Arriving at the airdrome we found the plane ready. Only a few officers were on the field and to these we said nothing more than the ordinary greeting between flyers when leaving on a mission. We climbed into our places. Brereton played with the throttle for a few moments, then he turned around and in the usual way preparatory to taking off he asked, “All clear, Elmer?” I looked around to see if any other planes were in the air, whose landing might interfere with our taking off; seeing none, I answered as cheerfully as possible, “All O.K., Sir.” But he did not take off; he allowed the motor to idle away. Suddenly he turned his head and in a tone that indicated profound sincerity, and at the same time extreme uncertainty, he said, “Elmer, we’re a couple of boobs. We’ve got no business doing this job. If they do get us who in the devil is going to run this Air Service? Your darned hunch is all wrong this time.” Here was a thought that had not entered my mind for we alone were familiar with every detail of the organization of the operations for the drive and our loss at that particular time would really have been felt. I personally felt it was too late then to change, but this was a question which I felt was up to the Chief himself to decide, so after thinking it over a moment I said, “Use your own judgment, Sir.” He hesitated a few seconds, then shrugged his shoulders and turned loose, “Well, I guess Bill Mitchell can handle it all right, and as he made that flight the other day by himself, I guess we, together, can make this one.” He pulled his goggles down over his eyes, hastily adjusted his helmet, motioned the mechanics to remove the blocks. “All clear, Elmer?” he questioned. “All clear, Sir,” I replied. He gave her the gun and we were off. We headed straight over Coulommiers, to La Ferte sous Jouarre, which was the headquarters of the 1st U. S. Army Corps, and followed the Marne on to Château-Thierry. We lost no time in climbing, but in a steady path like the crow flies we went directly over the lines. We were only nine hundred feet high and every feature on the ground seemed to stand out perfectly. Our course carried us straight north along the road from Château-Thierry to Roucourt; from here we branched off toward Fere-en-Tardenois, and from Fere-en-Tardenois we hovered along the road to Grandes Loges and St. Remy. Leaving St. Remy we clung to the road leading north and finally reached Soissons. Banking to the right we skimmed along the River Vesle, searching the roads on both banks to Misy-sur-Aisne. We followed the Vesle down to Braisne and Fismes. At Fismes we were thirty kilometers within the German lines, and had reached our farthest objective; it was now only necessary to get out without being caught.