74 Sqn, which left at 09:30. 2/Lt. Rea Isaiah HAGENBUCH, was taken prisoner.WWI ( Rancher-Cattleman , gold miner, WWI pilot-POW)

No. 74 Squadron: From Training Fields to the Tiger Squadron’s Legend The story of No. 74 Squadron is one of rapid transformation, exceptional leadership, and an almost unparalleled combat record achieved in a remarkably short span of time. First formed on 1 July 1917—108 years ago—at RAF Northolt as No. 74 (Training Depot) Squadron of the Royal Flying Corps, the unit began its existence far from the thunder and smoke of aerial combat. Its early purpose was practical and unglamorous: to train pilots and prepare them for the demands of modern air warfare in a conflict that was already redefining the nature of battle itself. Only nine days after its formation, the squadron relocated to London Colney, where it continued its role as a training unit. Like many RFC squadrons in this period, No. 74 flew a variety of aircraft, most notably the Avro 504K. The 504K was a stable, forgiving aircraft—ideal for instruction—but it bore little resemblance to the fast, lethal fighters that dominated the skies over the Western Front. Yet this phase was crucial. It forged discipline, technical competence, and cohesion among the pilots and ground crews who would soon be tested under the harshest conditions imaginable. By early 1918, the strategic situation demanded more fighter squadrons at the front. In February of that year, the arrival of Major Edward “Mick” Mannock as senior flight commander marked a decisive turning point in the squadron’s history. Mannock was already one of the RFC’s most formidable tacticians and leaders, known not only for his growing tally of aerial victories but for his insistence on discipline, teamwork, and survival-minded combat doctrine. Under his influence, No. 74 transitioned from a training unit into a front-line fighter squadron, officially becoming No. 74 (Fighter) Squadron. On 20 March 1918, the squadron received its first operational fighters: the Royal Aircraft Factory S.E.5a. This aircraft was among the finest Allied fighters of the war—fast, stable, heavily armed, and well-suited to Mannock’s aggressive yet calculated style of air combat. Just ten days later, on 30 March, No. 74 Squadron crossed the Channel and reported to RFC headquarters at Saint-Omer, France, placing itself directly into the crucible of the air war over the Western Front. The squadron’s baptism of fire came swiftly. On 12 April 1918, No. 74 engaged German aircraft near Merville in its first recorded combat. It was here that Mannock scored what became known as “the Tigers’ first kill,” shooting down an Albatros scout of the German Luftstreitkräfte. This moment was more than symbolic. It announced the arrival of a squadron that would soon become feared by its opponents and admired by its peers. What followed was nothing short of extraordinary. Within just 70 days of arriving in France, No. 74 Squadron claimed 100 enemy aircraft destroyed while suffering only a single loss. This staggering kill-to-loss ratio was virtually unheard of, even among elite fighter units. It reflected not luck, but rigorous training, disciplined tactics, superior aircraft, and above all, inspired leadership. Mannock emphasized altitude advantage, surprise, mutual support, and ruthless efficiency—principles that saved lives while maximizing combat effectiveness. During its seven months of wartime service, from April 1918 until February 1919, No. 74 Squadron amassed an official total of 225 aerial victories: 140 enemy aircraft destroyed and 85 driven down out of control. These numbers alone place the squadron among the most successful fighter units of the First World War. Yet statistics tell only part of the story. The human legacy of No. 74 Squadron is equally remarkable. Seventeen aces served within its ranks, a concentration of talent that reads like a roll call of early air combat legends. Among them were Victoria Cross recipient Major Edward “Mick” Mannock himself, Ira “Taffy” Jones, Benjamin Roxburgh-Smith, and future Air Commodore Keith Caldwell. Others included Andrew Kiddie, Frederick Stanley Gordon, Sydney Carlin, Frederick Hunt, Clive Glynn, George Hicks, Wilfred Ernest Young, Henry Dolan, Harris Clements, George Gauld, and Frederick Luff. Each brought individual skill and courage, yet it was their collective effectiveness as a fighting unit that defined the squadron’s identity. In February 1919, with the war over and the Royal Air Force newly formed, No. 74 Squadron returned to Britain, arriving at RAF Lopcombe Corner in Hampshire. On 3 July 1919, the squadron was disbanded, its wartime role complete. Though its initial incarnation was brief, its impact was enduring. The legacy of No. 74 Squadron is not merely one of aerial victories, but of transformation—how a training depot unit became, in a matter of months, one of the most lethal and respected fighter squadrons of the Great War. It stands as a testament to the power of leadership, discipline, and tactical innovation at a moment in history when air combat was still being invented in real time. More than a century later, the story of No. 74 Squadron remains a defining chapter in the heritage of military aviation. Rea Hagenbuch: A Life of Motion, Responsibility, and Reinvention The life of Rea Hagenbuch does not unfold as a straight line but as a series of departures—geographical, social, and emotional. His story is not one of inherited stability or predictable success, but of adaptation: a man repeatedly forced to rebuild himself in response to family circumstance, financial collapse, personal failure, and war. Through education, labor, love, and aviation, Hagenbuch continually sought forward motion, as if movement itself were both refuge and redemption. Origins and Early Family Context Rea Hagenbuch entered the world under complicated circumstances. It appears he was conceived before his parents were married, a social reality that carried far greater weight in the late nineteenth century than it would today. He also had three older half-brothers, placing him in a blended family structure that may have shaped both his independence and his drive to define himself outside inherited identity. His father was a man of evident integrity but tragic misfortune. After making a poor stock investment—and, crucially, recommending it to friends—he chose to repay their losses out of his own pocket when the investment collapsed. This act of moral responsibility ruined him financially. The lesson was severe and unmistakable: honor mattered, but it came at a cost. Rea grew up watching the consequences of doing the “right” thing in an unforgiving economic world, an experience that likely influenced his later willingness to shoulder responsibility even when it demanded personal sacrifice. Education, Athletics, and Expulsion Hagenbuch attended the Lawrenceville School in New Jersey, one of the most demanding preparatory schools of the era, before entering Princeton University as part of the Class of 1909. Though small in stature—just 5’4”—he distinguished himself athletically, becoming captain of the basketball team. This detail alone speaks volumes: leadership, determination, and the respect of peers earned through effort rather than physical advantage. Yet his Princeton years ended abruptly. Evidence suggests that he never formally graduated, having been expelled for participation in a beer bust. In the moral climate of the early twentieth century, such an infraction carried heavy consequences. The expulsion likely closed doors and severed him from the social network Princeton graduates relied upon. It also marked the beginning of a recurring pattern in his life: abrupt endings followed by radical reinvention. Despite this, Hagenbuch was not uneducated or unskilled. He held a teaching credential and worked as a surveyor, practical professions requiring discipline, mathematics, and trustworthiness. These were not the pursuits of a drifter but of a man capable of responsibility, even if he struggled with institutional authority. Alaska and the Call of the Frontier After leaving Princeton, Hagenbuch headed west to Alaska, where he worked surveying one of the railroads during a period of rapid expansion and harsh conditions. Alaska offered anonymity, physical challenge, and opportunity—qualities that seem to have drawn him repeatedly throughout his life. Surveying in Alaska required endurance, precision, and independence, reinforcing his identity as a capable man far from the expectations of Eastern society. By 1910, Hagenbuch was in Seattle, where fortune again turned against him. He was robbed of all his money, an experience that would have stranded many men. Instead, he consulted the local newspaper, found a teaching position in northeastern Nevada, and accepted it because the job would pay his rail fare. This moment reveals both resourcefulness and humility: Hagenbuch was willing to return to teaching not as ambition, but as survival. Nevada: Teaching, Ranching, and Family Loss While teaching in Nevada, Hagenbuch began to purchase small ranches and cattle, gradually building an agricultural livelihood. This was not speculation but steady, practical investment—perhaps informed by the financial catastrophe he witnessed in his youth. Around 1916, he married a local woman and fathered a daughter. The marriage ended in divorce, and the child was given up for adoption, a heartbreaking outcome that must be understood within the social and economic realities of the time. Divorce carried stigma, and single parenthood—especially for women—was often untenable. For Hagenbuch, this episode appears to have marked a deep personal rupture. Aviation and Escape into War In 1917, Hagenbuch decided to become a pilot, a choice that likely reflected both idealism and escape. Aviation offered danger, purpose, and distance from unresolved personal pain. You have already documented his training in detail; what matters here is the psychological shift: Hagenbuch moved from land—surveying, ranching—to the air, embracing one of the most dangerous professions of the era. During training, he crashed and injured his foot, and while recuperating in Devon, England, he met Winifred Jones, the woman who would become your grandmother. The love letters he wrote during their courtship provide a rare emotional counterpoint to his otherwise pragmatic life. They reveal tenderness, hope, and a longing for permanence after years of instability. Combat with 74 Squadron Hagenbuch was assigned to No. 74 Squadron of the Royal Flying Corps, flying SE5a fighters, among the most respected aircraft of the war. His time in combat was brief, and he was never credited with an aerial victory—a fact that should not be mistaken for insignificance. Many pilots flew, fought, and died without confirmed kills. In October 1918, while attempting to attack a German observation balloon, Hagenbuch flew too low and was hit by ground fire. His aircraft was disabled, and he was captured. Balloon attacks were among the most dangerous missions in the air war, heavily defended by anti-aircraft guns and fighters. His willingness to attempt such an attack reflects courage rather than recklessness. Release, Marriage, and Final Reinvention In November 1918, Hagenbuch was released and returned to Winifred Jones, offering marriage. Her father responded with skepticism, instructing him to return to America, settle his affairs, and then come back—likely assuming he would never return. But Hagenbuch did. Unable to secure passage due to wartime conditions, he worked as a coal stoker aboard a ship to earn his way back to England. This act encapsulates his character: when blocked by circumstance, he accepted physical labor without complaint to reach his goal. He married Winifred Jones, brought her back to America, and settled into ranch life, where they raised two daughters and cattle. After years of motion, risk, and upheaval, Hagenbuch chose stability—not inherited, but earned. Conclusion Rea Hagenbuch’s life defies simple classification. He was not a celebrated ace, nor a flawless academic, nor a consistently fortunate man. Instead, he was resilient, adaptive, and deeply human. His story reflects the experience of many men of his generation—caught between old social structures and a rapidly changing world, forced repeatedly to start over. In the end, his greatest legacy was not in the air, but on the land: a family built after failure, a life rebuilt after war, and a character shaped by responsibility rather than acclaim.

