There is one hard and fast rule that all flyers are taught to follow and that is when shot down in enemy territory, their duty is to burn the plane at all costs, for otherwise the enemy not only gets the airplane itself, but also the latest designs, inventions and improvements which are a hundred times more valuable. “Davis,” I yelled at the top of my voice, as I started running toward the plane. Instantaneously he saw and followed. It was a bad trip back—the Fokkers, surmising our mission, came down to where they practically skimmed the ground, absolutely intent upon taking our lives. When we finally reached the plane I was puffing like a steam engine, for my lungs were raw from exhaustion as I still had on this heavy flying suit which covered my entire body. The Fokkers were able to very well judge their shots for they made it extremely unpleasant. “A match! A match! A match!” I kept calling, running around and not knowing what to do. Davis hauled forth a box with about eight in it. We had lost our heads absolutely for we were too excited to remember that we had such a thing as gasoline on board. Jumping around like a pair of ducks on a hot stove, we blindly tried to light the fabric on the wings which through the expenditure of a million dollars on experimentation had been made practically fireproof on the surface by the application of noninflammable varnish. We were too dense to take any cognizance of the fact that they continually failed to burn, so, we went ahead making repeated attempts to light the wings. In a minute the last match was gone. There was no hope. I felt like breaking down and crying like a baby. The right side under the motor was still smoldering from the flames in the air, which had been caused by an incendiary bullet striking the carburetor, but had been extinguished by the violent side-slipping of the plane, just as a match is smothered out by being swept through the air. Then Davis had a brilliant idea. “Hell,” he said, “We’ve got gasoline.” And he jumped up into the pilot’s pit and broke the main gasoline lead and in a second gasoline was spluttering all over the plane like a bubbling fountain. “Look for another match!” I cried to Davis, and although he knew he had no more, he began to throw things out of his pockets right and left. Among these things there fell a smudge cigarette lighter. These instruments were devised by the French on account of their extreme shortage of matches. The gadget consists of a tiny steel wheel, which strikes a piece of flint, which in turn ignites the smudge. The only trouble with these things is that they do not always work. However, when this fell before me, it was Heaven itself, for I made a high dive and grasping it, began to strike the wheel. It would not ignite. Running back and forth, trying to get the smudge to burn, I began to strike it, pray over it, and do everything else. My kingdom, such as it was, for a light.