Above the French Lines — Stuart Walcott's Letters 2 - 22

Ah, ----[D]: Once more I take my pen in hand to lay at your feet the burdens of an overwrought (how is that word spelled?

) mind, said burdens being caused by a most unpleasant captain.

Just because I was in Paris for a day and a half without a permission, he handed me eight days of jail, and today for nothing at all he hauled me out in front of the entire division and got quite angered when I told him in extremely broken French that I hadn’t understood a word.

But as the jail doesn’t mean anything and doesn’t have to be served, I am not worrying very much.

The afternoon is misty and there isn’t a chance of flying, so he takes particular care that nobody leave the _piste_ though there is absolutely nothing to do there, no chance to get warm or comfortable.

Which at least gives me a perfect alibi for poor penmanship as I’m sitting in a machine and quite uncomfortable.

Thoughtless creature, so much like the rest of your sex, why did you not tell me where Albert was to be over here, or what he was going to do, or what service he was in, or at least that he was in France?

I

cleverly deduced the latter from your letter, but did not know where to find him.

When I got your letter I was at Pau, not far from Bordeaux (Didn’t I write you or postal-card you from there?

).

Afterward at Paris, I talked to a few very dressed up ensigns with wings on them somewhere (Walker is the only name I remember), and they told me that ---- was near Bordeaux and in the same group with themselves.

So if, etc. , I might have gone to see the Big Boy.

Yesterday I went to see Billy and another classmate in an artillery camp the other side of Paris.

They are officers of the U. S.

A.

and live as such, which incites in me much envy as I am still a mere corporal of France and treated with no more than my due--not quite as much I sometimes think.

That was the expedition that brought the jail.

Lots and lots of people are getting over here now.

I’ve seen Heyliger Church and Kelly Craig who are about to become aviators somewhere.

Porter Guest just became breveted (that is, a licensed pilot) and was considerably seen in Paris shortly after--no end of college friends are over here and even an occasional American girl is seen in Paris.

No friends as yet.

Your letter--I asked at Morgan Harjes about Miss ---- and found that she is at the front in a hospital, so I can’t very well find her in Paris.

I’m sorry as I would very much have liked to.

What one might call permanent people are very nice to know in Paris.

I don’t know anything about the front yet, but if I’m near Miss ----’s hospital, will try to get acquainted.

What you said about ---- and his going, I can pretty well appreciate.

There isn’t a thing in the world to worry us unmarried and very independent young men over here.

If something happens to us, it will bother you all back home a great deal more than us.

It’s very, very true that women have the heaviest and worst part of war.

I had to write a letter the other day to the mother of a pal over here who shot himself when out of his head.

A fine pilot and an exceptionally charming fellow, how I pity his poor mother.

It’s almost unbelievable the number of women one sees in black here in France.

Thank God, it can never become that bad at home, for the war will never get so close to us as it has to the French.

I haven’t the inspiration to compose an imaginative aeronautic thriller today about the experiences of a boy aviator.

Since last writing, have finished Nieuport at Avord, went to Pau and there did acrobacy, came here to Plessis-Belleville and started Spad, now await assignment to an _escadrille_ which ought to come within a week.

Haven’t broken any wood since Blériot days, but have been a bit more rational and done about average good work.

The preliminary training is over--combat training doesn’t amount to anything till we get to the front.

I’ll be on a monoplace machine surely.

So in my next you can expect to hear mighty tales of combating the Boche at a high altitude.

I’m beginning to hear that it’s nothing but a lot of routine work, few combats and pretty soon a frightful bore: I refuse to believe it and hang on to romance for all I’m worth.

Give my regards to a whole lot of people and tell them I haven’t quite given up all hope of a letter though almost.

My friends as a group are not very strong on letter writing.

There are only a very few shining exceptions like yourself and verily they do make of me the heart glad.

But enough of this, ’tis bootless, so I sign myself, Thine as of yore, STUART.

XIII

Escadrille Spa-84, Secteur Postal 181, Par A. C. M.

--Paris.