29 November , 2023 From my 100 years ago today threads on the other Forum: 11 Killed in Action/Died of Wounds: 21-Apr-1918 - Lieut Sydney Claude Hamilton Begbie (Pow; dow 22-Apr-18) - S.E.5a D281 - last seen at 13,000 feet near Armentières going down in flames on patrol 08-May-1918 - Lieut Ronald Ernest Bright (Kia) - S.E.5a B8373 - last seen in dogfight with 10 E.A. east of Zillebeke on patrol; Vzfw Erich Buder, Jasta 26, 2nd victory [west of Becelaere at 08:37/09:37] ? 08-May-1918 - Lieut Philip James Stuart-Smith (Kia) - S.E.5a C1078 - last seen in dogfight with 10 E.A. east of Zillebeke on patrol; Vzfw Fritz Classen, Jasta 26, 3rd victory [Zillebeker See at 08:40/09:40] ? 12-May-1918 - Lieut Henry Eric Dolan (Kia) - S.E.5a B7733 - last seen 4 miles east of Dickebusch Lake fighting on OP; an S.E.5 seen to crash near Wulverghem; Ltn Raven Frhr von Barnekow, Jasta 20, 1st victory [Dickebusch at 18:10/19:10] 17-May-1918 - Lieut Leigh Morphew Nixon (Kia) - S.E.5a C6404 - last seen over Estaires on patrol; an S.E.5 was seen to go down in flames over La Gorgue 5 minutes later; Gefr Marat Schumm, Jasta 52, 3rd victory [Le Parc at 09:45/10:45] ? 17-May-1918 - 2nd Lieut Lambert Francis Barton (Kia) - S.E.5a C1854 - hit by A.A. and crashed in flames at Sheet 36a.Q.26.c [Riez-du Vinage] on patrol 01-Jun-1918 - Capt William Jameson Cairns MC (Kia) - S.E.5a C6443 - last seen in dogfight north-east of Estaires on patrol; Ltn d R Paul Billik, Jasta 52, 19th victory [east of Merville at 16:40/17:40] 09-Jul-1918 - Lieut Andrew John Battel (Kia) - S.E.5a C1950 - last seen engaged with E.A. over Neuve Eglise on OP; Ltn Joachim von Busse, Jasta 20, 5th victory [south-west of Dickebusch at 09:25/10:25] 12-Jul-1918 - Lieut Frederick James Church (Kia) - S.E.5a D6908 - last seen over Warneton on patrol; Ltn Joachim von Busse, Jasta 20, 6th victory [north of Bailleul at 08:55/09:55] 01-Oct-1918 - Lieut Albert Montague Sanderson (Kia) - S.E.5a F5464 - missing on patrol; Ltn d R Carl Degelow, Jasta 40, 20th victory [Menin, no time] ? 05-Oct-1918 - Lieut Frank Edgar Bond (Pow) - S.E.5a D6922 - last seen 3 miles south-east of Roulers on patrol 7 Prisoners of War: 12-Jun-1918 - 2nd Lieut George Frederick Thompson (Pow) - S.E.5a C6497 - last seen at 15,000 feet in spin north-west of Armentières on OP 15-Jul-1918 - 2nd Lieut Robert Hector Gray (Pow) - S.E.5a D6910 - last seen over Roulers in combat on patrol 19-Jul-1918 - Lieut Alexander M Roberts (Pow) - S.E.5a E5948 - last seen over Menin on patrol; Ltn d R Josef Carl Peter Jacobs, Jasta 7, 24th victory [Moorslede at 08:30/09:30] ? 21-Sep-1918 - Capt Sydney Carlin (Pow) - S.E.5a D6958 - last seen west of Lille in combat on patrol; Uffz Siegfried Westphal, Jasta 29, 2nd victory [east of La Bassée at 18:45/18:45] ? 01-Oct-1918 - 2nd Lieut Rea Isaiah Hagenbuch (Pow) - S.E.5a E1272 - missing on OP 09-Oct-1918 - Lieut William Edward Bardgett (Pow) - S.E.5a D6976 - missing on patrol 26-Oct-1918 - 2nd Lieut Murdo Maclean (Pow) - S.E.5a E3942 - last seen 1,500 feet in combat over Cordes at 13:45/14:45 on OP 3 Killed in accidents: 08-May-1918 - Lieut Charles Edwin Lloyd Skedden (Killed) - S.E.5a C6445 - broke up at 1,000 feet and burst into flames on hitting ground during patrol 25-May-1918 - 2nd Lieut Henry Eyre O'Hara (Killed) - S.E.5a C6483 - stalled on turn downwind and spun into ground catching fire during practice 07-Jun-1918 - 2nd Lieut Frederick Leslie Cuff Link (Killed) - S.E.5a C6491 - stalled at 100 feet and crashed on line patrol Graeme TED HARWOOD WROTE "I recently found this letter to my great-grandmother in The Morning Press, Bloomsburg, Pennsylvania · Friday, November 01, 1918 Dear Mrs. Hagenbuch: Before this letter reaches you, you will no doubt have had official information to the effect that your son Lieut. R. I. Hagenbuch, late with this squadron, is missing from patrol since Oct. 1st. He was last seen diving down at a hostile kite balloon, which he had orders to attack, and he was then lost to sight, being close to the ground. No news has come through yet of him, and all we can do is to wait and hope that he has landed safely in the German lines. We feel his loss very much indeed, as he was just the type of fighting pilot we need so badly. His great friend Lieut. Garver is writing to you also. Directly definite news comes to hand, I will inform you immediately. His belongings are being packed up and will be sent off tomorrow. I am, Yours sincerely, K. L. CALDWELL. Major. tvharwood is offline " "The more information that I get, the more confused I become. Here is what I have pieced together so far. The orders regarding Turnberry conflict with the other dates. 23 August 1918 Special Orders No. 155. Relieved of duty at Up Avon and will proceed to Turnberry, School of Aerial Gunnery 24 August 1918 Embarked (Casualty Form) 25 August 1918 Letter to Winnie, Waiting to move in the general direction of Fritzland in 1 hour. 25 August 1918 Stationed at No. 1 A.S.D. Pool Pilots Range (Lumbres) 29 August 1918 Special Orders No.161. Relieved of duty at Turnberry. Proceed via London to Boulogne, France. Report to Commanding Officer R.A.F. for Assignment to duty in connection with Aviation. 01 September 1918 Posted to 74 Squadron (Casualty Form) 02 September 1918 Shorty arrived at 74 Squadron (Garver Diary)"

Fragments of a Squadron: Memory, Friendship, and the Rediscovery of 74 Squadron History often survives not through official reports or victory tallies, but through fragments—letters folded into drawers, names half-remembered, and journals written in moments of fatigue or fear. The story of my grandfather, Rea Hagenbuch, his close friend John Garver, and their time together in No. 74 Squadron of the Royal Flying Corps is one such fragmentary history, pieced together across generations. What makes it powerful is not only the danger they faced in the air, but the human continuity that endured long after the guns fell silent. Rea Hagenbuch joined 74 Squadron on September 2, at a moment when the squadron was already becoming legendary. Known as the “Tiger Squadron,” 74 was composed of skilled and aggressive pilots, many of them Americans flying under British command before the U.S. Air Service was fully operational at the front. These men were young, highly trained, and keenly aware that survival was never guaranteed. Hagenbuch’s time with the squadron would be brief but intense: less than a month later, on October 1, he was shot down and captured, abruptly ending his combat career. But to understand those weeks in France, one must begin much earlier—at the Ohio State School of Aeronautics. Training, Brotherhood, and the Making of Airmen Hagenbuch and John Garver trained together from the very beginning. Like many American volunteers, they entered aviation not with romantic illusions, but with determination sharpened by discipline. The Ohio State School of Aeronautics was a crucible—physically demanding, intellectually taxing, and psychologically sobering. It forged pilots not only through flight training but through shared endurance. In that environment, friendships were not casual; they were functional, emotional, and often lifesaving. Garver and Hagenbuch were together through training, deployment, and the early days of squadron life, forming a bond that extended well beyond professional association. When they reached 74 Squadron in late August and early September, they entered a world of constant readiness. Patrols were flown daily. Losses were frequent. Aircraft were unreliable, weather unpredictable, and the enemy highly skilled. The war in the air was still evolving, and pilots learned quickly—or they did not live long. Garver’s diary, covering August 28 through October 27, captures this period from within, offering a rare contemporaneous record of squadron life. Unlike postwar memoirs, diaries written in real time lack polish but gain authenticity. They reveal what mattered day to day: fatigue, weather, tension before patrols, frustration with equipment, and the quiet reckoning with mortality that followed every mission. September 1918: The Air War Intensifies By September, the war had entered its final and most violent phase. Allied forces were advancing on multiple fronts, and the air war intensified accordingly. For 74 Squadron, this meant relentless operational tempo. Patrols over the lines were dangerous not only because of German fighters, but because of ground fire and mechanical failure. A single hit to an engine or fuel line could mean death—or capture. On October 1, Hagenbuch’s luck ran out. He was shot down and captured, a fate shared by many pilots who survived aerial combat only to face imprisonment. Capture removed him from the immediate dangers of the front but imposed its own hardships: uncertainty, separation, and the long psychological toll of confinement. His story from that point forward followed a different trajectory from Garver’s, one shaped by endurance rather than action. Garver, meanwhile, remained with the squadron until late October, before being transferred to an American unit. His diary continues through this transition, offering a closing window into 74 Squadron at a time when many of its original members were gone—killed, wounded, or reassigned. The diary becomes not just a personal document, but a quiet obituary for a particular moment in the war. A Diary Lost, Found, and