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did a couple of "Immelman turns" (instead of banking, turn upside-
down, and pull back), and waved good-bye. Rather childish, but they
were good fellows, and really interested in what the bus would do.
All went well as far as Paris, where I had one of the classic Paris
breakdowns, though genuine enough as it chanced. Landed in the
suburbs, got a mechanic to work, and had time for a delicious lunch
at a small workmen's restaurant. Treated myself to a half bottle of
sound Medoc and a villainous cigar with the coffee, and got back
just in time to find them testing my motor. The rest of the trip was
uneventful. I arrived here in the early afternoon and installed myself
for the night in these superb quarters.
This is the classic hour for French pilots to foregather in excited
groups to expliquer les coups—an expressive phrase for which I can
recall no exact equivalent in English. They (or rather we) spend a full
hour every evening in telling just how it was done, or why it was not
done, and so on, ad infinitum. Snatches of characteristic talk reach
your ears—(I will attempt a rough translation). "You poor fish! why
didn't you dive that time they had us bracketed?—I had to follow
you and I got an éclat as big as a dinner-plate within a foot of my
back."
"Did you see me get that Boche over the wood? I killed the observer
at the first rafale, rose over the tail, and must have got the pilot
then, for he spun clear down till he crashed."
"See the tanks ahead of that wave of assault? Funny big crawling
things they looked—that last one must have been en panne—the
Boches were certainly bouncing shells off its back!"
"Raoul and I found a troop of Boche cavalry on a road—in khaki, I
swear. Thought they were English till we were within one hundred
metres. Then we gave them the spray—funniest thing you ever
saw!"
"Yes—I'll swear I saw some khaki, too. Saw a big column of Boche
infantry and was just going to let 'em have it when I saw horizon-
blue guards. Prisoners, of course."
You can imagine pages of this sort of thing—every night. At the bar
we have a big sign: "Ici on explique les coups." At the mess,
another: "Défense d'expliquer les coups ici." There are limits.

As mess-officer I have been going strong of late—nearly every day

one or two or three "big guns" (grosses huiles, the French call them)
of aviation drop in to lunch or dinner. Down from a patrol at 10.30,
and scarcely out of the machine, when up dashes our cook, knife in
one hand and ladle in the other, fairly boiling over with anxiety.
"Commandant X—— and his staff are coming to lunch—I can't leave
the stove—what on earth shall we do?"
An hour and a half. Just time for the cyclist to buzz down to the
nearest town for some extra hors d'œuvres, salad, and half a dozen
old bottles. In the end everything runs off smoothly, and when the
white wine succeeds the red, the usual explication des coups begins
—highly entertaining inside stuff, from which one could cull a whole
backstairs history of French aviation. It has been my privilege to
meet many famous men in this way—great "aces" and great
administrators of the flying arm; men whose names are known
wherever European aviators gather. I wish I could tell you half the
drolleries they recount, or reproduce one quarter of the precise,
ironical, story-telling manner of a cultivated Frenchman.
A captain who lunched with us to-day, bearer of an historic name,
was recently decorated (somewhat against his will) for forcing a
Boche to land in our lines. The truth is that in the single combat high
above the lines, the captain's motor failed and he coasted for home,
maneuvering wildly to escape the pursuing Hun's bullets. A few
kilometres within our lines the German motor failed also, and down
they came together—the Boche a prisoner, the Frenchman covered
with not particularly welcome glory. Not all our guests knew the
story, and one high officer asked the captain how he maneuvered to
drive down the Boche. "Oh, like this," erratically said the captain,
illustrating with frantic motions of an imaginary stick and rudder.
"But the Boche—?" inquired the other, puzzled, "how did you get him
down—where was he?"
"Ah, the Boche; he was behind me," answered the captain.
Another officer, recently promoted to a very high position in the
aviation, is a genuine character, a "numero" as they say here. He
recently spent many hours in perfecting a trick optical sight,
guaranteed to down a Boche at any range, angle, or speed. He
adored his invention, which, he admitted, would probably end the
war when fully perfected, and grew quite testy when his friends told
him the thing was far too complicated for anything but laboratory
use. At last, though he had reached a non-flying rank and had not
flown for months, he installed the optical wonder on a single-seater
and went out over the lines to try it out. As luck would have it, he
fell in with a patrol of eight Albatrosses, and the fight that followed
has become legendary. Boche after Boche dove on him, riddling his
plane with bullets, while the inventor, in a scientific ecstasy, peered
this way and that through his sight, adjusting set-screws and making
hasty mental notes. By a miracle he was not brought down, and in
the end a French patrol came to his rescue. He had not fired a shot!
