“Rickenbacker, your greatest flyer—Squadron 94,” he added in surprise at my ignorance, and corresponding pride at his own intelligence. “New one on me—never heard of it,” I replied. “Never heard of the 94th?” he ejaculated, even more surprised. “Well, the 94th is your best chasse squadron and,” he continued, by way of demonstrating his superior knowledge, “the 12th is your best observation squadron, the 96th is your best bombing squadron and the 91st is your best surveillance squadron. As a matter of fact, by following the movements of these four organizations we pretty well know where your main body of aviation is concentrated.” A hasty reflection taught me that the old boy had the situation pretty well sized up, for, indeed, he had accurately named our most famous squadrons in their particular work. However, I still professed ignorance. “So you don’t know Rickenbacker?” he proceeded. “I can also tell you something about him.” Whereupon he enlightened me by the statement that Eddie was a German, born in Germany and educated while a boy in German schools—all of which he pointed out as the reasons for Rickenbacker’s superior skill and efficiency. But the Fatherland was completely off with “Rick” in spite of their proud—but, by the way, unfounded—claim of nationality. The Intelligence Officer told me that they considered him an absolute traitor to the Fatherland. Another potent reason, he explained, was that they emphatically believed that Rickenbacker’s tactics of burning balloons at night was inhuman, since the poor balloon observers did not even have a chance to get away with their lives. It was at this time that Lieutenant Frank Luke was at the height of his marvelous success of burning German balloons at night, but they had blamed it all on “Rick.” In fact, it could easily be gathered from what he said that Luke had the German balloonists’ goat so well haltered that many of them refused to go up for night observation, and naturally the command was worried. As I told Rickenbacker afterward, there certainly would have been a crowd around the fire if he had been shot down in Germany, for he was the one man for whom they were all looking, for more reasons than one. After again emphatically denouncing “Rick” for his “inhuman tactics” he changed the conversation and asked me how many Americans we had in France. “That is a matter we do not care to discuss,” I said in a manner indicating that while we knew positively the exact number we wished to sidetrack the issue. He momentarily permitted it. “Your losses by our submarines must have been appalling,” he said, not forcing the subject.