Returned to History For decades, Garver’s diary existed only as rumor and partial quotation. An old newspaper article, discovered years later, preserved a few excerpts—just enough to suggest that something far more substantial once existed. That article became a thread, and following it required patience, persistence, and faith in the value of ordinary history. After nearly a year of searching, Garver’s grandson was finally located. Even then, the diary did not surface immediately. Two more years passed before a scanned copy was shared. That delay is itself part of the story. Historical artifacts often survive not because they are valued, but because they are forgotten and spared destruction. When they reemerge, they demand interpretation, context, and care. The diary’s survival transforms Hagenbuch’s story as well. Where official records might list dates and outcomes, Garver’s writing restores texture—daily life, emotional undercurrents, and the shared experience of men who did not yet know whether they would survive the week. Through Garver’s eyes, Hagenbuch reenters the historical record not as a statistic, but as a presence. War, Return, and the Continuity of Life Garver went home in early December, his war effectively over. Hagenbuch, after capture and release, returned later—and stayed for another month or so, not for military reasons, but for something profoundly human: to win over the woman who would become his wife. That detail reframes everything that came before it. The story does not end with combat or capture; it ends with courtship, persistence, and continuity. This is perhaps the most important lesson embedded in the diary and in the rediscovery of it. War interrupts lives, but it does not define them entirely. The same man who flew combat patrols over France and survived being shot down later chose patience, affection, and commitment. The same generation that learned to live with loss also learned how to build families and futures. Conclusion: Why These Stories Matter The story of Rea Hagenbuch, John Garver, and 74 Squadron survives today because someone cared enough to ask, to search, and to wait. Garver’s diary bridges the gap between official history and lived experience, between squadron legend and individual memory. It reminds us that history is not only written by commanders and chroniclers, but by young men scribbling thoughts at the end of exhausting days. In preserving and revisiting these fragments, we do more than honor the past—we restore its humanity. And in doing so, we ensure that the lives behind the uniforms are not lost to time, but continue to speak, quietly and truthfully, across generations.

TIGERS OF THE SKY: They feared neither foe nor death— Not the rattle of guns above the mud of France, Nor the black, blooming thunder of flak Clawing at silver wings over Europe. From the first dawn of 1918 To victory’s hard-won light in forty-five, The Tiger flew. Born in canvas and wire, Above trenches stitched with grief, They met the enemy eye to eye in the cold blue air, Engines screaming courage, Machine guns hammering resolve. Young men, scarcely more than boys, Climbed into fragile machines And rose— Not for glory, not for myth, But because the sky demanded guardians. Through years that darkened the world again, They returned— Now in faster wings, heavier storms, Where flak turned daylight into iron rain And the heavens themselves seemed hostile. Still, the Tiger pressed on, Carving paths through enemy clouds, A quiet terror to those who believed themselves supreme. No marble gods are made here. No false halos fixed upon their brows. They wore humility like a second skin, Letting deeds speak in the language of action— A turning fight won, A comrade covered, A mission flown when fear was loudest. This is not legend, but record. Not boast, but truth. Gallantry without trumpet, Courage without flourish. A squadron that answered arrogance with fact, And tyranny with unyielding skill. So let the pages endure, Let the propellers echo in memory’s sky. For in the annals of aviation, Where daring is measured in heartbeats and fire, The Tiger Squadron still flies— Untamed, undefeated, Forever fearless. This is the story of the greatest squadron— So the record shows. That I stood among them Is merely chance, Luck written in posting orders In March of nineteen-eighteen. I joined when the air itself was burning, When wings were canvas and hope was thin, And young men climbed into the sky Knowing full well It might not give them back. Outnumbered. Outgunned. Yet never bent. The trenches of France lay stitched with smoke below us, And above— The hard blue truth of combat. There, the Royal Flying Corps learned its trade: Attack first. Climb higher. Never yield the sky. And when the war ended, It ended because we owned the air. Years later the darkness came again, Heavier, louder, crueler. The sons took their fathers’ place, Hurricanes and Spitfires snarling into flak, While the Tiger led once more— At Britain’s throat, At history’s hinge. When Göring’s boast collapsed into wreckage And invasion drowned in the Channel wind, It was the Tigers at the front, Unimpressed by empire or destiny. Mannock—fire-eyed, relentless, Fell with the sun at his back. Malan—steady hands, cold judgment, Held the line when the world was watching. Aces, yes— But never gods. And for every name remembered, A thousand more flew on, Unknown, uncelebrated, Doing the work. I flew them all— From the gentle Pup to the furious Spitfire. Fought dogfights until memory blurred. Prayed before every takeoff, Feared the air even as I mastered it, And learned— Courage is not the absence of fear, But flying anyway. I crashed twenty-nine times. Survived angry crowds, frozen wastelands, Carrier decks and faulty chutes, And skies where a forced landing meant death. Yet none of that matters. This is not my story. This belongs to the fighters Who built a tradition in fire and humility, Who let their deeds speak plainly, And walked away from victory Without asking for praise. If one young mechanic, One fledgling erk, Looks up at the sky and feels that call— To serve, to dare, to endure— Then these words have done their job. For the Tiger still flies, Not in metal alone, But in spirit— Fearless, faithful, Forever owning the sky No. 74 (Tiger) Squadron and the Ascendancy of Air Power in the First World War Introduction The history of No. 74 (Tiger) Squadron occupies a distinguished place in the development of British air power. Formed in March 1918, during the climactic phase of the First World War, the squadron emerged at a moment when air combat had evolved from experimental reconnaissance into a decisive arm of modern warfare. While individual memoirs and personal accounts inevitably intertwine with the squadron’s narrative, the true subject is institutional: the forging of doctrine, the cultivation of offensive spirit, and the professional ethos that enabled the Royal Flying Corps (RFC), and later the Royal Air Force (RAF), to achieve air superiority against formidable odds. The performance of No. 74 Squadron in 1918 exemplifies the maturation of air combat and the emergence of the fighter squadron as a decisive operational instrument. Origins of British Military Aviation The Royal Flying Corps was established on 13 May 1912, with a strength of seven aircraft and a handful of qualified pilots. Initially divided into Military and Naval Wings, the RFC faced deep institutional skepticism. Senior commanders, shaped by cavalry and naval traditions, largely dismissed the aeroplane as an unreliable novelty. Only a minority—most notably Lord Fisher—perceived its future strategic value. When war broke out in August 1914, British aircraft were designed primarily for reconnaissance. Combat was considered secondary, if not incidental. Aircraft were slow, lightly constructed of wood and fabric, and poorly armed. Crews carried revolvers, rifles, improvised bombs, steel darts, and grenades; the RFC possessed only a single Lewis gun at the outset, which had to be unofficially transported to France. Pre-war assumptions even favored slow aircraft, under the belief that observers needed time to write reports while airborne—an idea soon rendered absurd by combat realities. Despite these limitations, the RFC distinguished itself early. Reconnaissance flights over Belgium and northern France provided intelligence that proved decisive during the retreat from Mons and the Battle of the Marne. Reports from air observers revealed General von Kluck’s wheeling movement southeast of Paris, enabling General Joffre to launch the counteroffensive that altered the course of the war. Sir John French and General Joffre alike praised the precision, endurance, and courage of British airmen, who operated under fire from both enemy forces and, initially, their own troops. The Emergence of Offensive Air Doctrine The early months of the war demonstrated a fundamental truth: air superiority was essential to effective cooperation with ground forces. This realization drove a rapid transformation in aircraft design, armament, and tactics. Speed, climb rate, and firepower became paramount. A frantic competition between Allied and German designers followed, producing increasingly capable fighters. Equally important was the development of an offensive doctrine. British airmen adopted the principle that