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Page 10 [[column 1]] position and told what the patrol was all about. Then old Snake-eyes, the leader of C flight gave us our instructions. there were to be six of us to complete a V and leave a watch dog to sit above. I was given the position on the right tail of the V and it turned out that Bill Rowland got the job of watch dog. Of course, if any of our motors went bad and we could not get off the ground, then those who did get off had to close up in the positions left vacant. We did not think much about those Hisso's going back on us for we had a crew of mechanics who made them purr like kittens. Boy, how those motors could get us into trouble, but better still, the wat they got us out of unhealthy places! Well, when the liquor finally ran out, the party was definitely over. Bill Rowland and I staggered into a decrepit truck with the rest of the groggy gang and down the hill we slewed. But, the driver with his usual alcoholic accuracy found a ditch near the bottom of the grade and turned half over in it. Bill and I found ourselves in the muddiest hole France ever produced and most of the mud was rapidly filling our eyes and ears. What a mess! We finally got back to quarters and, with the help of our strikers or bat-men as the British call them, we peeled off our court-plaster clothes and turned in for all of about two hours of sleep. When we arrived at the Operations Tent next morning, A and B flights had been out for over an hour and a half. Most of them came fluttering in while we were still puttering over our busses and tuning up. They had chased a few Rumplers back into Hunland, been well Archied and had done some road strafing. Most of them were grumbling because they came back with holes in their wings and no confirmations to ask for. It sounded like a helluva war to hear them talk about it. Finally, five of us in C flight took off. Bill Rowland had a couple of fouled spark plugs to change and it looked like his hard luck to be left. However, her said he would catch us over Verdun if he could. So the five of us circled upwards and formed our V at about eight hundred meters. Then we headed toward the lines climbing all the while. But before turning away from the field I saw a Spad take off and start northward. It looked as if trusty old Bill was going to be with us after all. Just as we were passing the outer [[column 2]] forts of Verdun at about 3000 meters, Bill caught up with us. He shot past me so close I could see the big grin on his homely face. Then he zoomed upward to the seat of protector. Clouds were breaking up all around us, but not a Boche plane in sight when we crossed the lines at 3800 meters. Everything seemed very peaceful and pleasant until we had gone about a kilometer into Hun territory. Then I had my hard luck. Suddenly a spurt of fire shot from my engine and I knew a spark plug had blown. The tachometer immediately dripped a few hundred revs and there was nothing for me to do but shake my wings, pull a reversement and head for home. I could see that Bill Rowland was still grinning as he shot down to fill in the position I was forced to vacate. Well, my hard luck [[picture]] [[column 3]] was good for Bill, anyhow. Losing altitude all the time, I was more than thankful the Heinies were not plentiful in our neck of the woods. How they would have loved an old cripple like my number 21 at that time! Damned if I didn't miss the Belrain field completely because of a low lying bank of clouds. As I dropped lower and found an airdrome with planes scattered about, I brought the miserable, sputtering bus down to terra firma. It turned out to be Behonne, that distribution center just outside of Bar-le-Duc, so I let their hangar gang look over my motor. They found plenty the matter with it and condemned the whole works. So I loafed around all day until I found a Spad that suited my fancy and then hopped it back the few kilometers to our field. When I got to Belrain once more and rolled into the mess hall, I noticed the boys looked rather subdued and soon found the reason. Bill Rowland had gone to the Valhalla of air men. It seemed he had no sooner dropped down into my number five position than out of nowhere came a flock of silver-bellied Fokkers. Bill undoubtedly tried to drag them down after him under our formation just as soon as he saw the tracer bullets passing him, but they must have nailed him with their first burst. He went down in a vertical dive with his motor full on and cracked up just inside our lines. The doctors said he caught it right at the base of his skull, so Bill probably never knew what hit him, thank God. In the ensuing dog fight the boys got credit for two Fokkers one of which came down in flames and the other out of control. I sure felt like the devil about Bill. He was one of the best. But that's a fair sample of what some people call luck. I thought it was bad luck when my spark plug fouled and I had to come down. Bill probably thought he was lucky to get his plugs fixed in time to join the flight. Yes, we were both wrong. That's all there is to the story. Next day some of us flew over near Souilly to drop some flowers over the spot where Bill crashed. That night we all got plastered. That scar on my forehead? No, it wasn't a machine gun bullet. Someone shied a bottle of me when I raised my glass to drink a toast to "here's to the dead already Three cheers for the next one who dies."
