There was no escape. If I lied he could look up the record, so, I decided to tell the truth from necessity for this was not the place or time for “period of the emergency” statements.
“Fifty-five minutes, Sir,” I confessed.
“I thought so,” and he nodded his head in proud self-approval just as does the cross-examining prosecutor when he finally forces an admission from the man at bay. “How many adjustments over the lines?”
“None, Sir.”
“None!” he said with a noticeable inflection. “How many in the air at school?”
“None, Sir,” I said meekly enough.
“None!” he exclaimed emphatically. “How many on paper?”
“One, Sir,” I said, hesitatingly, for my energy was getting low.
“Well,” he snapped, as if glad to dispose of me on my own lack of merit. “You don’t know a damn thing about observation. How in the hell did you get to the front, anyway? I might use you as a mess officer, but if you ever intend to fly over the front you’ve got to go back and learn something about your job. This is a service squadron, operating over the front. Whoever ordered you to Toul intended to send you to Tours, so I’ll call up and get orders for you to go back to the rear.”
Tours, by the way, was the great aviation primary school of the American Forces—while Toul in those early days signified the front.