Like many other brazen Americans I felt throughout the war that in spite of the loss of my friends all about me, and the precautions repeatedly urged, that I was the one bird, who, alone, was exempt from mishap and misfortune. Undoubtedly the good fortune that always attended me caused me to adopt the viewpoint that my good luck was perpetual. Well, as a matter of fact, I still think that way to-day. Such a thing as my ever becoming a prisoner of war in Germany was absolutely foreign to me. It had not even interested me, so, I had paid very little attention to the reports on the treatment of prisoners and I honestly did not know whether the prisoners were slowly starved to death or killed for some act which they had or had not individually committed, or what not. It was terrible at best. At any rate, I was convinced that it was bad enough that one could well afford to be desperate in taking chances to escape. So, when I finally, in spite of my confidence in my continued good luck, was taken prisoner on September 30, 1918, I immediately decided that I would escape no matter what the cost. Upon being captured Davis and I were first marched down to a nearby airdrome—the den of our captors. There they dragged out a German automobile, which had steel, spring wheels. A very young and fat German boy, who, by the way, was an officer, climbed in first and told us to follow. Of course, we did; and soon we were off for somewhere. This youngster was a genuine pighead—he tried to be a Hun but did not know how and reminded me very much of a newly made Second Lieutenant. Like all other German officers he had the Iron Cross, which he wore complete and as he spoke a little English, I decided that the wisest move for me, was to find out just how much. I had a hunch that the kid had probably just recently gotten his Iron Cross and might be glad to make a few remarks at the proper opening. So, pointing to the Cross and speaking rapidly, I asked, “What does that signify?” He did not get me. His answer was a cool stare as if I had transgressed sacred laws. So, I again smiled and tried this time very slowly, “What is that?” “Ach,” and his flabby cheeks shook like a mold of jelly on a frosty morning, as we bounced along, “dot iss der Deutschen Iron Cross.” “Oh, my! The Iron Cross,” and I smiled with evident pride at our association. “You are very valiant.”