He said, “Those were German planes, didn’t you know it?” At those words I almost faded away but this was the real time for a little “emergency” drama, so I assumed the rôle of a modern Daniel emerging from the Den and shrugging my shoulders with a very much emphasized forward motion of the chest, I bellowed, “Sure, I knew they were Germans all the time. I didn’t run (emphasizing “I”) because I wanted to say I had shot down some Boche on my first trip over the lines.” Their fond expectations of the bravery of the Americans and incidentally my prowess were met. They were proud of their new ally. Then came many cries of “Bravo! Bravo!” and indiscreet whispers of “Croix de Guerre,” and we all went home, with the American Sky Spy about the most popular fellow he has ever been. That night we had a real banquet at which I bought the champagne and the red wine. While we were celebrating I was going over the whole matter and long before I went home that night I realized that it was more than luck and a “handful of Marines” that had saved me from those seven Huns. It was manifest destiny, for I found that the reason those German planes did not attack when they had me cold was that one of the aerial tactics in vogue at that time, was to send one plane low as I was, with a strong pursuit patrol high in the clouds above so that when the enemy attacked the lower plane the pursuit planes high above could dive on the enemy, thus having the great advantages of position, speed and surprise. The seven Huns thought I was a dupe—I was, but not the kind they thought. Mine was a case of ultra-distilled beginner’s luck. II HARDBOILED Every soldier from the General to a private sooner or later gets his reputation. It comes through observation of a man’s action and attitude by his fellow soldiers. Those who early in the game get a favorable reputation are indeed fortunate while those who get in bad, so to speak, are generally strictly out of luck for reputations are like postage stamps—when once stuck on they are hard to take off. There was one reputation which many sought but which represented to me exactly what a real man’s nature ought not contain—this was the common prefix to one’s name of “hardboiled.” The accepted meaning of this word varied with localities, but I did not like it even in its most liberal and favorable interpretation.