So when I fired my guns poor “Greenhorn” was pitifully fussed. I could see he was losing his nerve, but I pointed in the direction of the fight and, obedient to my instructions, he headed the plane that way. It would never have done to have withdrawn after getting this far, for in so doing he would never again have been worth anything in the air.
We were still quite a distance from the show. I was looking over the top wing to get a line on the fight. They were still at it and it was just getting good. It seemed to be the ordinary aerial dog fight in which one allied plane is on the tail of the enemy plane and two of the enemy planes are on the allies’ tails, and three of the allies on the tails of the two enemies, and so on—all going round and round, exactly like a dog chasing its own tail. Suddenly one of the planes dropped from the combat and, making a steep dive, it burst into flames and fell toward earth. I shook the plane violently and, pointing toward the falling plane, I joyously cried to the “Greenhorn,” “Boche! Boche!” He was not so enthusiastic as might have been expected and I had no more than gotten the words out of my mouth when another plane started falling—also out of control. At this point “Greenhorn” again suddenly headed his plane toward home. In a rage I shook the plane violently and with fury in my face I again pointed toward the fight. He shook his head. I became more infuriated and again pointed toward the fight, but the “Greenhorn” just as furiously shook his head and determinedly kept on going toward home.
This would never do—I would feel like a coward the rest of my life, so I reached over the cockpit and grabbed him by the shoulders and very affirmatively pointed toward the fight. He motioned for me to put on my speaking tube, and amid the pounding of the motor, in his high, squeaky, girlish voice I could hear him uttering something about “Motor bad. Mechanical trouble.” It did not sound that way to me, so I doubtfully shook my head. He vigorously affirmed his statement, showing surprise that I should doubt his word or question his decision on mechanical matters. For the purpose of camouflage the plane kept rocking from side to side and the motor would become very strong and then suddenly die away. It was my belief that it was being controlled from the throttle. There was nothing I could do. I was not only disgusted with the “Greenhorn,” but I was thoroughly ashamed of myself. I felt like a sneaking coward.