon gotten rid of!
This old war is the most gigantic business proposition that ever came along. And obviously the more efficiently it’s run the less human sorrow will come from it; and greatly fewer will be the broken hearts. Coordination and cooperation — complete and to the fullest extent sincere and persistent — are what we need. Until we get that France will continue to see her towns crumpled to stark walls, men of the Allies will die in agony — and the Hun will ring damned “Austerglochen” in token of supposed victories. The Hun may have made some strategical and tactical gains, but he’s never won a victory, for victories don’t come until hearts and wills are broken and the last drop of blood has been drained. That he has never accomplished in any way. The French, soldier and peasant alike, are undaunted. The British are hurling the Huns back and dying in their tracks like the men they are — and thank God we’ve come at last, with all the ardor of youth and faith in the right of our cause to put our links into the chain that must never be broken.
I wish I know of much to write you — of the progress of the war, of our troops, or of many failures. But, unfortunately, as the French say, when you are in the country far from anyone save your brother officers “on ne sait pas grande chose de la guerre” [Translation: we do not know much about the war.] You’ve probably heard that Doug Campbell has gotten two Boches already. From every indication he’s going to be one of the best men we’ll ever have in that end of flying — just as he was one of the most genuine men who ever went through Cambridge. Harvard has its “sons” all over France — indeed six of us (officers in my squadron) have started a Harvard Club of O—-. You can imagine how greatly the village is honored when you consider that it has just about thirty closely packed stone shacks, and two rather common cafes — where you can buy very good champagne, and very poor beer.
Perhaps you know some of the men. First and foremost is Steve Noyes — (he’s an old-timer and prince of a chap) who is a pilot; a youngster named Hughes, of ’18; another comparatively old-timer named Hopkins; and Jocelyn of ’16, and myself. Billy Emerson, ’16, was the sixth — but I regret to tell you that last taps were sounded for him last week. We do not know whether the “antis” got him, or whether it was a Boche plane. He went out on a reéglage [Translation: setting] and was shot down in our lines. He was an honor to Harvard, a gentleman and a soldier, — the first of our little club to gain the one glorious epitaph.
Perhaps you’d like to hear of Major Lufbery’s funeral — you doubtless know that he was shot down, and fell from his burning plane into a courtyard. He had done a great deal in uniting the French and Americans, — he was the greatest of our airmen and seventh on the list of French aces, — he had all the qualities of a soldier, audacity, utter fearlessness, persistency, and tremendous skill, — in every way, sir, he was a valuable man.
As we marched to his internment the sun was just sinking behind the mountain that rises so abruptly in front of T—–; the sky was a faultless blue, and the air heavy with the scent of the blossoms of the trees in the surrounding fields. An American and French general led the procession, following close on to a band which played the funeral march and “Nearer, my God, to Thee” in so beautiful a way that I for one could hardly keep my eyes dry. The followed the officers of his squadron and of my own — and after us an assorted group of Frenchmen famous in the stories of this war. American officers of high rank, and two American companies of infantry, separated by a French one.
How slowly we seemed to march as we went to his grave, passing before crowds of American nurses in their clean white uniforms, and a throng of patients and French civilians! He was given a full military burial; with the salutes of the firing squad, and the two repetitions of taps, one answering the other from the west. General E—- made a brief address, one of the finest talks I have ever heard any man give — while throughout all the ceremony French and American planes circled the field. In all my life I have never heard taps blown so beautifully as on that afternoon — even some of the officers joined the women there in quietly dabbing at their eyes with white handkerchiefs. France and United States had truly assembled to pay a last tribute to one of their soldiers. My only prayer is that somehow through some means I can do as much as he for my country before I too wander west — if in that direction I am to travel.
As for myself, sir — I left the French front about six weeks ago and joined the First Aero — going with it to the so-called American front. Our sector is comparatively quiet, and life goes on as usual. My squadron is an observation one — we direct our artillery fire (and I’m glad to tell you that our artillery has knocked the stuffings out of several Bosch batteries); we work with the infantry, and photograph enemy positions. It’s useful work and quite interesting. Every man in the outfit is praying that the morrow will bring orders sending us up to the Somme for work in the new offensive which the Huns will doubtless begin in short order. But there’s no place on earth like the army for rumors and unexpected happenings — so in the meantime we’re doing our best here.
When important things begin to happen I shall write to you at once, and not feel then that perhaps my notes are not overly interesting — and if you don’t mind I would like to let my thoughts smear themselves on paper quite often — so please bear up under the threat of my intentions. Just now my lantern is warning me to blow her (or “him” as the English say) out so I reckon it’ll have to be a good night, sir — for this time. [End of letter transcription.]
