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light wooden frame.  The German chasse pilot know this.  But he also knew that if he dived on me he would draw fire from the other planes of our formation.  I suppose that was what saved us from a serious attack. But the enemy did sometimes close in, as in two instances mentioned in my last letter.  I well remember the relief Littauer and I felt that day when the camera crew finally finished its job and turned toward home. That citation must have been given to me as a consolation for being scared.

Jordan was the only one of our observers who always flew with the same pilot. That was because they specialized in photogrphy, and Jordan could trust Bernheimer to handle the plane correctly during a run. The rest of us went with whatever pilots the office assigned to us. On special occasions we might be allowed to choose a pilot, as I had done on July 18th. We had no better pilot than Littauer, but when I flew with Littauer it was because he as squadron commander so ordered.  Early in August I did make a working agreement with another pilot, Morden Murphy.  I was to choose him whenever I had the option. The option came on that mission of September 14th when I was shot down, but as we were about to take off Littauer called Murphy out of the plane and took his place.

I liked Murphy. He was another New York Irishman, but not of the type I had earlier come to detest.  He was a Princeton graduate, and I believe an Episcopalian. He reentered the service in WW2 and became a colonel in the Intelligence division of the Air Service.  When I moved to New York in 1947 he had become vice-president of the Bankers Trust. He used to meet with Littauer and me at our annual luncheons, but after the NF moved uptown in 1957 I sort of lost touch with him. He retired earlier than I did.  I have not heard from him since 1967.

Some time during the latter half of that August I was sent as air service liaison officer to the headquarters of the Third Corps, giving me a week of ground duty.  On the way thither, in the side car of a motorcycle, I recall passing by the roadside a large wooden cross bearing the name of Quentin Roosevelt.  The Germans had erected it after shooting him down.  The corps headquarters was at a village called Coulonges, four or five miles south of the Vesle.  A good many incidents of that week stick in my memory, too many to write down.  Them most vivid memory is of the food, which was the worst I encountered