November 1, 1917. Well, I’m here--in sight of the front at last.

To date I haven’t been out there yet and won’t for a few days more as they take lots of care of new pilots and don’t feed them to the Boche right away.

Probably day after tomorrow the lieutenant in command will take me out to show me around the lines and after that I’ll take my place in patrols with the others.

The work is exclusively patrolling, establishing as it were a barrage against German machines and preventing as far as possible any incursions of the French lines.

As the big attack is over, there is comparatively little activity.

Sometimes one goes for a whole patrol without being fired on and without seeing an enemy machine anywhere near the lines.

During the three days I’ve been here, the group has accounted for several Boches without any losses whatever.

Young Bridgeman of the Lafayette Escadrille had a bullet through his fuselage just in front of his chest, but suffered no damage except from fright.

There are several _escadrilles_ in the group, a _groupe de combat_--it is called--all have Spads which makes it very nice.

The Lafayette, 124, is of our group and have adjoining barracks, which makes it very nice (I seem to repeat) for us lone Americans in French _escadrilles_.

We drop in there far too often and the first few nights I used the bed of the famous Bill Thaw’s roommate, away on permission.

Did I write you that one morning he brought in Whiskey to wake me up, and my eye no sooner opened than my head was buried under the covers.

Whiskey is a pet--a very large lion cub, which has unfortunately outgrown its utility as a pet and was sent yesterday, with its running mate, Soda, to the Zoo at Paris, to be a regular lion.

They are a very odd crowd--the members of the Lafayette Escadrille, a few nice ones and a bunch of rather roughnecks.

Their conversation is an eye opener for a new arrival.

Mostly about Paris, permissions, and the rue de Braye, but occasionally about work and that _is_ interesting.

Nonchalant doesn’t express it.

When Bridgy got shot up as mentioned above, they all kidded the life out of him and when he got the Croix de Guerre, they had him almost in tears--just because he’s the kiddable kind.

But in talking about the work--for instance, Jim Hall: “I _piquéd_ on him with full motor and got so darn close to him that when I wanted to open fire I was so scared of running into him that I had to yank out of the way and so never fired a single shot.

” Or Lufberry just mentions in passing that he got another Boche this morning, but those ---- observer people won’t give him credit for it.

He has fourteen official now and probably twice as many more never allowed him.

Some days ago during the attack he had seven fights in one day, brought down six of them and got credit for one.

Which must be discouraging.

XIV

November 5, 1917. Well ----[E]: Here I find myself writing to you without waiting for the usual two or three months to elapse.

Do you realize that it was over five and a half months ago that I left my native land?

It doesn’t seem near so long to me.

Just at present I have about thirteen hours a day to write, read the _Washington Star_ and _New York Times_, eat an occasional meal (we only get two over here, worse luck), build fires in the stove and stroll for exercise.

The rest of the time is devoted to sleep.

A

terribly hard life that of an aviator on the western front!

No _appels_ (meaning roll calls), discipline or inspections.

Only, if there should happen to be a good day, one might be wanted to fly a bit.

So far (I have only been out here a week) we have had perfectly ideal aviators’ weather--nice low misty clouds about 300 or 400 feet up, which quite prevent aerial activity and yet one is not bothered by mud or depressed by rain.

In the morning, one awakes, pokes his head out the window, says “What lo!

more luck, a nice light _brouillard_” and closes the window for a few hours more of sleep.

Really I have done more resting the past week than most people do in a lifetime!

To get statistical, I finished up at Pau (from where I sent to you a letter, _n’est-ce-pas?

_) a month ago, and then spent two very unpleasant weeks at Plessis-Belleville near Paris, at the big dépôt for the front, waiting to be sent to an _escadrille_, with nothing to do but a little desultory flying, nurse the system, food, weather, lodging, discipline, etc. Eventually my turn came and, with another American, I was dispatched to Esc.

SPA 84, where we arrived after the usual delay passing through Paris.

That’s one nice thing about this country: all roads lead to Paris.