enemy aircraft must be attacked immediately and aggressively. Even when unarmed, pilots improvised tactics—charging directly at enemy machines to force them down or drive them away. This aggressive ethos became institutionalized within the RFC and later the RAF, forming the foundation of British fighter doctrine. By 1916–1917, air combat had become a distinct and lethal form of warfare. Casualties mounted, but morale among British pilots and observers remained resilient. Unlike their adversaries, British airmen displayed a consistent willingness to sustain losses in pursuit of mission objectives. This offensive spirit would reach its fullest expression in the final year of the war. Formation and Role of No. 74 (Tiger) Squadron No. 74 Squadron was formed in March 1918, when the air war had reached unprecedented intensity. Germany’s Spring Offensives placed enormous pressure on Allied forces, making air superiority critical to halting enemy advances and supporting ground operations. The squadron was equipped with modern single-seat fighters and tasked with offensive patrols, interception, and the destruction of enemy aircraft. Tiger Squadron rapidly distinguished itself through aggressive tactics, disciplined formations, and exceptional leadership. Operating in an environment where numerical superiority often favored the enemy, the squadron embraced the established RFC doctrine of relentless attack. Its pilots engaged the enemy repeatedly, denying German airmen freedom of action at a critical stage of the war. The squadron’s operational success contributed materially to the erosion of German air power during 1918. By contesting airspace aggressively and continuously, No. 74 Squadron helped secure the aerial conditions necessary for Allied ground offensives. In this sense, its role extended beyond individual victories to the broader operational objective of air mastery. Leadership, Aces, and Squadron Ethos While No. 74 Squadron produced some of the most formidable fighter pilots of the war—notably Captain Edward “Mick” Mannock, VC, DSO and two Bars, MC and Bar—its effectiveness cannot be explained by individual brilliance alone. Mannock’s tactical insight, emphasis on teamwork, and insistence on disciplined aggression exemplified the professional standards that defined the squadron. Crucially, Tiger Squadron avoided the cult of personality that sometimes surrounded fighter aces. Victories were understood as collective achievements, rooted in training, doctrine, and mutual support. This ethos fostered resilience and continuity, ensuring that the squadron’s effectiveness did not depend solely on any single individual. Continuity into the Royal Air Force and the Second World War The creation of the Royal Air Force on 1 April 1918 institutionalized the lessons learned by the RFC. No. 74 Squadron became part of this new service and carried forward its traditions into the interwar period and the Second World War. The continuity of ethos—from Mannock in 1918 to Group Captain Adolph “Sailor” Malan during the Battle of Britain—illustrates the enduring influence of First World War experience on RAF fighter doctrine. During the Battle of Britain, Tiger Squadron once again played a leading role. Operating Hurricanes and Spitfires, it contributed to the defeat of the Luftwaffe’s daylight offensive and the collapse of German invasion plans. The offensive spirit forged over the trenches of France proved equally decisive over southern England in 1940. Conclusion No. 74 (Tiger) Squadron stands as a representative example of the transformation of air warfare during the First World War. From improvised beginnings marked by inadequate equipment and uncertain doctrine, the RFC developed a professional, offensive air arm capable of achieving air superiority under the most demanding conditions. Tiger Squadron, formed at the height of the conflict, embodied this transformation. Its legacy lies not merely in victory counts or celebrated aces, but in the establishment and preservation of a fighting ethos—aggressive, disciplined, and resolute—that shaped the Royal Air Force across two world wars. In this sense, the story of No. 74 Squadron is not simply a personal reminiscence or a regimental history, but a case study in the institutional maturation of air power. If it continues to inspire future generations of airmen to uphold these traditions, it will have fulfilled its enduring purpose. The Rock House Road When we were kids, the road to Elko felt longer than it really was, stretching across the old West like a promise that refused to hurry. The desert rolled out on either side of the highway—sagebrush seas, sunburned rock, and scattered cattle moving like dark commas across the land. Somewhere out there, just beneath the surface, lay ancient jasper arrowheads, chipped and shaped by hands long gone, flashing red and gold when the sun struck them right. The land remembered everything. My father drove our 1960s Ford station wagon—faded paint covered with tan dust, the smell of vinyl seats, of dust and gasoline from a souped up Ford 428-cubic -inch cid V8 top-tier "big bloch" engine swirling like a ghost down a two rut dirt wagon road with a sage brush center. The windows were always down. We sang folk songs from the sixties, our voices drifting out into the wind—songs about freedom, roads, and places we’d never been but somehow missed already. The highways and byways of the West passed beneath us, mile by mile, like chapters turning. My grandfather belonged to that country. He was a dusty-boot cowboy on the Snake river plain, a man shaped by hard ground and open sky. When we finally reached the Rock House—the Hagenbuch Ranch—it felt like arriving somewhere holy. Heaven, if it existed, probably looked like that: high desert light, weathered stone, wide silence broken only by wind and cattle. Grandma and Grandpa Hagenbuch had run cattle there for decades. The Native Americans and the Basque sheepherders were friends, neighbors in the only way neighbors could be in a place where the nearest soul might be a day’s ride away. Distance didn’t weaken community out there—it defined it. In the evenings, when the sun dropped low and the desert cooled, my grandmother would tell stories. She spoke of my grandfather the way the land spoke of storms—matter-of-fact, but with respect. One story always held the room still. He had been a pilot in the Great War. An SE5 combat pilot with the world-famous 74 Squadron—the Tigers of Great Britain. High above the scarred earth of Europe, he hunted enemy observation balloons, floating fortresses tethered to death. One day, as he came in on a barrage balloon, fire found him first. His aircraft was hit. When it fell, it struck so hard that the engine of the SE5 buried itself deep into the battle-torn soil, as if the earth itself meant to keep it. He survived—but barely. Injured, captured, and imprisoned by the Germans, he was taken to an old stone castle. There, he was tortured and subjected to mock firing squads—again and again—until death became less frightening than waiting for it. One day, after another false execution, he told them quietly, Please, just shoot me this time. No more blanks. Something changed after that. The guards—men worn thin by the same war—befriended him. In the evenings, they played chess outside his cell, the sound of pieces clicking softly against the board while the war raged on beyond the walls. Even enemies, it seemed, could recognize a man who had already stared death down. There were other stories, too—told like campfire smoke, curling and surprising you. From the gold fields of Alaska, where he and a mining partner once spotted a small bear and thought they’d found dinner. The partner fired. Between the men and the bear, the brush parted, and a massive Kodiak brown rose up—silent, towering, ancient. The two men froze, then ran like their lives depended on it—because they did. In Alaska, someone once stole everything he owned while he swam—his clothes, his money, his past. He stood naked and broke in the wilderness, laughing at the absurdity of it. Strangers gave him clothes. A newspaper ad caught his eye: Gold miners wanted for the Seattle World’s Fair—Alaska Showcase. They sent him money. He took a steamer south. In Seattle, he heard about a teaching job back West. He was on a train almost before the ink dried. Back at the Rock House, life returned to cattle and seasons. He hired cowhands as needed. One of them was a suspected outlaw named Charlie Davlin. Davlin worked the cattle on horseback and slept in the bunkhouse, quiet and watchful. One day, a dispute flared between him and my grandfather—hard words, harder intent. Davlin tried to kill him. My grandmother came running from the cookhouse, apron flying, fear sharpening her aim. She swung a heavy cast-iron pan and struck Davlin in the head. That was the end of him. In the West, justice was sometimes sudden and final. As a child, I listened to these stories while the desert darkened outside and the stars came on one by one. The Rock House stood solid against time. The land listened. And I understood, even then, that some lives stretch wider than maps—crossing oceans, wars, wilderness, and generations—before finally coming home. When the Yank Came Back ..Grandma Stories. I was still in England when the war finally loosened its grip on the world, though