From "Flying in Flanders" by
Willy Coppens:
On the 14th [of April, 1918] the weather cleared and I did a patrol. On the 15th, I attacked the Houthlust balloon at a height of 3,900 feet. It was at 8:07 A.M. Although I fired three times and at point-blank range, it did not catch fire. To make more certain, I slowed down, flying horizontally, and approached -- firing at the last half-second. Then, as though relieved of a weight, it suddenly shot up and I collided with it. My wheels struck the gas-bag, which gave under the shock, although it capsized my machine and my tail rose up into the air. My right wing also touched the envelope and for a second I pivoted on my nose, while the balloon sagged and sank under the weight. I had the presence of mind to switch the engine off with the control-lever switch and my airscrew, which had been turning over slowly, stopped dead. At this moment, I said to myself (in the following actual words): "That's the end! It is bound to happen to those who risk too much."
The next instant my machine began to slide across the spongy thing that gave way beneath me as we advanced, until it plunged over the "side", nose-first, gathering speed as it fell. The propeller started spinning, like the wings of a windmill in a puff of wind; I took my thumb off the button-switch on the control-lever. opened the throttle, and -- my machine scarcely any the worse for the experience -- took to its heels for our lines, while the balloon, torn and leaking, fell to the ground, where it luckily burst into flames, to such good purpose that the conflagration was seen from our lines and the victory could be credited to me.
The tale of my adventure left many people unconvinced. It was necessary for me to point to the traces of white "down" from the side of the gas-bag on my lower wing and the front right-hand interplance strut, as well as the marks on the wood of my propeller of the outline of a cord, struck by one blade, before I could convince the unbelievers.