of retaliation, I
leaned over and shot at what looked like an emplacement. Then came the
Boche front line, ragged and unkempt. I fired along an open trench.
Although far from fearless as a rule, I was not in the least afraid
during the eventful glide. My state of intense "wind up" while the
fuselage was burning had apparently exhausted my stock of nervousness. I
seemed detached from all idea of danger, and the desolated German trench
area might have been a side-show at a fair.

We swept by No Man's Land at a height of 600 feet, crossed the French
first- and second-line trenches, and, after passing a small ridge,
prepared to settle on an uneven plateau covered by high bracken. To
avoid landing down wind and down-hill, the pilot banked to the right
before he flattened out. The bus pancaked gently to earth, ran over the
bracken, and stopped two yards from a group of shell-holes. Not a wire
was broken. The propeller had been scored by the bracken, but the
landing was responsible for no other damage. Taking into consideration
the broken ground, the short space at our disposal, and the fact that
we landed cross-wind, V. had exhibited wonderful skill.

We climbed out, relieved but cantankerous. V., still ignorant of the
fire, wanted to know why my gun was silent during our first fight; and I
wanted to know why he hadn't shut off the engine and listened when I
shouted for the fire extinguisher. Some French gunners ran to meet us.
The sight that met them must have seemed novel, even to a poilu of two
and a half years' understanding.

Supposing that the aeroplane had crashed, they came to see if we were
dead or injured. What they found was one almost complete aeroplane and
two leather-coated figures, who cursed each other heartily as they stood
side by side, and performed a certain natural function which is publicly
represented in Brussels by a famous little statue.

"Quels types!" said the first Frenchman to arrive.

An examination of the bus revealed a fair crop of bullet holes through
the wings and elevator. A large gap in one side of the fuselage, over a
longeron that was charred to powder in parts, bore witness to the fire.
Petrol was dripping from the spot where the tank had been perforated. On
taking a tin of chocolate from his pocket, V. found it ripped and
gaping. He searched the pocket and discovered a bright bullet at the
bottom. We traced the adventures of that bullet; it had grazed a strut,
cut right through th