This would never do—I would feel like a coward the rest of my life, so I reached over the cockpit and grabbed him by the shoulders and very affirmatively pointed toward the fight. He motioned for me to put on my speaking tube, and amid the pounding of the motor, in his high, squeaky, girlish voice I could hear him uttering something about “Motor bad. Mechanical trouble.” It did not sound that way to me, so I doubtfully shook my head. He vigorously affirmed his statement, showing surprise that I should doubt his word or question his decision on mechanical matters. For the purpose of camouflage the plane kept rocking from side to side and the motor would become very strong and then suddenly die away. It was my belief that it was being controlled from the throttle. There was nothing I could do. I was not only disgusted with the “Greenhorn,” but I was thoroughly ashamed of myself. I felt like a sneaking coward. As we crossed the lines our anti-aircraft artillery suddenly began to fire violently and rapidly into the heavens. Then I picked up a lone enemy plane swiftly diving out of the clouds in order to attack our balloons. Here was our opportunity—I knew for a fact that a plane attacking balloons has not much chance to see any other plane approaching, so I shouted at the top of my voice, “See that plane there,” and I pointed to it. “That is a Boche that’s going to attack this first balloon. Then it’s going over and attack the next one to the left. We won’t have time to get him before he gets them both, but we will get him after he leaves the second balloon, for he won’t see us. We’ll get him sure. Here’s our one chance to redeem ourselves. Nurse your motor along for we are on our own side of the lines anyway.” The man at the controls hesitated a moment and then started in the proper direction with full motor. I realized the danger of getting into a scrap with a plane that has for its object the burning of balloons, for they use nothing but incendiary bullets, and while I had no serious fear of being killed by a clean bullet, the idea of burning in midair was quite repulsive. Then, too, there was a green pilot, but I actually craved in the worst way a chance to redeem our plane from its disgraceful conduct in the dog fight—here was the chance.