Suddenly I heard a faint, indistinct put-put-put and I began scouring the sky for the place from whence came the familiar and unmistakable sound. Away over to the right, north of Montfaucon, I saw a genuine scrap going on. There must have been fifteen planes and soon the faint put-put became a continuous rattle like the roll of an over-tight snare drum. I could very easily tell by their maneuvering that it was a dog fight and if we could only get over there in time we would undoubtedly get into it. Maybe some of our boys needed help and sometimes the arrival of one additional plane can turn the balance of power in a scrap. So I shook the plane and called to him to head over that way as fast as he could. I expected some slight coercion would be necessary, but to my surprise “Greenhorn” immediately headed toward the show. As we were speeding along like the assisting ambulance I decided to try out my guns to make sure they were in trim condition for a combat, so I pulled the triggers on both machine guns for a short burst, not thinking to warn the already irritated “Greenhorn.” Instantaneous with the first report the plane began to go into a wild spiral. I dropped the guns and turned around to see “Greenhorn” twisting in every conceivable direction and manipulating the joy stick right to left, forward to rear, with the same cadence that the jazz orchestra leader handles his baton—while I was thrown around in the cockpit like the contents of a shaking highball. I had a similar trick played on me myself one time while flying with Brereton at San Mihiel. Brereton and I were alone on a mission photographing a difficult area behind the lines. Brereton, who was always a cautious flyer, ordinarily had a small mirror attached just above the edge of his cockpit in which my every movement was reflected. Thus he could tell when I was looking the sky over for enemy planes or watching the artillery or down in the pit operating the camera. I used to stay down in the cockpit too long at one stretch to suit him. His idea was that the observer should spend most of the time searching the sky in order that the Hun could not pull a surprise attack. In this he was right, but it was extremely difficult to do this and at the same time do the mission well. Brereton had previously been accustomed to getting me out of the cockpit by shaking the plane, which merely consisted of gently vibrating the control lever from right to left. This day I was trying to get some very good photographs and I admit in so attempting I was staying down in the cockpit too long. Brereton shook the machine several times, but I didn’t come out because I wanted to finish my set of pictures, taking my chances on an attack in the meantime. Brereton was unusually irritable so he decided that I did not have the right way of doing things. He immediately turned loose his machine guns for a continuous burst of about twenty-five rounds, which sounded to me like two hundred and twenty-five.