Sent from one place to another, it is a safe wager that one goes _via_ Paris, and always takes forty-eight hours there and gets permission for it if he can.

There are a few Frenchmen there still, but on the streets one sees almost entirely American, British or British Colonial officers--occasionally a French aviator and of course clouds of sweet and innocent young things--yes?

Nearly all of my classmates are over here and get to Paris every once in a while, so all I have to do is to sit at the Café de la Paix and if I wait long enough, some one I know will surely come along.

Well, to get back on the track, we eventually found ourselves members of le-dit Esc.

SPA 84--one esc.

of a _groupe de chasse_, which means that we will have patrolling work to do mainly and not protection of observation or photo machines--which they tell me, is fortunate.

Also we have good machines--the best there are, which might not have happened had we been sent to another type of _escadrille_--purely good fortune.

The much advertised Lafayette Esc.

No. 124, is a member of the same group, is located near us and does the same work, which makes it much pleasanter for lone Americans.

We use their stove and tea of an afternoon quite freely as our quarters are new and not fixed up.

But say, when we do get going, everybody will be in to see us.

We’ll have a cosy, beautifully wallpapered room clustering around a stove....

The men of 124 are a rather good crowd--not much different from any crowd of Americans, a bit rough but most of it affected because they’re away from home, very hospitable, rather daredevil or hard-hearted (whichever you wish to call it--the way they talk about each other’s narrow escapes, coming falls, the mistakes or misfortunes of departed brothers, and there have been several) and very mixed, centering around Lieutenant Bill Thaw, of the French Army, who impresses me as being very much of a leader and an unusually fine type.

There is one tough nut from a Middle Western Siwash-like college, who was probably still ungraduated at 27, and a quiet, innocent looking kid who seems to have just got out of prep school; of course, the tough guy tears the little one.

Then there are a couple of old Légionnaires--rather superior and terribly tired of war, quite unenthusiastic, but I dare say congenial when one gets under their hide or fills it full of booze.

And Jim Hall, the author chap--quiet, reserved, almost simple in his lack of affectation and boyish in his enthusiasm.

(Gad, how he wants to get his Boche and he almost thinks he did the other day, but it wasn’t verified.

He followed him down from 1,500 to 200 metres, shooting all the time, and thinks he must have brought him down)....

Did I mention above that I am at present in the status, practically, of a non-flying member?

On arriving at the front, one is not rushed straightway to the cannon’s mouth, but rather allowed to get acclimated a bit first, to have a few preliminary voyages to look around, etc. During my week here, there has been little flying and I haven’t even seen the front, only heard the guns occasionally.

Of my three flights, two were just short _tours de champs_.

But the other: never in my wildest Blériot days did I do a wilder one.

Coming from Pau where I had tried some stunts, I thought I was a bit of an acrobat, second only to Navarre, Guynemer and a few others.

So arriving at a safe height, I started to go through the _répertoire_.

First came a loop which got around to the vertical point--a quarter turn and then slipped, ending in a vertical corkscrew or climbing barrel turn or whatever you want to call it--then losing momentum and just naturally tumbling.

I

didn’t know what was going on--only that it wasn’t right; they told me afterward.

After that came the _renversements_ and vertical turns, etc. , and not a thing came out.

Lost--I got lost thirty times and had to hunt all around to see where I was.

Nothing went right and I kept getting madder and madder and poorer and poorer.

They were all laughing down below and wondering what was going on up there.

Eventually the party ended--one of the old pilots told me that that one flight equalled about thirty hours over the lines and the commander advised against a repetition of the performance, and so I went and lay down.

Two hours later I began to feel that perhaps I could stand on my feet again; did you ever have _mal-de-mer_?

So now I really ought to begin to learn something, having acquired that all essential first knowledge of ignorance, which all good students should have.

And in the meantime perhaps I shall go and combat the Wily Hun.

Said W. Hun need not worry about my bothering him if he doesn’t keep fooling around under my nose till I’m ashamed not to go after him.

