When I left, there was a gale of wind blowing, with spits of rain; and in fifteen minutes, during which I had covered forty miles, the clouds were scudding past at three hundred feet off the ground, forcing me at times to jump tall trees on hills. A bit too thick. Seeing a small aerodrome on my right, I buzzed over and landed, getting a great reception from the pilots, who had never examined one of the latest single-seaters. It is really comical, with what awe the pilots of slower machines regard a scout. They have been filled full of mechanics' stories about "landing at terrific speed—the slightest false movement means death," and the like; whereas in reality our machines are the easiest things in the world to land, once you get the trick.
In a couple of hours the weather showed signs of improvement, so I shook hands all round and strapped myself in. To satisfy their interest and curiosity, I taxied to the far edge of the field, headed into the wind, rose a yard off the ground, gave her full motor, and held her down to within thirty yards of the spectators, grouped before a hangar. By this time Sally was fairly burning the breeze—traveling every yard of her one hundred and thirty-five miles an hour; and as my hosts began to scatter, I let her have her head. Up she went in a mighty bound at forty-five degrees, nine hundred feet in the drawing of a breath. There I flattened her, reduced the motor, 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?"