Then suddenly all became quiet. The machine guns and the archies had for some reason stopped their firing. I had been there before—I knew. The time had come. Looking over to the right I saw what I expected—four German Fokkers had already taken off the field and were coming up after us. We could even see their airdrome and other planes ready to take off if necessary. It was a sad day. I had been in scraps before but such odds as these had not faced me. This was, indeed, foreign—ten miles from home, about out of gas, with a bunged-up plane and yet forced to stand there with hands on the guns and patiently await the seconds until they steadily climbed up to get us. I wanted to throw up the sponge in the worst way; it seemed but useless murder of the two of us, for there could be no possible chance to live through it. On the other hand, we might get one or even two of them, so it was the big game—the call of chance. We must give combat—now to break the word to Davis. I laughed hysterically. “Davis,” I called, “have you ever had a fight?” Puzzled as to the significance of this question he turned around and answered, “No. Never.” “Well,” and I again laughed for no reason in the world, “you are going to have one now.” Of course, the airplane did a strange shimmy, after which I continued, “There are four Boche coming up to the right rear. Fly straight ahead, and don’t worry. Only keep me in a position to fire.” Davis said nothing, but turning around he calmly eyed the oncoming Germans, then I saw his jaws set in fierce determination and without another sign of emotion he directed his attention to the damaged plane.