I’m not bloodthirsty a bit, especially till I learn to fly, and the lack of combats isn’t going to keep me awake nights for a while yet.

But the bunkmate seems to have gone to bed; it’s almost ten--a most unprecedented hour for me to be up, so the end approaches.

Kind remembrances as usual--use your discretion and don’t forget that long tale of “Washington Social Tid-Bits” you spoke of--gossip if you prefer....

As ever, STUART.

* * * * * The Next Day.

Addenda: Your letter on just arriving home has been with me some time and truly brought joy to my heart in this desolate land.

(The “desolate” seems to fit in though not applying to the land in question at all.

)...

Chester Snow is aviating under the auspices of the U. S.

Government.

I

last heard from him in a postal written on the last stop of the last triangle of his brevet, so he should be through training before much longer.

The other Chester, Bassett, is still at Avord, so I can not deliver your note to him....

Your other question referred to the army I am in, and is easily answered by saying that the U. S.

A.

has as yet done nothing but talk about taking us over.

“Us” now refers to upward of 200 Americans, I think, either in French _escadrilles_ or well advanced in the French schools.

Constantly all summer, we have been “going to be transferred in two weeks.

” Another quiet, non-flying, slightly rainy day has passed.

This isn’t perhaps the most ideal spot in the world for a winter resort, from the point of view of comforts, but, considering the ease of conscience because one is not in the position to be called _embusqué_, it is really not half bad.

It’s starting to rain again rather harder; I wonder if the roof will keep out water?

Yours, etc. , B.

S.

W.

[Illustration: WAR CROSS WITH PALM, AWARDED IN RECOGNITION OF WALCOTT’S SERVICES]

XV

November 10, 1917. Evening.

You know November in France.

I’ve been here almost two weeks now and am still _à l’entrainement_, that is, I haven’t started in to do any regular work yet.

Only five times have I been able to fly in two weeks.

But I’ve got my own machine, and mechanic, everything is in order and I’ve been assigned to a patrol the last two mornings when it rained.

Tomorrow again at 8:50 with four others--patrol for one hour and fifty minutes at about 15,000 feet, back and forth over our sector, sometimes over our own lines, sometimes in Bochie.

I’m getting very impatient to get started.

In what few flights I’ve had, I’ve been working on acrobacy a bit and am gradually learning a few simple things; twice I stayed up a little too long and had to lie down a few hours afterward, almost seasick.

I like Spa 84 very much indeed.

The Frenchmen there are much more regular fellahs than most of those I’ve been with in the schools.

Wertheimer, a sergeant, is a sort of informal and unadmitted chief of the _sous-officiers_.

It is he that speaks English and has helped us a lot in getting settled, etc. Very much of a gentleman he is, and understands a bit Anglo-Saxon customs and eccentricities, always gay and an indefatigable worker.

We have all been arranging the one big room of our barracks--dining room, reading room, and probably eventually American bar.

The walls are covered with green cloth, green paper (of two different shades and neither quite the same as the cloth), red cloth (on top as a sort of frieze) and red paper.

The ceiling is done in white cloth to keep in heat and lighten the room.

A monumental task it has been, especially as materials are hard to get and expensive.

Wertem (as Wertheimer is called) and Deborte have done most of the work.

Deborte is also _chef de popote_, which means housekeeper, and a very efficient man.

For four francs per day we are fed amazingly well, especially when one realizes that we are near the front in a country which has had three years of war.

Deborte hasn’t the pleasantest manner in the world at times, but usually is very agreeable, willing to tell me things about flying or the _escadrille_, always ready to work, and a dependable man in the air.

And Verber who rooms with Wertem,--he speaks a little English, has a great deal of trouble understanding it, but is picking up.

Wears a monocle all the time because he’s got a bum eye, carries a stick and has an extremely eccentric appearance, but withal is very agreeable and a very valuable man.

He has the habit of taking long trips all alone far into Germany just to see what is going on.

Pinot is the name of the little roly-poly chap everybody calls Bul-Bul, who used to be a mechanic and now is a very good, merry pilot.

