Cher Ami received her assignment from Major Charles Whittlesey, an Army commander in charge of 550 men trapped behind German lines. It was October 1918, and the days-long bombardment of bullets and rain had left the troops without supplies and low on ammunition. They were cut off from reinforcements who could help them escape, and now they were taking on friendly fire from French forces who believed they were targeting a German squadron. The growing hopelessness among the men had become almost palpable. As Major Whittlesey tried to keep up morale, he kept repeating the phrase, “Everything is practically ok.” Few, however, really believed him.
Cher had received specialized training in the Army Signal Corps. But she didn’t know if that would be enough. Others before her had been well-trained, too, and every one had been killed without completing the mission. When Whittlesey pulled Cher aside, he whispered, “You’re the only one left.” His voice was hoarse but unwavering. “I am confident you have the skills we need,” he said. “Your instruction will guide you.”
Cher was to transport a message to the front lines. Each word had been pounded out on keys of a small Corona typing machine used only for official communications. The rice-paper note was now curled into a small protective tube, which Cher held tightly against her body. She would head toward the gunfire, deep into the pocket of men who could save the trapped battalion.
Major Whittlesey held the door. Cher hesitated. Her body pulsated with adrenaline, and she started when Whittlesey stamped his foot in frustration. Then without a backward glance, she flew out the door into the night. “May God keep you safe,” the major called, his voice disappearing into the sounds of war that now filled Cher’s ears.
A deafening noise of aircraft overhead mixed with shouted orders from the field and cries of wounded men. Cher heard the whistle of shells sailing by and the rapid-fire of machine guns in the distance. A heated battle was waging. She pushed her way forward through fallen men and gunfire, and only 10 minutes into the journey, Cher took a hit to the chest. The bullet tore through skin and bone, and she fell to the ground stunned and bleeding, pain resonating throughout her body.
Still alive and surprised she was able to move, Cher felt an odd, instinctive pull toward the front. As the major’s words echoed in her ears, she managed to claw her way up from the dirt. She had to continue. She mustn’t give up.
Cher spent another 15 minutes slowly advancing before gun fire struck again. This time a bullet slashed her right leg. She shrieked in pain, her agonizing cries echoing across the terrain. But there was no one nearby to attend to her wounds. Cher’s calls had the opposite effect. They helped the men with guns pinpoint her position.
Cher’s movements were sloppy. Both the ache in her chest and the throbbing of her mangled leg slowed progress the point where she almost thought she was standing still. Her body felt heavy and weak. Yet, Cher still kept moving. Her breath came more quickly. All feeling was fast disappearing, and she feared she would either drop the message cylinder or collapse without energy to continue. Five minutes more, however, and Cher spotted the front line.
With her destination in sight, Cher felt renewed drive. She leaned into the wind and rain and reached the edge of battleground. It was then that Cher took a final hit. The shrapnel slammed into her cheek and blinded her right eye just as she passed through a gateway signaling her arrival at the loft. There, she immediately collapsed, unable to utter a sound.
When Corporal George Gault found Cher’s broken body he knew why she’d arrived. Although barely alive and covered in blood, she still held onto the message. The cylinder in which it was stored hung limply from a string tied tightly to her body. Cher had succeeded in her mission, and the message delivered brought relief to 194 men in the Lost Battalion. This was the Battle of the Argonne during the last days of World War I.
Surprisingly, Cher did survive. She lost her right leg and was blinded in one eye, but she recovered from her wounds and was later awarded the French Croix de Guerre with palm for her acts of war-time heroism.
And that was the last day the Columba livia domestica had such high status and honor. What contributed to the social decline of the hardworking pigeon? I lie awake at night and wonder. Sometimes I think I hear the flutter of a bird in flight, but then I realize we humans have taken drastic measures to prevent these “rats with wings” from roosting, mating, socializing, flying, and/or perching anywhere near our living areas.
The story of Cher Ami couldn't be real. Or could it?
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