it never truly let go. The air felt thinner afterward, as if too many prayers had passed through it. I was living in Wales then, in a house that knew the sound of waiting—boots not coming up the walk, letters arriving late, names spoken carefully. He had gone back across the ocean before I did. The Yank, everyone called him—half in jest, half in awe. A man who had flown with the Tigers, who carried Europe in his bones but belonged to a wider sky. Travel was no small thing in those days. The sea was not crossed lightly. When he came for me, he did not arrive in comfort or ceremony. He worked his way across the Atlantic on a coal steamer, shoveling black rock into a roaring boiler, his face streaked with soot, his hands blistered raw. He paid for passage with muscle and grit, trading sweat for miles. That was the kind of man he was—one who earned every crossing. I didn’t know the exact day he would arrive. No one ever did. Ships came when they came. News traveled slowly and often wrong. I was in the kitchen when my brother answered the door. “Winnie,” he called out, voice bright with disbelief, “your Yank has returned.” Just like that. He stood there thinner than before, older somehow, but alive. Alive mattered most. The war had taught us that. His eyes still held that faraway look—France, Germany, castles and wire and sky—but when he smiled, the distance closed. Leaving Wales was not easy. Leaving England never is. The land holds you quietly, the way a mother does. But the West was calling, even if I hadn’t yet seen it. The journey back was long, rough, and unkind to the weak-hearted. The ocean rolled us like it meant to test our resolve. We crossed Europe in pieces—train by train, port by port—carrying what little we owned and everything we hoped for. When we finally reached the American West, I understood what he had been carrying all along. The land was enormous—too big for fences to pretend at owning it. The sky went on forever. Silence had weight. The Rock House stood against the desert like it had been placed there on purpose. I learned the rhythms of ranch life: early mornings, long days, and nights where the wind told stories of its own. I learned that neighbors might be miles away, but when they came, they came fully—Basque sheepherders, Native families, cowhands passing through. Community out here wasn’t crowded. It was earned. I listened to his stories the way you listen to weather—carefully, without interruption. He spoke of the war rarely, but when he did, it came out plain and unadorned. Shot down. Captured. Tortured. Chess games played with men who had once been enemies. He did not brag. He did not dramatize. He simply told it as it was. And when trouble came—as it does in wild places—I stood ready. When Charlie Davlin turned dangerous, there was no time for thinking. Only action. The cast-iron pan was heavy, but I swung it true. The West does not leave room for hesitation. Years passed. Children came. Grandchildren followed. The Rock House filled with voices, laughter, and the dust of many boots. When the kids arrived from long drives across the desert, singing songs from the back seat, I watched them run into the light and thought about all the miles that had led us there. England to Wales. Wales to America. Sky to ground. War to peace. Some journeys are made by crossing oceans. Others are made by staying. And when the Yank brought me home, I knew I had arrived. In World War I, the unit known as the "Tigers"was the No. 74 Squadron of the British Royal Air Force (RAF), which earned the nickname "Tiger Squadron" due to the aggressive spirit of its pilots and its tiger-head motif. While the "74th Arrow Squadron" appears to be a slight misnomer for the No. 74 (Fighter) Squadron, history records that during their seven months of combat in 1918, the squadron was extremely successful, suffering very few losses. If a pilot from this squadron was shot down and captured by the Germans, the specific camp they were sent to depended on their rank and the region of capture. Common prisoner of war (POW) camps for captured Allied airmen in WWI included: Holzminden: A notorious camp for Allied officers (Oflag) known for numerous escape attempts. Karlsruhe: Often used as a primary transit or permanent camp for captured pilots. Landshut: Another camp frequently used to hold Allied officers. Strohen: A camp where many Royal Flying Corps (RFC) and RAF personnel were detained. Note on Historical Context: Limited Losses: No. 74 Squadron was remarkably effective; within their first 70 days at the front, they recorded 100 enemy killswith the loss of only one pilot. Famous Members: The squadron's most famous pilot, Major Edward "Mick" Mannock, was killed in action in July 1918 but was not taken prisoner. Potential Confusion: There was a 744th Bomber Squadron in World War II where pilots (such as 1Lt Harvey R. Warninger) were captured and held at Stalag Luft. I remember he was held in an old castle?

Rea I. Hagenbuch: From Ruin in Alaska to Redemption in War and the Western Range The life of Rea I. Hagenbuch is a distinctly American story—one marked by loss, resilience, and reinvention, shaped by the great currents of the early twentieth century. His journey carried him from the brutal lawlessness of the Alaskan goldfields, through the improbable salvation of a world’s fair, into the crucible of the First World War, and finally to a hard-won stability as a cattleman in the American West. Few lives so clearly reflect the turbulence and opportunity of the era in which he lived. In the years following the 1897 Klondike Gold Rush, Alaska drew thousands of young men chasing fortune amid ice, isolation, and danger. Hagenbuch was one of them. Like many prospectors, he found that the promise of gold often came hand in hand with violence and betrayal. While mining in Alaska, he was robbed—stripped not only of his money and equipment but left broken, destitute, and even naked. In a land where survival depended on strength, luck, and human decency, this could easily have been the end of his story. Instead, salvation came from an unexpected source: the 1909 Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition (AYPE) in Seattle. Conceived as a grand celebration of the Klondike Gold Rush and the development of the Pacific Northwest, the exposition was Seattle’s first world’s fair and a bold declaration of the city’s future. Held from June 1 to October 16, 1909, on what is now the University of Washington campus, the fair attracted over three million visitors and transformed the region’s identity. The AYPE was more than spectacle—it was opportunity. Hagenbuch, broken but alive, found work through the exposition. In a very real sense, the fair saved him. While the AYPE showcased mining wealth, agricultural abundance, and industrial progress, it also quietly provided lifelines to men like Hagenbuch, displaced and struggling in the wake of frontier hardship. Through honest labor at the exposition, he regained dignity, stability, and a path forward. From Seattle, Hagenbuch moved westward again, this time not in pursuit of gold, but purpose. He secured a teaching job, signaling a shift from survival to service and self-improvement. Yet history had other plans. With the outbreak of World War I, Hagenbuch answered a different call—one that would place him in the skies over Europe. He joined No. 74 Squadron, a famed British fighter squadron that would become one of the most formidable units of the Great War, shot down but survived only to endure a POW nightmaare. Shipped overseas, Hagenbuch found himself engaged in a conflict unlike anything he had known in Alaska or the American West. Aerial warfare demanded nerve, skill, and an acceptance of constant mortality. Against German forces, pilots of the 74th Squadron fought not only the enemy, but mechanical failure, weather, and exhaustion. Hagenbuch survived the war—a feat in itself—and carried home both the scars and the discipline forged by combat. Between and after these defining chapters, Hagenbuch continued searching for a permanent foothold. While out West, he tried his hand at cattle ranching outside Elko, Nevada, testing himself against another unforgiving environment. Ranching demanded endurance, adaptability, and a deep understanding of land and livestock—qualities Hagenbuch had been developing all his life. After the war, he finally found lasting stability. Settling as a cattleman, he established himself at what became known as the Rock House Hagenbuch Ranch. There, with his war bride, he built the life that earlier years had denied him. Together they raised two daughters, transforming a life once defined by robbery and survival into one grounded in family, land, and continuity. Hagenbuch’s life mirrors the broader American experience of the early twentieth century. He was shaped by the fading frontier of Alaska, rescued by the optimism and industry of a world’s fair, tested by the mechanized horror of World War I, and ultimately rooted in the enduring traditions of Western ranching. The Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition stands as a pivotal hinge in this story—not merely a celebration of progress, but a literal turning point that rescued a man from ruin and redirected him toward a life of meaning and legacy. Saved by the Expo, hardened by war, and fulfilled on the range, Rea