Under the rules for the national rifle matches, it was mandatory for military competitors to use government-issue cartridges, which, at the time, were produced solely by the government at Frankfort Arsenal. In quality this ammunition was reminiscent of Chinese firecrackers—many were complete duds, and of those that finally went off, many more were just “fizzlers.” As to accuracy, there were so many “droppers” in each bandoleer that the element of skill was largely neutralized by the element of chance, thus undermining the foundation of competition. And worse still, there seemed to be nothing we could do about it. Army Ordnance, entrenched in its monopoly, turned a deaf ear to all complaints. Meanwhile the quality of the ammunition provided by competing commercial companies for civilian matches had improved to the point where Frankfort Arsenal had become a public scandal among the shooting fraternity. At this point the National Rifle Association had raised such a furor that the Ordnance Department was forced down off its lofty perch and obliged to bring Frankfort into direct competition with the private trade. Improvement at Frankfort was immediate, but more important still, seeds were planted for a new government-industry cooperation in ordnance that has since paid off in two wars. And so, having acquired my convictions at an early age and out of the hard school of experience, I now set Leighton right on my position as to the place of government in production. His relief was immediate, though he felt that the situation in aviation was less critical. “We have the saving grace,” he said, “of having strong competition within the government. As long as the rivalry between BUAERO and the Army Air Service continues keen, both of us will keep on our toes to press development.” My thoughts drifted back to the interview with Admiral Moffett earlier in the day. “But,” I countered, “suppose your friend Billy Mitchell should sell his independent-air-force idea to the Congress and take over the whole shebang, then what would become of your interservice rivalry?” Leighton tossed both hands in the air in a gesture of helplessness. “Do you know the gentleman?” he asked. I had met the general at Great Lakes back in 1920 when he had come up on a flying tour of inspection of the Aviation Mechanics’ Schools. He arrived at the wheel of a roaring Stutz Bearcat touring car, with the top down, the cutouts open, and a white-faced sergeant hanging onto the seat beside him. He’d broken all records on the run up from Chicago. Later the sergeant informed one of our CPOs that he had long ago exceeded his life expectancy and was now on borrowed time.