Wilkins has been having a tough time of it, and at last, in a three-hundred-foot wing-slip, has lost his comrades altogether, and is flying erratically here and there, too intent and too new at the game to watch behind him. Suddenly, two sparks of fire like tiny shooting stars whizz by him, a long rip appears in the fabric of his lower wing, and next moment, clear and unmistakable, he hears, "Tut, tut, tut, tut." He nearly twists his head off, and perceives with horror that five sinister forms, gray, sharp-snouted, and iron-crossed, are hemming him in, above, below, behind. His thoughts, which occupy possibly a second and a half, may be set down roughly as follows: "Five Boche single-seaters—too many—must beat it—how? Oh, yes—climb in zigzags and circles, heading for our lines."
Leaving Wilkins for a moment, I must tell you a curious thing which shows that men have much in common with dogs. You know how, in his own yard, a fox-terrier will often put a mastiff to flight—and a fox-terrier, at that, who fears for his life when he ventures on the street? The same thing applies to flying—over the German lines you have a sort of a small, insignificant feeling, look at things pessimistically, and are apt to let your imagination run too freely. The minute you are over friendly country, that changes: your chest immediately expands several inches, you become self-assertive, rude, and over-confident. Thus Wilkins.
In a wild series of zooms and half-spirals, to throw off his pursuers' aim, he reaches his own lines safely, and finds that all but one Albatross have given up the chase. One of them, possibly a beginner anxious for laurels, is not to be thrown off; so the American resolves to have a go at him.
They are at twelve thousand feet. The German is behind and slightly below, maneuvering to come up under the Spad's tail. A second's thought, and Wilkins banks sharply to the left, circles, and dives before the Boche has realized that it is an air-attack. With the wind screaming through his struts, he sees the enemy's black-leather helmet fair on the cross hairs of the telescope, and presses the catch of the gun. A burst of half a dozen shots, a pull and a heave to avoid collision. As he rushes past the Albatross, he sees the pilot sink forward in his seat; the machine veers wildly, begins to dive, to spin. Good God—he's done it—what luck—poor devil!
And that night at mess, Wilkins stands champagne for the crowd.
Young H—— has had another wild time. He ran across a very fast German two-seater ten miles behind our lines, fought him till they were twenty miles inside the Boche lines, followed him down to his own aerodrome, circled at fifty feet in a perfect hail of bullets, killed the Hun pilot as he walked (or ran) from machine to hangars, riddled the hangars, rose up, and flew home.
He shot away over four hundred rounds—a remarkable amount from a single-seater bus, as the average burst is only five or six shots before one is forced to maneuver for another aim.
On a raw foggy day, in the cozy living-room of our apartment, with a delicious fire glowing in the stove, and four of the fellows having a lively game of bridge, one is certainly comfortable—absurdly so. Talk about the hardships of life on the front!
The mess is the best I have seen, and very reasonable for these times—a dollar and a half per day each, including half a bottle of wine, beer, or mineral water at each meal. A typical dinner might be: excellent soup, entrée, beefsteak, mashed potatoes, dessert, nuts, figs, salad. While no man would appreciate an old-fashioned home-type American meal more than I, one is forced to admit that the French have made a deep study of cookery and rations designed to keep people in the best shape. There is a certain balance to their meals—never too much concentrated, starchy, or bulky food. The variety, considering the times, is really wonderful. Breakfasts my pal and I cook ourselves, occasionally breaking out some delicacy such as kidneys en brochette.
We have an amusing system of fines for various offenses: half a franc if late for a meal; a franc if over fifteen minutes late; half a franc for throwing bread at the table; half a franc for breaking a tail-skid (on a "cuckoo"); a franc for a complete smash; a franc and a half if you hurt yourself to boot; and so on. A fellow hit a tree a while ago, had a frightful crash, and broke both his legs. When he leaves the hospital, the court will decide this precedent and probably impose on him a ruinous fine.