I. Hagenbuch’s story is a testament to resilience and the strange, often indirect ways history intervenes in individual lives. From naked desperation in Alaska to the quiet strength of a cattleman raising daughters on a Nevada ranch, his life embodies survival, service, and the enduring hope of renewal. Charles “Charlie” Davlin and the Montana Cattle-Drive Men Texas to Montana, 1880–1899 Very little is definitively known about Charles “Charlie” Davlin, yet fragments of his life appear repeatedly in the oral histories and records of the men who trailed cattle north from Texas into Montana during the last great cattle-drive era of the American West. Between 1880 and 1899, massive herds were driven north from Texas, through Kansas City, and onward to Custer County, Montana, supplying expanding ranches such as the DHS Ranch, owned by Granville Stuart and his partners. These drives were dangerous, transient, and poorly documented—men came and went, names were misspelled or lost, and violence was an ever-present reality. One of the men who came north during this period was John Hall, your great-grandfather. Hall worked under a trail foreman named John Lee and traveled with a small but notable group of cowhands who would later settle—or perish—in Glacier and Pondera Counties, Montana. Among those men were: Jake Williamson Charles Davlin Charles “Bowlegs” Buckley Frank Orr Sterling Cross (likely Jr.) Sam Benson Bill Humble Charles H. Davlin: From Texas to Montana—and Beyond Charles Davlin was born in 1861 in Corpus Christi, Texas, the son of C. C. Davlin and R. N. Fraswell. Like many young Texas men of his generation, he drifted into cattle work, eventually joining the long drives north into Montana in the 1880s. By the early 1890s, Davlin had established himself in Robare, Montana, a rough cattle town that served as a social and commercial hub for ranch hands, freighters, and gamblers. On December 21, 1893, Davlin married Mollie Wright, a Montana native born in 1872 at Fort Benton. Davlin became the owner of the Robare saloon, placing him at the center of frontier life—and frontier violence. The Robare Card-Game Killing In 1899, tragedy struck inside Davlin’s bar. Fellow trail companion Charles “Bowlegs” Buckley was shot during a card game in Robare. Buckley died on April 1, 1899, and was buried in Robare Cemetery. Buckley, born 1861 in Wise County, Texas, was the son of Samno and Elizabeth Montgomery Buckley. In 1897, he married Matilda Smith at Holy Family Mission on the Blackfeet Reservation—a reminder that these men were no longer just drifters, but settlers attempting to put down roots. That Buckley was killed inside Davlin’s saloon suggests that Davlin’s life—and reputation—were already entangled with violence and instability. The Hagenbuch Incident: Attempted Murder and a Death a possable death by self defense. Family tradition holds that Charlie Davlin later worked as a cowhand for Rea I. Hagenbuch. According to this account, Davlin attempted to murder Hagenbuch and was stopped only when Hagenbuch’s wife, Winnie Hagenbuch, struck Davlin on the head with a large cast iron kettle, an injury said to have theoretically caused his death. What makes this episode particularly elusive is the lack of clear documentation. No widely known court records or death certificates directly confirm the incident. It remains a frontier story passed through memory rather than paper, typical of violent encounters in remote ranching communities where legal oversight was thin and justice often informal. Importantly, this story corrisponds with other records that suggest Davlin left Montana in the early 1900s. Davlin’s Final Years: New Mexico and Nevada: The story is veryfied by family photos, but the dates a very sketchy, Davlin had to die a fiew years later than 1910 in my estimation or it was Hagenbuch's first wife that hit Davlin on the skull. After leaving Montana, Charles Davlin traveled south, reportedly to New Mexico, before eventually dying in Rowland, Nevada, around 1910 fitting perfectly with the Hagenbuch legend.The Hagenbuch ranch/stone store (often associated with Rea Hagenbuch and formerly the old Scott store) is located in northern Elko County near the ghost town of Rowland, roughly 20 miles from Jarbidge. It is situated in the remote Bruneau Canyon area, making it a long, isolated drive of over 70 miles north of Elko, Nevada [43]. Location: The ranch is located near Rowland, which is in the vicinity of the Bruneau River and the Jarbidge Wilderness area. Distance Context: Historical accounts and descriptions place the site (including the Scott stone store managed by the Hagenbuch family) approximately 20 miles from the town of Jarbidge. Route/Access: Reaching this area from Elko involves traveling into a remote, mountainous region often considered one of the most inaccessible parts of Nevada, usually requiring a substantial drive (often 2+ hours).

The United States was officially involved in World War I from 1917 to 1918. The United States formally entered the conflict on April 6, 1917, when it declared war on Germany. While the broader international conflict began in 1914, the U.S. maintained a policy of neutrality for nearly three years before joining the Allied Powers. The fighting effectively ended on November 11, 1918, with the signing of an armistice between the Allies and Germany. This date is now commemorated in the U.S. as Veterans Day. Although the armistice ended the combat, the formal state of war concluded later with the signing of the Treaty of Versailles on June 28, 1919. Isaiah Bomboy Hagenbuch was born in 1836 into a family that already carried the weight of generations. His people had crossed centuries quietly—Andreas to Christian to John to Robert—names that did not seek attention but endured it. By the time Isaiah arrived, the Hagenbuchs were rooted in Bloomsburg, Pennsylvania, where his father Robert ran the Forks Hotel, a tavern that never truly slept. Isaiah grew up in motion. The Forks was a place of boots on floorboards, wagon drivers at dawn, strangers trading stories for supper, and locals arguing politics over ale. For seven children, it was a noisy education in human nature. Isaiah would have learned early how to listen, how to work, and how to mind his responsibilities—skills that would follow him the rest of his life. By the time he married Hannah Kline in 1858, Isaiah had chosen a trade. He was a harness maker first, then a tinsmith—practical work for a practical man. He and Hannah raised children in modest circumstances: Cora, Bion William, Jacob Clark, and Bertha. Life moved forward in census lines and shop hours, until death intruded, as it often did in the 19th century. Hannah died in 1870, leaving Isaiah with children and no time to grieve slowly. War had already brushed past him once. In June 1863, as Confederate troops moved north toward Pennsylvania, Isaiah enlisted as an emergency militia man in the 28th Pennsylvania Infantry. He served only a month, yet he served it well—well enough to be mustered out as a sergeant. He did not fight at Gettysburg, but he stood ready when the state called, and that mattered. He remarried, to Effie Brink, and continued his trade. Then, in 1865, with the Civil War grinding toward its end, Isaiah enlisted again—this time in the 74th Pennsylvania Infantry. Once more he emerged a sergeant. His duty was quieter than legend prefers: guarding stretches of the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad in West Virginia. No battlefield glory, no sweeping charges—just long days, watchfulness, and responsibility. Isaiah seemed suited to that kind of service. Effie died in 1884. Two years later, Isaiah married Sarah “Hettie” Ketchum. He was nearing fifty, seasoned by work, war, and loss. In August of 1886, their son Rea Isaiah Hagenbuch was born—five months after the wedding, a detail the records note with raised eyebrows across generations. But the child arrived, healthy and unmistakably Hagenbuch, into a world already changing fast. Isaiah shifted roles as the years passed. The tinsmith became a health officer—an unusual title that suggests trust more than ambition. He lived on Second Street in Bloomsburg, surrounded again by family: Hettie, Bertha, and young Rea. He had come full circle, from a childhood in a bustling tavern to a life defined by steadiness. In February 1912, influenza took him. Heart complications followed, and Isaiah Bomboy Hagenbuch died at seventy-five. He was buried in Old Rosemont Cemetery alongside all three wives—a quiet gathering of the chapters of his life. If Isaiah’s story seems modest, it is because it belongs to a kind of man history often overlooks: one who showed up, did the work, answered the call, and returned home. Yet from that steadiness came a son who would reach far beyond Bloomsburg. Rea Isaiah Hagenbuch would go on to study at Princeton, to fly as a pilot in the First World War, and later to become a cattleman near Elko—trading Pennsylvania brick and iron for open range and western sky. The son carried the restlessness the father never indulged, but he carried something else too: discipline, duty, and the quiet confidence of a man raised in the shadow of one who never needed applause. Isaiah did not cross oceans or ride herd across Nevada. But he built the ground his son stood on. And sometimes, that is the deeper legacy.

