Clear of the wreck, I got to my feet and looked around. A small car was careening toward me from the direction of the Army hangar. My first reaction was one of embarrassment at being caught by the Army in such an undignified situation. When I looked again at the airplane, it stood there without its engine, burning abaft the cockpit, but headed in a direction opposite to that in which I had landed it. Its engine lay a few yards beyond me, one propeller blade broken off near the hub. Well, that accounted for the crack-up. When the blade had let go, several of the holding-down stud bosses had broken off, but others had held the engine in the airplane. Then the rough landing had sheared the others; the airplane, freed of its heavy noseweight, had bounced into the air, done a split S, broken my safety belt, and dropped me clear of the fire. Had it happened any other way, I must surely have burned up before I could escape the flames. I glanced at my hands and saw that the skin was burned deep enough to expose the cords. I felt my face and found burns around my lips and eyebrows; at least I would not be disfigured for life. The careening Army car swung alongside with squealing brakes and I climbed on its running board for a fast run back to Anacostia’s sick bay. The soldier in the car said the broken propeller blade had sailed right past him, screaming like a wild thing. Arrived at the sick bay, I was hustled into a ward and told to lie down; the doctor said I was suffering from shock. I lay down on the bunk awhile, and when I looked up, Admiral Moffett stood in the door. “Have you telephoned your wife?” he asked eagerly. “No, sir,” I replied. “Better do it yourself,” he ordered. “News of this will be all over town. Save her the shock.” But when I tried to get up, I couldn’t move. The admiral pushed the bed toward the telephone. When I got our apartment, no prior news had preceded me; my wife gasped and said she’d be right over. The door opened and a doctor walked in to examine my hands. “I’m afraid you’ll never use those again,” he said. Then he looked up. “Can you stand a lot of pain?” he asked. I had never had to stand much. The doctor said he’d try a treatment developed in World War I, one using a solution of tannic acid. It worked and today I have nothing to show for the experience save a few minor scars. Meanwhile, the admiral sat there; for the first time that I could recall, he seemed to droop. “Things like this,” he said, “make you wonder if this cockeyed game is worth the candle.” He paused. “Well,” he added, standing up to leave, “there’s nothing much we can do about it but play it out. The thing’s bigger than any of us and we’re in it up to our necks.” CHAPTER ELEVEN A Lone Eagle Sets the Standard