He has a great _pension_ toward Pinard, is violently but not at all objectionably non-aristocratic, is forever laughing or kidding some one, walks on his hands to amuse people, and is the delight of all the _mécanos_.

Demeuldre is a very quiet sort of school boy type who has been a pilot of biplanes and reconnaissance machines for a long time.

He came to the escadrille recently with a record of two Boches as pilot of a biplane (that is, his machine gun man did the shooting and they both get credit), and a few days ago brought down a German in flames, his first as _pilote de chasse_.

There are two others away on permission, whom I don’t know yet.

XVI SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE,

November 13, 1917. Dear Father: Campbell was in the Lafayette Escadrille and they are a member of the same group as Spa 84, so I have asked them about him.

He was on a patrol with another chap, they attacked some Boches and when it was over the other chap was alone.

Campbell was brought down in German territory and so reported missing.

I believe that the chap he was with has seen and talked to Campbell’s father or some close relative since.

Another chap named Bulkley was brought down in similar circumstances about the first of September.

Ten days ago, word was received from the American Embassy that he had communicated with them, a prisoner in Germany.

There are many similar cases, where men brought down with crippled machines or wounded escape destruction by a miracle.

The only sure thing is when a machine goes down in flames or is seen to lose a wing or two.

For instance, there are two officers in the group who are in the best of health and daily working.

Several months ago, they were on patrol together, collided in the air.

One cut the tail rigging completely off the other and they separated, one without a tail and the other with various parts of a tail mixed among the cables and struts of one side of his machine.

They both landed in France, one on his wheels followed by a _capotage_ or somersault turnover, the other quite completely upside down.

Then a term in the hospital and back they are again.

Kenneth Marr, an American, had the commands of both his tail controls cut in a combat, the rudder and elevator, leaving him nothing but the _aileron_--the lateral balance control and the motor.

He landed with only a skinned nose for casualties and got a decoration for it.

Another chap in an attack on captive balloons, _drachens_, dove for something like 10,000 feet _vertically_ and with _full motor_ on, thereby gaining considerable speed as you can imagine.

He came right on top of the balloon, shot and to keep from hitting it, yanked as roughly as he could, flattening out his dive in the merest fraction of a second.

Imagine the strain on the machine!

When he got home, all the wires had several inches sag in them; the metal connections of the cables in the struts and wood of the wings had bit into the wood enough to give the sag.

Machines are built to stand immense pressure on the under side of the wings.

In some acrobatic manoeuvres I was trying the other day, I made mistakes and caused the machine to stall and then fall in such a way that the full weight was supported by the _upper surface_--by the wires which in most machines are supposed merely to support the weight of the wings when the machine is on the ground.

Yes, the Spad is a well built machine, the nearest thing to perfection in point of strength, speed and climbing power I’ve seen yet.

Of course it’s heavy and that’s why they put 150-230 HP in them.

The other school, that of a light machine with a light motor--depending for its success on lack of weight rather than excess of power, may supplant the heavier machine in time--I can’t tell.

So, as anyone who knows has said right along, there is a long way to go in the development of the J N or even the little tri-plane, before American built planes get to the front.

Of the bombing game, I don’t know anything at all.

Yesterday there was a _revue_ here in honor of Guynemer, and decorations for the pilots of the group who had won them.

Three Americans received the Croix de Guerre--members of the Lafayette Escadrille.

Lufberry, the American ace, carried the American flag presented to the _escadrille_ by Mrs. McAdoo and the employees of the Treasury Department--besides the two aviation emblems of France.

He was called to receive his decoration “for having in the course of one day held seven combats, descended one German plane in flames, and forced five others to land behind their lines” (which means that he is officially credited with one, his thirteenth, and that the other five though probably brought down, do not count for him because there were not the necessary witnesses required by the French regulation).

Being the bearer of the flag, he was a very worried man to know what to do with the flag when he should go up to get his medal, till one of the fellows in 124 (the Lafayette) came to his rescue.

For a military _revue_ it was decidedly amusing.

