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....