It is surprising how rapidly two planes, when approaching each other from opposite directions, can come together, for before I had time to actually realize what was happening we were in the midst of a one-sided running fight in which we were doing the running and in which the Germans were peppering lead into us from all sides. We had accomplished our mission for when the German planes attacked us, it guaranteed that they would not be able to attack the balloons, which would have plenty of time to be hauled down to a position of safety at their beds. While the diverting was successful, the diversion of diverting was not, for we still had to get ourselves out of the mess. We were going in some direction, but which direction it was I didn’t know and did not care. Right after us were these four Fokkers. This was the first opportunity I had ever had to make a comparison of the Salmson plane in a running fight. It was wonderful, for while the Germans were a little faster, it was hardly noticeable. The horrible truth of our predicament did not dawn upon me until, by some hunch, I looked at the ground during the fight and saw already considerably behind us, the village of Montfaucon, which is so clearly and unmistakably discernible from the air. I realized we had been completely outmaneuvered, for we were headed straight and going farther and farther into Germany. No wonder the Boche had not closed in on us. They were simply leading us to our slaughter on their own ground, or even worse, if we did survive we would be prisoners of war, a thought I had always dreaded much more than death, for once in flying over Pagny-sur-Meuse in the Saint Mihiel fight, I saw the thousands of Huns we had captured packed in bull pens like so many cattle. From this I preferred death to prison. Dropping my machine guns for the moment I violently pulled the cords that were tied to the pilot’s arms and emphatically motioned him to turn completely around. He seemed to think that we were headed toward home and was extremely obstinate. The situation was serious; it was no time for discussion. I was sure of my direction. Reaching over the cockpit I frantically struck him on the shoulder and demanded that he turn around. [Illustration: PAGNY-SUR-MEUSE, SHOWING PRISONERS CAPTURED BY THE AMERICANS AT ST. MIHIEL]