A Slim Corridor of Time: Rea Hagenbuch, Sitting Bull, and the War Club at the Edge of History History is often imagined as a procession of grand events—battles, treaties, assassinations—neatly arranged in textbooks. Yet the most fragile and revealing moments occur in the narrow corridors between those events, when human beings briefly intersect before the door slams shut forever. One such corridor opened only for an instant in the late nineteenth century, and through it stepped a young boy named Rea Hagenbuch, unknowingly brushing against the final living breath of the American frontier. It was within this fleeting span of time that Rea Hagenbuch met Sitting Bull—and was given a war club by the Lakota leader himself. The encounter, quiet and personal, occurred while the world around them was rushing toward catastrophe. By November 1890, the West was no longer a place of expansion but of suppression. The U.S. government, having broken treaty after treaty, now sought to extinguish the last symbols of Indigenous autonomy. Sitting Bull—Hunkpapa Lakota chief, spiritual leader, victor over Custer, and living emblem of resistance—had become intolerable to federal authorities. Though he was no longer leading armed resistance, his influence remained powerful, particularly amid the spread of the Ghost Dance movement, which frightened military leaders who misunderstood it as a prelude to uprising. On November 24, 1890, Buffalo Bill Cody arrived at New York Harbor, returning from Europe where his Wild West show had once again dazzled crowds hungry for frontier romance. As Cody debarked, a telegram awaited him—urgent, unmistakable, and heavy with consequence. It was from General Nelson A. Miles, commander of U.S. Army forces in South Dakota. Miles instructed Cody to proceed immediately to Standing Rock Reservation. The general went further. He authorized Cody “to secure the person of Sitting Bull, and deliver him to the nearest Commanding Officer of U.S. Troops.” The wording was bureaucratic, but the intent was chilling. The Army hoped that Buffalo Bill—frontiersman, scout, showman—might succeed where soldiers could not. They believed that Cody’s personal relationship with Sitting Bull, forged years earlier during the Wild West shows, might persuade the chief to surrender peacefully. For Sitting Bull, it would be the last surrender. Buffalo Bill Cody was uniquely positioned at the crossroads of myth and machinery. He had ridden for the Pony Express, fought in the Civil War, scouted for the Army during the Indian Wars, and then transformed the violence of the frontier into consumable spectacle. His Wild West show brought cowboys, sharpshooters, and Native American performers—including Sitting Bull himself—to audiences across America and Europe. In 1885, Sitting Bull had joined the show for four months, earning money for his people and confronting white audiences on his own terms. During that time, a strange and uneasy friendship formed between the two men—one a symbol of conquest, the other of resistance. It was during this earlier period—before the telegram, before Standing Rock, before Wounded Knee—that young Rea Hagenbuch encountered Sitting Bull. Rea was taken by his parents to see Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show during one of its many appearances in Pennsylvania, where the spectacle was immensely popular. To Eastern audiences, the show promised authenticity: real buffalo, real cowboys, real Indians. But to a child like Rea, it was something far more visceral—a living world roaring into existence before his eyes. After the performance, as performers mingled and the energy softened, a group of children dared one another to approach Sitting Bull. The chief’s reputation loomed large even among children. He was not merely famous; he carried a gravity that quieted bravado. Most stayed back. Rea did not. He walked over and sat beside Sitting Bull—not as a fan, not as a gawker, but simply as a child unafraid to be present. There was no theatrical exchange, no rehearsed gesture. Sitting Bull, who had faced generals and emperors, saw something in the boy that mattered: calm courage, sincerity, and respect without demand. Moved by the encounter, Sitting Bull gave Rea a war club he had made himself. The act was profoundly symbolic. A war club was not a toy, nor a stage prop. It represented authority, protection, and spiritual responsibility. To give such an object to a child—especially one not of his own people—was an extraordinary gesture. It was not a surrender of identity, but an acknowledgment of character. In that moment, Rea Hagenbuch was not an outsider. He was recognized. That war club passed into Rea’s life just as Sitting Bull’s own time was running out. Only weeks after General Miles sent his telegram, events at Standing Rock spiraled beyond control. On December 15, 1890, Indian police—acting under orders—attempted to arrest Sitting Bull. The situation exploded into violence. Sitting Bull was shot and killed, along with several of his followers. Less than two weeks later, the massacre at Wounded Knee would stain the American conscience and mark the brutal end of the Indian Wars. The war club given to Rea Hagenbuch thus belonged to the final chapter of a living man, not yet a martyr, not yet a myth. It existed in that slim corridor of time when Sitting Bull still walked, spoke, judged, and chose. When Buffalo Bill was still both friend and potential captor. When the frontier was not yet fully embalmed as legend. Rea cherished the war club for years, understanding—perhaps instinctively—that it carried weight beyond wood and craftsmanship. It was a physical link to a man whose life had been claimed by forces far larger than himself. When the club was later stolen by one of Rea’s stepbrothers, the loss echoed a broader American pattern: objects taken without understanding, meaning stripped by ignorance. Yet the memory remained intact. In later years, as Rea Hagenbuch moved through war, hardship, and the vastness of the West, that early encounter lingered as a quiet touchstone. He had once sat with Sitting Bull—not as a soldier, not as a conqueror, but as a child allowed into a moment of grace at the edge of history. Most people brush past history unaware. Rea Hagenbuch stepped into it—briefly, humbly, and forever changed—during the last calm breath before the storm closed in. JARBRIDGE NEAR THE RANCH NOWADAYS A century after Rea I. Hagenbuch rode the high tide of the cattle business through northeastern Nevada, Jarbidge remains what it has always been at heart: a stubborn, beautiful outpost of the real American West. Time has softened its edges but not its spirit. The town still feels like a place that exists slightly outside the modern world, where history doesn’t live behind glass but lingers in doorways, trails, and morning conversations over coffee. The Rock House still stands, quiet and watchful, a stone sentinel guarding the memory of boom days, hard winters, and harder men. It doesn’t need plaques or explanations. Its walls hold stories of miners, cowboys, and drifters who passed through when Jarbidge was loud with ambition. Today it presides over a slower rhythm, embodying a Western truth that refuses to be rushed. This is a town where you might still see a dusty-book cowboy riding the trail at dawn—or sitting at breakfast beside a local Native American, both men bound by land, weather, and mutual respect rather than words. Jarbidge’s modern life is stitched together by people who understand that preservation doesn’t mean freezing time—it means continuing the story. At the heart of town is The Outdoor Inn, its motel, and The Barn Hotel & RV Park, owned since 2018 by Jason Stegall. More than a place to sleep, the Outdoor Inn is where the town exhales at the end of the day. The bar and restaurant serve as a communal living room for hunters, anglers, travelers, and locals alike. Stories are traded here the way they always have been in the West—without hurry, often exaggerated, always sincere. Stegall also owns the Red Dog Saloon on Main Street, another anchor of Jarbidge life, where laughter, music, and memory flow as steadily as the drinks.

For the practical necessities of frontier living, The Trading Post, now owned by Cindy Wilmarth, fills the role it has for generations. Whether you need ice, flour, fishing hooks, camping gear, or something to keep the kids entertained on a long mountain afternoon, the Trading Post is ready. It’s more than a store—it’s a lifeline, adapting to the seasons just as Jarbidge always has, slowing into fall and winter hours when the snow creeps down the canyon walls and the roads remind you who’s in charge. Fuel still matters in places like this, and Northstar Mine Gas on Main Street keeps engines—and journeys—alive, offering both gas and diesel to those heading deeper into the Jarbidge Mountains or back toward civilization. Art and craftsmanship thrive here, too, in ways that feel perfectly natural. Nevada Glassworks Ltd., owned and operated by artist Danny Sullivan, brings molten creativity into a town shaped by stone and timber. His fused and torch-worked glass pieces feel born of the place itself—rugged, luminous, and unmistakably one-of-a-kind. Likewise, BearCreek Woodwork carries forward an older Western tradition: making things meant to last. Using Nevada mountain-grown wood milled right in Jarbidge, their handcrafted furniture and custom creations embody patience, skill, and a respect for natural materials that echoes the town’s frontier roots. Then there is the land itself—wild, demanding, and generous to those who know it. Jarbidge Wilderness Guide and Packing, led by the Prunty family for four generations, represents a living bridge between past and present. Since the 1940s, they have outfitted hunters and fishermen in these same mountains, passing down knowledge that can’t be learned from maps or screens. Their work is not tourism—it is stewardship, built on intimate familiarity with terrain, weather, and wildlife. In Jarbidge, the past does not feel distant. Rea I. Hagenbuch’s era of cattle drives and rough-edged prosperity may be a century gone, but its imprint remains everywhere—in the trails, the buildings, the cadence of daily life. This is a town that never tried to become something else. It stayed true, weathered, and real. Jarbidge endures as a rare thing: a place where the Western myth and Western reality still meet. Not polished. Not performative. Just honest. And for those willing to take the long road in, it offers something increasingly hard to find—a living encounter with the true American West.

