McGee drove hard for it, and noted that he was in a race with Yancey, whose quick eye had sighted it. The black bag was hardly out of the fog bank when tracers from McGee's and Yancey's guns began streaming into it. It exploded with amazing suddenness, the flaming cloth sinking back into enveloping billows of fog. Yancey banked sharply, flew alongside McGee and shook his fist as though to say--"Go and find a rat hole of your own. This is my territory." McGee chuckled. The Texan, instead of trying to catch some view of the far flung battle lines, was out to increase his score. McGee dived back down into the fog, hoping that it might be lifting. Down below, he knew, a mighty struggle was on. Lines of communication would be shot all to pieces in the rain of heavy shells. Great Headquarters would be waiting anxiously for some news of the real status and progress of the battle. At 8:30 the fog was still holding over the field and McGee reluctantly turned his ship homeward. By that sixth sense which the seasoned pilot has, or develops, he found the field. No one had been able to catch sight of the ground forces. Cowan was storming around, under pressure from headquarters. "It's information we want," he told the pilots as they came in, "not a tale of what can't be done. Get back over the lines. This fog will pass. This is not a job for an hour. Headquarters wants information. Get it!" To McGee, he said, with something of a sting in his voice, "Considering the chances Siddons used to take, I'd think this squadron--his own group--would be equal to this task." It was a lash. Furious, yet realizing the justice of the taunt, McGee again took off, determined not to come back until he could bring some real news of the battle's progress. 3 That was the longest, hardest day ever put in by American aviators. They had little trouble in gaining and holding air supremacy, but they had a most difficult time, when the fog finally lifted, in getting any accurate information. The advance had been so rapid, and so successful, that the Hindenburg Line had been carried by the soldiers in the first few hours of battle. But in pressing forward, in the fog, they had been unable to keep in close liaison. Instead of being a well-knit whole, they were little more than a storming, victory-drunk mob. They stopped at nothing--and nothing could stop them. As for displaying their white muslin panels to airplanes so that their positions might be known--poof! They were too busy to fool around with panels and those dizzy air birds who never did anything but fly around and look for panels. Panels be hanged! This was a day for doughboys and the bayonet! 4