would not play, he would skate into the midst of their group, pushing
them about, seizing their arms and forcing them to waltz round and round
with him like weather-cocks. Then he would be off at his highest speed,
pursued by his victims. Blows were exchanged, which did not prevent him
from repeating the same thing a few seconds later. At the end of
recreation, with his hair disordered, his clothes covered with dust,
his face and hands muddy, Guynemer was exhausted. But the strongest of
his comrades could not frighten him; on the contrary, he attacked these
by preference. The masters were often obliged to intervene and separate
the combatants. Guynemer would then straighten up like a cock, his eyes
sparkling and obtruding, and, unable to do more, would crush his
adversary with piquant and sometimes cutting words uttered in a dry,
railing voice."[9]

[Footnote 9: Unpublished notes by Abbé Chesnais.]


Talking, however, was not his forte, and his nervousness made him
sputter. His speech was vibrant, trenchant, like hammerstrokes, and he
said things to which there was no answer. He had a horror of discussion:
he was already all action.

This violence and frenzied action would have driven him to the most
unreasonable and dangerous audacity if they had not been counterbalanced
by his sense of honor. "He was one of those," wrote a comrade of
Guynemer's, M. Jean Constantin, now lieutenant of artillery, "for whom
honor is sacred, and must not be disregarded under any pretext; and in
his life, in his relations with his comrades, his candor and loyalty
were only equaled by his goodness. Often, in the midst of our games,
some dispute arose. Where are the friends who have never had a dispute?