Suddenly resigned to my fate I awaited the onrush of the other three—I was sure it was only a matter of seconds—I had no defense. To my absolute surprise the first of the three violently tilted his plane, banked to the right, and the other two followed. I was at a loss to understand this move; then came another thought—there was still a chance. Rapidly ejecting the empty cardboard shell from the Very pistol I attempted to adjust the barrel to the cocking piece of my jammed machine gun. It fitted—here was the needed instrument of leverage—with all my force I jerked—something gave way and I fell to the other side of the cockpit—from the side of the gun there hung a mashed defective cartridge and the jam was cleared. With luck, there were fifty or sixty bullets left. Approaching me again was the leader, but where were the other three? I glanced back—they were still headed to the right—they had left the fight. Calmly I waited his onslaught. Boldly coming up with the certain knowledge that I was still helpless and certainly his easy prey, he came, for nothing but wonderful luck on our part and rotten shooting on theirs had saved us so far. This time he did not fire until he had dead aim, nor did I fire until I had dead aim. Following his approach with extreme care and closest possible adjusted sights, I waited. When I was sure, I pulled the trigger—I don’t know how many rounds he fired, but only a few, for my aim had been true—his guns suddenly stopped—his plane climbed steeply, even up beyond me, then tumbled over in a sort of half loop and began to swish away helplessly to one side and then to the other, like a falling leaf—at last it dived headlong and from its last dive it never recovered.
My ammunition was gone, but to the greatest of luck and horseshoes, I attributed the fact that the other three planes were also gone. In a few moments more we again passed over Montfaucon and crossed the lines. The balloons were just beginning to rise again. “Well,” I thought as we passed them, “you seem to be safe enough this time, and I must say I admire you for going up again so soon after such a narrow escape, but for me—never again! I’m going to stay on the ground the rest of my life.”
Of course, I often wondered why those other three Huns had left the fight. Here is the solution of the mystery. At Christmas time, three months later, I was in Coblenz, on the Rhine. The war was over and we were a part of the Army of Occupation. Under the terms of the Armistice the Germans had to turn over two hundred airplanes to the Americans and were to send twenty German flyers along to test the planes in the presence of competent American judges before they were accepted. Late in the evening, after a joyous Christmas dinner, at which wine and merriment abounded, an orderly came in and told us there were two German officers to report. We found that they were two of the flyers detailed by the German Government to turn over the planes. One of them was a lad named Donhauser, who claimed to have shot down twenty-six allied planes, among them Quentin Roosevelt; the other was a lad named Teske, who also was an Ace. We invited them to join us, and during the conversation that followed it was interesting to note the many battle fronts over which we had fought against each other. Upon discussing the Argonne it developed that Donhauser’s squadron was opposite the area in which I had this fight on the twenty-eighth of September, so, I took occasion to clear up the incomprehensible reason why these three had left the fight. I casually asked him if at a certain hour, at a certain place, on a certain date, he had a patrol, evidently bent upon attacking balloons, diverted by a bi-place observation plane. He took out a little book from his pocket and after hastily scanning the well-kept notes, he looked up and said, “Was one of the Deutschen planes shot down?” I answered “Yes.” “Do you know if it was the leader?” he inquired. I told him I thought it was. He again verified the time and the place and then opened up. This was his story:
“The leader, who was shot down, was an exceptionally good flyer and had several victories to his credit. There was something queer about it—in the squadron it was known as the ‘Mystery Mission’ for the reason that three of the German planes left the fight when the Observation Plane was absolutely helpless with jammed machine guns. They claimed that the German leader had fired a signal rocket to them, which was their signal for that day which meant for all the planes to leave the fight at once as larger allied patrols were approaching.”
He explained that the German theory was that in obeying the signal the three German planes had left the fight, but the leader, being a very daring fighter, took a last chance, hoping to get away before the reinforcements arrived, and in attacking the observation plane alone, was shot down. He also said that this was the story the three had told, who all claimed to have seen the signal fired by their leader. Even at that they were threatened with court-martial for cowardice in leaving the combat and deserting their leader, and they were only saved by several German officers, who had also seen the same signal from the ground, testifying in their behalf.
Thus—the mystery was cleared—the Very pistol had saved the day. It was, after all, better that I had not set the leader afire with the flaming rockets. Indeed, they had served a greater use.
What happened to Eileen? Naturally that should be explained. Well, it’s this way: I had a lot to tell her, so, when I got to the airdrome I hastened across the field to the Headquarters to find her.
“Lad,” I said to the orderly standing in front of the headquarters, “have the pretty girls of the Y. M. C. A. gone yet?”
“Yep,” he replied, “that’s them goin’ down there now—to Souilly,” and he pointed to a huge cloud of dust following the trail of an army auto a half mile down the road, and in that cloud of dust, seemingly rising into the sky, floated also my fond hopes and prospects of Eileen, for conditions, in a few days, made it impracticable for me to follow her movements for some time to come.
“Well,” I said, sort of sorry like that they had gone, “they were sure pretty girls, weren’t they?”