sent to Paris for further treatment. Rockwell's wounds were less
serious and he insisted on flying again almost immediately.

A week or so later Chapman was wounded. Considering the number of
fights he had been in and the courage with which he attacked it was a
miracle he had not been hit before. He always fought against odds and
far within the enemy's country. He flew more than any of us, never
missing an opportunity to go up, and never coming down until his
gasolene was giving out. His machine was a sieve of patched-up bullet
holes. His nerve was almost superhuman and his devotion to the cause
for which he fought sublime. The day he was wounded he attacked four
machines. Swooping down from behind, one of them, a Fokker, riddled
Chapman's plane. One bullet cut deep into his scalp, but Chapman, a
master pilot, escaped from the trap, and fired several shots to show
he was still safe. A stability control had been severed by a bullet.
Chapman held the broken rod in one hand, managed his machine with the
other, and succeeded in landing on a near-by aviation field. His wound
was dressed, his machine repaired, and he immediately took the air in
pursuit of some more enemies. He would take no rest, and with bandaged
head continued to fly and fight.

The escadrille's next serious encounter with the foe took place a few
days later. Rockwell, Balsley, Prince, and Captain Thenault were
surrounded by a large number of Germans, who, circling about them,
commenced firing at long range. Realizing their numerical inferiority,
the Americans and their commander sought the safest way out by
attacking the enemy machines nearest the French lines. Rockwell,
Prince, and the captain broke through successfully, but Balsley found
himself hemmed in. He attacked the German nearest him, only to receive
an explosive bullet in his thigh. In trying to get away by a vertical