At lunch the other day some one asked what sort of a chap this
inventor was, and the answer was so exceedingly French that I will
reproduce it word for word: "He detests women and dogs; he has a
wife he adores, and a dog he can't let out of his sight." A priceless
characterization, I think, of a testy yet amiable old martinet.
One of my friends here had the luck, several months ago, to force a
Zeppelin to land. A strange and wonderful experience, he says,
circling for an hour and a half about the huge air-monster, which
seemed to be having trouble with its gas. He poured bullets into it
until his supply was exhausted, and headed it off every time it tried
to make for the German lines. All the while it was settling, almost
insensibly, and finally the Hun crew began to throw things out—
machine-guns, long belts of cartridges, provisions, furniture, a
motley collection. In the end it landed intact in our lines—a great
catch. The size of the thing is simply incredible. This one was at
least ninety feet through, and I hesitate to say how many hundred
feet long.
Three more of our boys gone, one of them my most particular pal.
Strange as it seems, I am one of the oldest members of the
squadron left. We buried Harry yesterday. He was the finest type of
young French officer—an aviator since 1913; volunteer at the
outbreak of war; taken prisoner, badly wounded; fourteen months in
a German fortress; escaped, killing three guards, across Germany in
the dead of winter, sick and with an unhealed wound; back on the
front, after ten days with his family, although he need never have
been a combatant again. A charming, cultivated, witty companion,
one of the most finished pilots in France, and a soldier whose only
thought was of duty, his loss is a heavy one for his friends, his
family, and his country. For a day and a night he lay in state in the
church of a near-by village, buried in flowers sent by half the
squadrons of France; at his feet his tunic ablaze with crosses and
orders. It was my turn to stand guard the morning his family arrived,
and I was touched by the charming simple piety of the countryfolk,
who came in an unending stream to kneel and say a prayer for the
soul of the departed soldier. Old women with baskets of bread and
cheese on their arms brought pathetic little bouquets; tiny girls of
seven or eight came in solemnly alone, dropped a flower on Harry's
coffin, and knelt to pray on their little bare knees. The French
peasants get something from their church that most of us at home
seem to miss.
At last the family came—worn out with the long sad journey from
their château in middle France. Harry's mother, slender, aristocratic,
and courageous, had lost her other son a short time before, and I
was nearer tears at her magnificent self-control than if she had
surrendered to her grief. Her bearing throughout the long mass and
at the grave-side was one of the finest and saddest things I have
ever seen in my life. Poor old Harry—I hope he is in a paradise
reserved for heroes—for he was one in the truest sense of the word.

I got absolutely lost the other day, for the second time since I have
been on the front. I was flying at about nineteen thousand feet, half
a mile above a lovely sea of clouds. I supposed I was directly over
the front, but in reality there was a gale of wind blowing, drifting me
rapidly "chez Boche." Three thousand feet below, and miles to the
northeast, a patrol of German scouts beat back and forth, a string of
dots, appearing and disappearing among the cloudy peaks and
cañons. Too strong and too far in their lines to attack, I was
alternately watching them and my clock—very cold and bored.
Suddenly, straight below me and heading for home at top speed, I
saw a big Hun two-seater, with enormous black crosses on his
wings.
At such a moment—I confess it frankly—there seem to be two
individuals in me who in a flash of time conclude a heated argument.
Says one, "You're all alone; no one will ever know it if you sail calmly
on, pretending not to see the Boche."
"See that Boche," says the other; "you're here to get Germans—go
after him."
"See here," puts in the first, who is very clever at excuses, "time's
nearly up, petrol's low, and there are nine Hun scouts who will drop
on you if you dive on the two-seater."
"Forget it, you poor weak-kneed boob!" answers number two
heatedly. "Dive on that Hun and be quick about it!"
