A Very pistol is a gun resembling an ordinary pistol, except that it has a wide barrel. It is used to eject brilliant fire rockets as a signal from the airplane to the infantry. These signals vary with the number of stars fired. For instance, a rocket of six stars means “Where are you? Show your panels,” whereupon the Infantry displays its white panels of cloth, while three rockets indicates “Understood” upon which the Infantry takes in its panels of white cloth. I grabbed this Very pistol in a wild effort to throw it as a last means of defense, but the three had already passed under my tail, while to my disappointing surprise, I discovered that I had not gotten the leader as I had thought—he was coming up under my tail, already firing. The others seemed to be getting their formation behind him. As the leader came up under me in a final blow of death, I madly drew the pistol back in a position to hurl it at him when the sudden idea struck me that if it were loaded I would have a chance to set him afire. The cartridge was intact—it was ready to be fired. Amidst his volley of fire, I reached far over the cockpit and as the leader passed beneath me, I fired. The charge missed him completely, but directly behind him burst the signal—six flaming stars which brilliantly floated slowly on toward earth. My last chance had failed. Suddenly resigned to my fate I awaited the onrush of the other three—I was sure it was only a matter of seconds—I had no defense. To my absolute surprise the first of the three violently tilted his plane, banked to the right, and the other two followed. I was at a loss to understand this move; then came another thought—there was still a chance. Rapidly ejecting the empty cardboard shell from the Very pistol I attempted to adjust the barrel to the cocking piece of my jammed machine gun. It fitted—here was the needed instrument of leverage—with all my force I jerked—something gave way and I fell to the other side of the cockpit—from the side of the gun there hung a mashed defective cartridge and the jam was cleared. With luck, there were fifty or sixty bullets left. Approaching me again was the leader, but where were the other three? I glanced back—they were still headed to the right—they had left the fight. Calmly I waited his onslaught. Boldly coming up with the certain knowledge that I was still helpless and certainly his easy prey, he came, for nothing but wonderful luck on our part and rotten shooting on theirs had saved us so far. This time he did not fire until he had dead aim, nor did I fire until I had dead aim. Following his approach with extreme care and closest possible adjusted sights, I waited. When I was sure, I pulled the trigger—I don’t know how many rounds he fired, but only a few, for my aim had been true—his guns suddenly stopped—his plane climbed steeply, even up beyond me, then tumbled over in a sort of half loop and began to swish away helplessly to one side and then to the