He explained that the German theory was that in obeying the signal the three German planes had left the fight, but the leader, being a very daring fighter, took a last chance, hoping to get away before the reinforcements arrived, and in attacking the observation plane alone, was shot down. He also said that this was the story the three had told, who all claimed to have seen the signal fired by their leader. Even at that they were threatened with court-martial for cowardice in leaving the combat and deserting their leader, and they were only saved by several German officers, who had also seen the same signal from the ground, testifying in their behalf. Thus—the mystery was cleared—the Very pistol had saved the day. It was, after all, better that I had not set the leader afire with the flaming rockets. Indeed, they had served a greater use. What happened to Eileen? Naturally that should be explained. Well, it’s this way: I had a lot to tell her, so, when I got to the airdrome I hastened across the field to the Headquarters to find her. “Lad,” I said to the orderly standing in front of the headquarters, “have the pretty girls of the Y. M. C. A. gone yet?” “Yep,” he replied, “that’s them goin’ down there now—to Souilly,” and he pointed to a huge cloud of dust following the trail of an army auto a half mile down the road, and in that cloud of dust, seemingly rising into the sky, floated also my fond hopes and prospects of Eileen, for conditions, in a few days, made it impracticable for me to follow her movements for some time to come. “Well,” I said, sort of sorry like that they had gone, “they were sure pretty girls, weren’t they?” “Yep,” he grinned. “Especially the black-haired one,” I went on. “Yep, she’s mine, Lieutenant. She’s been talking to me for a half an hour this morning,” and again he grinned sheepishly, until his grin almost became a smile, and we both looked longingly down the road where the car was fast disappearing from view. I looked at the orderly and the orderly looked at me. “Talked to you half an hour, eh?” I questioned. “Yep, fully that,” was the proud reply. I put my hands in my pockets and started to walk away muttering to myself “how do they do it? how do they do it?”—for this soldier was about the homeliest and most unattractive person I could imagine, yet he had evidently put my hopes to rout in quick order. Then came an idea: and I wheeled around and called to the soldier, “Hey, boy, what’s your rank?” “Ain’t got no rank, Sir,” he replied; “I’m a buck private.” Whistling a light tune I walked on. “I get it, I get it,” was my soliloquy. “Eileen still following instructions on catering to the junior ranks. She’s sour grapes.” And thus she passed from my life—but I hope not forever. VIII DOWN AND OUT AND IN