I fixed on a drum of cartridges, and with a butt in my hand was ready for any emergency. Higher and higher we rose. The mist was becoming more and more dense. Photographing was impossible. The cold seemed to chill one's bones. I could tell by the increasing vibration we were going "all out," in order to get above the enemy machine, which seemed to be drawing closer and closer. I looked at the pilot. He had his eyes fixed upon the Bosche. "What are we now?" "Eight thousand," he said. "That chap must be at least thirteen thousand up. Do you notice whether he is coming nearer?" I told him it seemed to me as if he was doing so. Up and up we went. Colder and colder it grew. My face was frozen. To breathe, I had to turn my head sideways to avoid the direct rush of air from the whirling propeller. I could just discern the ground through the mist. I looked around for the Bosche. He seemed further away. I shouted to the pilot. He looked round. "I'm going to chase it," he said. And away he went. But the faster we moved the faster went the other machine. At last we discovered the reason. In fact, I believe we both discovered it at precisely the same moment. _The plane was one of our own!_ I looked at the Captain. He smiled at me, and I'm positive he felt disappointed at the discovery. "What's the height?" I enquired. "About thirteen thousand feet," he said. "Shall we go higher? We may get above the mist." "Try a little more," I replied. "But I don't think it will be possible to film any more scenes to-day; the fog is much too heavy." The whole machine was wet with moisture. It seemed as if we should never rise above it. I had never before known it so thick. My companion asked if we should return. With reluctance I agreed, then, turning round face to the sun, we rushed away. The mist did not seem to change. Mile after mile we encountered the same impenetrable blanket of clammy moisture. I was huddling as tight as possible to the bottom of the seat, taking advantage of the least bit of cover from the biting, rushing swirl of icy-cold air. Mile after mile; it seemed hours up there in the solitude. I watched the regular dancing up and down of the valves on top of the engine. I was thinking of a tune that would fit to the regular beat of the tappets. I shouted through the 'phone. No answer. He must be too cold to speak, I thought. For myself, I did not know whether I had jaws or not. The lashing, biting wind did not affect my face now. I could feel nothing. Once I tried to pinch my cheek; it was lifeless. It might have been clay. My jaw was practically set stiff. I could only just articulate. I tried again to attract my companion's attention. Still no answer. I was wondering whether anything had happened to him, when something did happen which very nearly petrified me. I felt a clutch on my shoulder. Quickly turning my head, I was horrified to see him standing on his seat and leaning over my shoulder.