So I dived on him, obeying automatically and almost reluctantly the
imperious little voice. With an eye to the machine-gunner in the rear,
I drove down on him almost vertically, getting in a burst point-blank
at his port bow, so to speak. Pushing still farther forward on the
stick, I saw his wheels pass over me like a flash, ten yards up. Pulled
the throttle wide open, but the motor was a second late in catching,
so that when I did an Immelman turn to come up under his tail, I
was too far back and to one side. As I pulled out of the upside-down
position, luminous sparks began to drive past me, and a second later
I caught a glimpse of the goggled Hun observer leaning intently over
his cockpit as he trained his gun on me.
But beside old Slapping Sally his machine was as a buzzard to a
falcon; in a breath I was under his tail, had reared almost vertically,
and was pouring bullets into his underbody. "You will shoot me up,
will you?" I yelled ferociously—just like a bad boy in a back-yard
fight. "Take that, then—" at which dramatic instant a quart of
scalding oil struck me in the face, half in the eyes, and half in my
open mouth. I never saw the Boche again, and five minutes later,
when I had cleaned my eyes out enough to see dimly, I was totally
lost. Keeping just above the clouds to watch for holes, I was ten
long minutes at one hundred and thirty miles per hour in getting to
the lines, at a place I had never seen before.
Landed at a strange aerodrome, filled Sally up, and flew home
seventy-five miles by map. As usual, every one had begun the old
story of how I was not a bad chap at bottom, and had many noble
qualities safely hidden away—when I strolled into the bar. Slight
sensation as usual, tinged with a suspicion of mild disappointment.
Almost with regret, I have turned faithful old Slapping Sally over to a
newly arrived young pilot, and taken a new machine, the last
lingering echo of the dernier cri in fighting single-seaters. I had
hoped for one for some time, and now the captain has allotted me a
brand-new one, fresh from the factory. It is a formidable little
monster, squat and broad-winged, armed to the teeth, with the
power of two hundred and fifty wild horses bellowing out through its
exhausts.
With slight inward trepidations I took it up for a spin after lunch. The
thing is terrific—it fairly hurtles its way up through the air, roaring
and snorting and trembling with its enormous excess of power. Not
half so pleasant as Sally, but a grimly practical little dragon of
immense speed and potential destructiveness. At a couple of
thousand feet over the field, I shut off the motor and dived to try it
out. It fairly took my breath away—behind my goggles my eyes filled
with tears; my body rose up in the safety-belt, refusing to keep pace
with the machine's formidable speed. In a wink, I was close to the
ground, straightened out, and rushing low over the blurred grass at
a criminal gait—never made a faster landing. It is a tribute to man's
war-time ingenuity, but, for pleasure, give me my old machine.
The psychology of flying would be a curious study, were it not so
difficult to get frankly stated data—uninfluenced by pride, self-
respect, or sense of morale. I only know my own feelings in so far as
they represent the average single-seater pilot. Once in the air, I am
perfectly contented and at home, somewhat bored at times on dull
days, or when very high and cold. On the other hand, I have never
been strapped in a machine to leave the ground, without an
underlying slight nervousness and reluctance; no great matter, and
only an instant's mental struggle to overcome, but enough perhaps
to prevent me from flying the very small and powerful machines, for
pleasure, after the war. I often wonder if other pilots have the same
feeling—it's nothing to be ashamed of, because it does not, in the
slightest, prevent one's doing one's duty, and disappears the
moment one is in the air. I can give you its measure in the fact that I
always prefer, when possible, to make a long journey in my machine,
to doing it in the deadly slow war-time trains. Still, it's a choice of
evils. It is hard to give reasons, but certainly flying is not an
enjoyable sport, like riding or motoring, once the wonder of it has
worn off; simply a slightly disagreeable but marvelously fast means
of transport. The wind, the noise, the impossibility of conversation,
the excessive speed—are all unpleasant features. These are partially
redeemed by the never-ceasing wonder of what one sees. One's
other senses are useless in the air, but what a feast for the eyes!
Whole fruitful domains spread out beneath one, silvery rivers,
smoking cities, perhaps a glimpse of the far-off ragged Alps. And
when, at eighteen or twenty thousand feet, above a white endless
sea of clouds, one floats almost unconscious of time and space in
the unearthly sunshine of the Universe, there are moments when
infinite things are very close.

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