The group which he had attacked was composed of five airplanes, flying in echelon, three above, two below.  The two which flew lowest were assaulted by one of our escadrilles, and the pilots, seeing a machine fall in flames, thought at first it was their own victory.  “It was my first one, falling from the upper story,” Guynemer explained drolly, in his Stanislas-student manner.  With his “terrible oiseau” he had waged battle with the three pilots “of the upper story,” and had forced them down one after the other.  “The first one,” he said, “had a half-burned card in his pocket which had certainly been given him that same morning, judging by the date, which read in German:  ’I think you are very successful in aviation.’  I have his photograph with his Gretchen.  What German heads!  He wore the same decorations as that one who fell in the Bus wood....”  Is this not Achilles setting his foot on Hector and taking possession of his trophies?  Guynemer’s heart was stone to his enemies.  He saw in them the wrongs done to France, the invasion of our country, the destruction of our towns and villages, our desolation, and our dead, so many of our dead whose deserted homes weep for them.  His was not to give pity, but to do justice.  And in doing justice, when an adversary whom he had forced down was wounded, he brought him help with all his native generosity.

For him, thirty seconds had separated the Capitol from the Tarpeian Rock.  After his triple victory came his incredible fall, unheard of, fantastic, from a height of 3000 meters, the Spad falling at the highest speed down to earth, and rebounding and planting itself in the ground like a picket.  “I was completely stupefied for twenty-four hours, but have escaped with merely immense fatigue (especially where I wear my looping-the-loop straps, which saved my life), and a gash in my knee presented to me by my magneto.  During that 3000-meter tumble I was planning the best way to hit the ground (I had the choice of sauces):  I found the way, but there were still 95 out of 100 chances for the wooden cross. Enfin, all right!” And this postscript followed:  “Sixth time I have been brought down:  record!”

Lieutenant V.F., of the Dragon Escadrille, colliding with a comrade’s airplane at a height of 3000 meters, had a similar fall onto the Avocourt wood, and was similarly astounded to find himself whole.  He had continued maneuvering during the five or six minutes of the descent.  “Soon,” he wrote, “the trees of the Hesse forest came in sight; in fact, they seemed to approach at a dizzy rate of speed.  I switched off so as not to catch fire, and a few meters before reaching the trees I nosed up my machine with all my strength so that it would fall flat.  There was a terrible shock!  One tree higher than the rest broke my right wings, and made me turn as if I were on a pivot.  I closed my eyes.  There was a second shock, less violent than I could have hoped:  the machine fell on