Hagenbuch Ranch Information Coordinates: 41.9462917°N, -115.7425856°W Approx. Elevation: 5,823 feet (1,775 meters) USGS Map Area: Big Table Feature Type: Locale SONG ABOUT REA I HAGENBUCH AS SUNG BY HANK RAY: By Ray Harwood Chorus My grandfather was a dusty-boot cowboy on the Snake River Plain, He worked hard all day yet he never complained. With a bedroll for a pillow and the stars for a roof, He lived by his word and he died by the truth. Verse 1 Born back east, then went out west, On the back of a horse, but the Great War was the test. Traded reins for a rifle, mud instead of the range, Came home with old scars and a heart that was changed. Chorus My grandfather was a dusty-boot cowboy on the Snake River Plain, He worked hard all day yet he never complained. With calloused hands and a sun-burned face, He carried the weight of a harder place. Verse 2 He rode fence through the wilderness in the rain and the snow, A type of life now very few know. Branding at dawn, dragging calves from the draw, Living by a code that was older than law. Verse 3 He slept light with one eye on the herd at night, Coyotes singing under a cold moonlight. Coffee boiled black, bread hard as stone, Still he’d share what he had if a stranger came along. Chorus My grandfather was a dusty-boot cowboy on the Snake River Plain, He worked hard all day yet he never complained. He didn’t talk much, didn’t ask for praise, Just left his tracks in the old cow ways. Bridge Now the fences are wire and the towns have grown, Gravel covers trails that the cattle once roamed. But when the wind cuts low across the sage, I swear I hear his spurs in another age. Final Chorus / Outro My grandfather was a dusty-boot cowboy on the Snake River Plain, He worked hard all day yet he never complained. And if I stand straight and I do what’s right, I reckon I’m riding with him every night. SEE THIS TOPO MAP

My Grandfather’s Boots My grandmother told me the story the way people once told truths—plainly, without ornament, letting time do the polishing. It was about my grandfather, Rea I. Hagenbuch, a cattleman working the high desert country around Elko, Nevada, sometime around 1910, when the West was no longer new but still very real. Horses were not romantic symbols; they were transportation. Boots were not fashion; they were survival. Rea rode into Elko on horseback with a single purpose: to buy a new pair of cowboy boots. He worked cattle from dust till dawn—and then a bit more, the kind of man whose life was measured in saddle hours rather than years. His boots had to do what the land demanded. They had to fit cleanly into the stirrups, hold steady when a rope came tight, and—most importantly—slip free if a horse bucked, because every cowboy knew the old creed: better to lose your boots than be dragged to death. That creed shaped the cowboy boot long before it became an icon. The Boot as a Tool of the West Cowboy boots did not emerge from folklore or vanity. They evolved because they had to. The American West required footwear that could endure long days in the saddle, sudden violence from livestock or terrain, and miles of unforgiving ground. High shafts protected the legs from brush, cactus, rope burns, and rattlesnakes. Angled heels—usually an inch and a half or more—kept the foot from sliding through the stirrup. Smooth leather soles allowed a rider to shift or escape quickly. Narrow toes guided the foot home without looking. By 1910, boots were still handmade, often to order. Vegetable-tanned leather, stitched soles, stacked leather heels pinned with wooden pegs—nothing wasted, nothing decorative unless it served pride or longevity. A good pair of boots was an investment, sometimes costing a cowboy a month’s wages, but worth every dollar if they kept him alive. Elko: A Town, a Store, a Purchase Elko was a world apart from the near solitude of the Hagenbuch Ranch. The town had noise, voices, horses tied out front, and a general store that smelled of leather, coffee, flour, and dust. When Rea stepped inside, he was merrily greeted, as men were then, recognized not by reputation but by posture and purpose. The boots he chose were made the old way—hand-lasted, stiff with new leather, unbroken and proud. They fit well. He set the cash down on the barrel head, a phrase that still carries the sound of money meeting wood. No receipts. No returns. Outside, he mounted his horse. The boots slid cleanly into the stirrups, just as they were meant to. Satisfied, Rea turned for home, riding out of town with the quiet confidence that comes from good gear and a good horse. The Rattlesnake and the Lesson Fate, as it often does, had other plans. That day, a rattlesnake decided to cross the old trail. The horse saw it first. The buck was sudden and violent. Rea flew from the saddle. The horse—trained, loyal, and wiser than most—ran hard and straight back down the trail toward the safety of the Hagenbuch Ranch, leaving Rea behind in the dust. Alive. Unbroken. Alone. Now came the part no bootmaker advertised. Those new Elko cowboy boots, perfect in the stirrups, were unforgiving on the ground. Unbroken leather stiff as rawhide. Every mile raised blisters. Every step drove the lesson deeper. By the time Rea reached the Humboldt River, pain had turned to fury. And there, with a strength born of exhaustion and anger, he heaved those boots into the rushing water, watching them vanish downstream—new, beautiful, useless. When he finally made it home, he reached not for another pair of cowboy boots, but for his old World War I flying boots—tall leather field boots built for endurance, not elegance. He pulled them on, and as my grandmother said simply, that was that for his cowboy persona. Two Worlds, One Man Those WWI flight boots tell another story entirely. Royal Flying Corps field and riding boots—made of naturally tanned, full-grain leather, hand-stitched with cotton thread, knee-length and reinforced—were designed for cold, wind, and survival in open cockpits thousands of feet above the earth. Later versions, like the famed sheepskin-lined “Fug boots” devised by Major Lanoe Hawker, protected pilots from freezing air at altitude. They were not elegant. They were effective. That my grandfather trusted those boots more than brand-new cowboy boots says everything about him. He was not interested in symbols. He chose what worked. The Meaning of Boots in the West For many in the West, boots become heirlooms, shaped by the foot and the land. They absorb sweat, dust, rain, and memory. A well-worn pair tells a story—of cattle moved, horses ridden, weather endured, and mistakes survived. Cowboy boots were never invented to look Western. They became Western because they answered the land honestly. Sometimes, as in my grandfather’s case, they failed—not in design, but in circumstance—and were discarded without sentiment. The river took those boots. History kept the lesson. And somewhere between Elko and the Humboldt, between stirrup and ground, between cowboy boots and flight boots, my grandfather revealed exactly who he was: a man who trusted experience over image, and survival over style. “My Grandmother Hagenbuch Told Me This Story” My grandmother Hagenbuch told me this story the way people once carried history—quietly, carefully, as something still alive. It was not told for drama, nor for explanation. It was told because it had happened, and because the land and the people remembered it whether we spoke of it or not. When the influenza came through the country, it came like a wind with no direction and no mercy. This was during the great Spanish Influenza pandemic of 1918–1919, though in the high desert of Nevada it was not known by names or dates. It was known by absence. By empty camps. By fires left cold. By children who no longer had anyone to answer them. Sickness on the Land The Paiute people, like many Indigenous nations, turned to what had sustained them for generations. Their traditional wellness practices were rooted in balance—heat and cold, cleansing and renewal. When illness came, they went into the sweat lodge, where the body was purified through steam and prayer, and afterward they entered the cool river, believing the shock would restore harmony. For centuries, this method had served them well. But this sickness was different. The influenza moved faster than tradition could answer. It burned through bodies already weakened by earlier waves of disease—tuberculosis, measles, smallpox—illnesses brought in by settlers and spread through forced proximity, boarding schools, mining camps, and reservations. The flu did not respect distance or age. It took elders, parents, and children alike. In Nevada, especially near mining centers like Tonopah, entire communities were struck almost at once. The close quarters of camps and settlements accelerated the spread. Among the Paiute, the losses were devastating—not just in numbers, but in knowledge, continuity, and family structure. Many did not survive the river. One Boy Left Standing One Native American boy did survive. By the time the sickness passed, he was orphaned, the last thread of a family that had been erased in a single season. There were no agencies then in the way we think of them now. No immediate system to catch those who fell through history’s cracks. There were only people. My grandfather, Rea Hagenbuch, and his wife Winnie, took the boy in. They did not do it ceremoniously. They bought him new clothes, fed him, and put helped a bit around the ranch , as someone who belonged. On the Hagenbuch Ranch, work was how you joined the rhythm of life. To eat was to help. To help was to be family. He worked alongside them like a son. He learned the land. The cattle. The weather. And most importantly, the horses. The Horse Named Rex Years later—long after the epidemic had passed into something called “history”—that same boy taught my brother, my sisters, and me how to ride. The horse we learned on was named Rex. My brother remebered thjat the boy would place single pop corn cornels on the rock near the camp fire and pop and eat them one at a time. I still remember that name, because names given to horses tend to linger longer than dates. Rex was steady, patient, and forgiving—the kind of horse chosen for beginners. The boy—no longer a boy by then—showed us how to mount, how to hold the reins, how to trust the animal beneath us. He taught us without hurry. What he gave us was more than instruction. It was inheritance—passed sideways through time rather than down a bloodline. He carried knowledge shaped by loss, survival, and adaptation, and he gave it freely. Taken Away Again Later, he was taken and placed into a foster home. That part of the story was always told briefly. Not because it mattered less, but because it hurt more. Indigenous children were often removed from households—Native or non-Native alike—by systems that believed they knew better than lived reality. Good intentions were irrelevant. The result was separation. What mattered is that for a time, he had been safe. He had been fed. He had belonged. And before he was taken, he had passed something forward. What Remains In the earlly 2000s I spoke to a man whos sister was the Native American Boy's Foster mother, he said he was still alive but uninterested in meeting me, or speaking with me. It appears there was some contarovery over the episode, "do gooder libs" whom are noted liars - spun a liars tale. The Spanish Influenza pandemic did more than kill bodies. It fractured continuity. Among the Paiute of Nevada, it compounded generations of loss already set in motion by disease, displacement, and forced assimilation. Survivors carried memory in silence. This story—my grandmother’s story—does not pretend to fix any of that. It simply remembers. It remembers a boy who lived when others did not. A ranch that opened its door. A horse named Rex. And children learning to ride, unaware that they were being taught by someone who had survived a catastrophe the land itself still carries. Some histories are written in books. Others are taught from horseback. And some—like this one—are told quietly, so they are not forgotten again.