Aviators are not very military.

The chief of one of the _escadrilles_ was commissioned to command the mechanics who are plain soldiers with rifles and steel helmets for the occasion.

He is a bit of a clown and amused the entire gathering, kidding with the officers.

The pilots of each of the five _escadrilles_ were in more or less formation, most of them with hands in their pockets for it was chilly, and presenting a mixture of uniforms unparalleled in its heterogeneity.

Every branch of the service represented and endless personal ideas in dress.

Because of the occasion, _repos_ has been granted to the entire group for the afternoon, another group taking over our patrols.

So that after the _revue_, everyone had the afternoon to waste--a sunny day which is quite unusual this month.

Within a half hour, every machine that was in working order was in the air--forming into groups and then off for the lines, just looking for trouble--a voluntary patrol they call it.

Which opened my eyes a bit to the spirit in the French service after three years of war.

Word from Paris that those Americans in the French service who have demanded their release to join the U. S.

A.

have obtained that release--which probably means that all we wait for now ...

is the commissions.

This afternoon I took another trip with one of the old pilots to look over the sector.

We stayed over France and didn’t get into trouble although there were lots of Boches around.

Hope to get really started soon....

An amusing one this morning: two pilots from the group were on patrol and attacked a single German about two kilometres behind the German lines.

They completely outmanoeuvred him, he got cold feet and started for the French lines, giving himself up.

The funniest part about it is that the machine gun of one of the attackers was jammed and he couldn’t possibly have hurt the Boche--just had the nerve to stay and throw a bluff.

They came back to camp just before dark this evening, one of them flying the German machine and the other guarding him in a Spad.

The machine is an Albatross monoplane (biplane)--finished in silver with big black crosses on the wings and tail--a really beautiful thing.

It flew around camp for several minutes before landing.

It is the second machine that has been scared down since I’ve been out here.

XVII AT THE FRONT,

SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE,

November 17, 1917. At present things are hopelessly slow on account of bad weather, so I have a good deal of time to write and naught to write of.

I still am waiting for my baptism of active service which is assigned for each day and held up on account of fog, low clouds or rain.

In the afternoon it usually lifts a little, not enough to fly over the lines, but sufficient to permit a little _vol d’entrainement_, a practice flight around the field.

I’ve been taking every chance to learn to fly, practicing reversements, vertically banked turns, 90° nose dives, etc. Two day ago, we had a very interesting mimic combat in the air.

The Boche machine, which has been captured, and a Spad, both driven by very clever pilots, manoeuvred for position during fifteen or twenty minutes at 1,000 feet or less, back and forth over the field, doing almost every possible thing in the air--changing direction with incredible rapidity, diving, climbing, wing slipping, upside down dives--everything under the sun.

Two of them were at it again today in two Spads, just manoeuvring.

What a lot there is to learn!

When I got through acrobacy at Pau, I had the impression that that kind of stuff was relatively easy--now I know different.

For the present I’m working on the system of try one thing at a time--get that fairly well and then commence another.

And small doses--ten or fifteen minutes for an acrobatic flight, not more, because one can easily get dangerously sick in a very short time.

Not that there is any particular peril in getting ill in the air, only it’s beastly uncomfortable!

XVIII AT THE FRONT--SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE.

November 30, 1917. The rumor at the Lafayette Escadrille this evening is that they have been at last transferred.

Of course they had similar rumors many times before.

For myself I am becoming rather indifferent, very well satisfied here except for weather, and getting what I came over here for.

Father mentioned something about a monitor’s job (after I had had experience at the front).

My present inclination is decidedly against the idea.

There is no job in the world I like less to think of and there are plenty of people who want to get comfortably settled in the rear, so let them, say I, and may they enjoy it.

It is not a very pleasant job.

As a retirement after a period of service at the front it is another matter.

Of all people I can think of I have the smallest right to an _embusqué_ job at present--so here I hope to stay.

Whether I fly with an American or French uniform I don’t care very much at the present moment.