On the day after that letter was written, on the very day that its envelope containing Culbert’s prophetic allusion to “traveling west,” was postmarked, he met the death awaiting an aviator. The words of his friend, Russell Fry, may best be used again, this time to relate the circumstances of Culbert’s death, and to suggest the impression stamped by his character upon those who knew it best:
“…About five o’clock on the afternoon of May 22, 1918, while flying over the lines near St. Mihel, the plane, apparently struck by a German anti-aircraft shell, became unmanageable and crashed just behind our lines, the pilot being killed instantaneously and Culbert rendered unconscious.”
“He was taken at once to the American hospital at Sebastopol Farm, just north of Toul, where he died at midnight without having regained consciousness. And there he was buried, his body being moved later to the American cemetery at Thiau-court.”
“His life had been spent in the great out-door world, leaving him as free from the affectations of conventionalized man as the great seas which shattered themselves against that Main island, his summer home. His was an essentially elemental character, — honest, upright, unafraid; quick to applaud another’s accomplishments, equally quick to condemn his shortcomings. And as his life was fearless, vigorous, unselfish, — so, too, was his death.”
The posthumous award of the Croix de Guerre mentioned in the earlier quotation from the 1917 Triennial Report was made, in a General Order of the Army, in the following terms:
“Jeune officier d’un grand coeur, animeé du plus sentiment du devoir, ayant fait preuve au cours de plusieurs reconnaissances sur l’ennemi de sang-froid, de courage, et de deécision. Blesseé mortellement le 22 Mai, 1918.” [Translation: Young officer of a big heart, animated by the most feeling of duty, having shown during several observations on the enemy of coolness, courage, and decision. Injured mortally on May 22, 1918.]
[Note: Extracted from: A Delicate Affair on the Western Front by Terry Finnegan. The following text was generously provided by the author, Oct 2015. This book is available from www.ipgbook.com Email: terryfinnegan at comcast.net]
A MARINE AVIATOR OVER SEICHEPREY
A few minutes after the DFW C.V and LVG C.V planes left the sector, a Spad XI from 1st Aero Squadron flew to Seicheprey via Montsec at 180 metres, gradually increasing altitude to arrive over Seicheprey at an altitude of 460 metres. It was a heroic effort. A telephone call was made from 1st Aero Squadron to the 51st Brigade Headquarters around 1815 after the Spad XI landed. The report was emphatic: “Visibility was excellent and he thinks he would certainly have seen the troops had any been there. There was no troop movement in rear of the German lines that he could see.” The aerial reconnaissance contradicted the previous reporting to General Traub. A third Spad XI flew at 1720 to investigate French ground observation reports that the Germans were regrouping near Richecourt and Lahayville. That afternoon, 1st Lieutenant Walter “Barney” V. Barneby, 1st Aero Squadron, and the newly arrived Marine aviator Lieutenant Kenneth P. Culbert, flew their only sortie that day over the German first and second lines at 550 metres. Barney Barneby was one of the most experienced pilots in the squadron. Culbert was one of the first Marine aviators to see combat in the First World War. He had graduated from Harvard the previous summer and had been a star of the rowing crew. After officer training, Culbert secured a transfer to the 1st Corps Aviation School at Gondrecourt and was commissioned a Student Naval Aviator on 26 November. Two months later, Culbert was assigned as an aerial observer to Escadrille Sop. 216 flying Sopwith 1A2s supporting 5e armée and 38e corps d’armée operating south of Reims. On 1 April he was transferred to 1st Aero Squadron and was considered by the senior officers in the squadron as being one of the most skillful and daring aerial observers.
The weather was miserable; a hailstorm battered their Spad XI. Lieutenant Barneby and Lieutenant Culbert flew three times over the area but did not confirm any concentration or movement of troops. The 40-minute sortie took them directly to Richecourt where they turned east towards Flirey and entered the airspace over the battlefield. Barneby and Culbert proceeded to give the Germans a dose of their own medicine, firing approximately 100 rounds into the 78. R. D. first- and second-line trenches. They reported twenty German trucks on the road to Thiaucourt. Their Spad XI flew low and the two aviators fired another 150 rounds at the vehicles. South-east of Essey a battery (9867) was seen firing. Between them 1st Aero Squadron and escadrille Sal. 122 conducted avion réglage against seven batteries that afternoon. Both aviators were awarded the Croix de Guerre for operating under heavy fire and in adverse weather conditions.
Lieutenant Culbert’s valour as an aviator continued. On 15 May 1918, while on a mission to photograph enemy Gaswerfer, Culbert secured aerial photographs when his pilot descended to 500 metres over the enemy second-line trenches under heavy anti-aircraft and machine-gun fire. Although their plane was severely damaged, they completed their mission and returned with the photographs. The crew both received the Silver Star citation.
On the evening of May 22, 1918, while flying near St Mihiel Lieutenants Barneby and Culbert were hit by an anti-aircraft shell and crashed behind American lines. Barneby was killed instantly and Culbert died later that night.