I had rather get a Boche than any commission in the army, but one cannot always tell about the future; perhaps after a few good scares I’ll be ready to jump at a monitor’s job.

XIX AT THE FRONT,

December 1, 1917. I tried to give you all some idea of the strength of a Spad in a letter a while ago.

At home people speak of a factor of safety, meaning the number of times stronger the machine is than is necessary for plain flying.

The Spad is made so that a man can’t bust it no matter what he does in the air--dive as far and as fast as he can and stop as brutally as he can--it stands the racket.

Of course, motors do stop and if it happens over a mountain range--well, that’s just hard luck.

Have had a few patrols since last I wrote.

One at a high height, 4,000-4,500 metres, considerably above the clouds which almost shut out the ground below, wonderfully beautiful sight but beastly cold, and a couple when the clouds were low and solid.

The patrol stays at just the height of the clouds, hiding in them and slipping out again to look around.

If it gets below, the enemy anti-aircraft guns pepper it whenever near the lines and at a low altitude that is rather awkward--so the patrol shows itself as little as possible.

It’s lots of sport to try to keep with the patrol: be behind the chief of patrol, see him disappear and then bump into a fog bank, a low-hanging cloud and not see a darn thing.

Then dive down out of the cloud wondering whether the other guy is right underneath or not;

shoot out of the cloud and see him maybe 500 yards away going at right angles.

Then bank up and turn around fast and give her the gear--full speed to catch up and so on.

See a Boche regulating artillery fire, start to manoeuvre into range and zip!

he’s out of sight in the clouds and the next you see he is beating it far back of his lines.

Not very dangerous this weather, but lots of fun.

XX

December 3rd, 1917. Dear ----[F]: Thanks for the merry, merry wishes for the gay Xmas season and I’ll try to remember them when the day comes along.

Sundays and holidays are not very much noticed here at the front, except that on Sunday the mechanics all get full of _pinard_ and song and devilment--the _pinard_ (meaning cheap red ink used by the French in place of drinking water) is of course responsible for the two latter.

In the villages, the entire male population likewise drinks much wine and everyone--man, woman, child, dog, and domestic animal, parades the streets--dressed up all like a picture book (applying mostly to women and children).

Occasionally they cross the sidewalk, but the middle of the street is _the_ place to walk.

One Sunday, I went to church, the first time since last Easter, I think, to attend the mass given for the departed brethren of the _escadrille_.

The chapel is in a little town a few miles from our camp.

Along in the Middle Ages or anyway a long time ago, there was a beautiful cathedral there--now the town is insignificantly small.

The front of the cathedral is standing almost in its entirety and the walls for a little way back, dwindling down into glorious ruins and finally tumbled masses of rock and stray pillars.

Where the back wall once stood, there now runs a little brook (I almost called it bubbling, but it happens to be an unusually dead and not over-clean little stream).

The chapel is a place about as big as a minute, snuggling in beside the big front wall of the ancient cathedral.

The service was meaningless to me--what wasn’t Latin was French.

I followed the fellow in front of me and didn’t miss it once on the getting up and down (fortunately, _militaires_ don’t have to kneel, I suppose because they appreciate the fact that most of them wear breeches made by French tailors).

But they fooled me once.

What must have been the village belle (what a village!

) passed a little button bag affair in baby blue ribbon, and gathered up the shekels.

I dropped mine in and horror--here comes the young sister with an identical bag and asks for more and I was unprepared and had to turn her down amidst my blushes.

I thought she was working on the other side of the house as we used to do at evening service and to this day I don’t know why they took up two collections though it has been explained to me three times in French.

Have had some very pleasant trips over the German border (present, not 1914), have watched a few Archies bursting at a safe distance away and seen some specks which were Boche planes, but am not ready to write a book yet.

Yesterday morning we had the first sortie at 6:45 daylight.

A

solid bank of clouds over the camp here at 2,000 metres.

The lines are parallel to a river and a few kilometres north.

The edge of the cloud bank was over the river, sharp as if cut by a knife and all Germany cloudless.