OUR PILOTS IN THE AIR

BY CAPTAIN WILLIAM B. PERRY





CHAPTER I

A BOMBING AIR RAID

The scene in the valley was striking in one respect. Low ranges of
gently sloping hills had widened out, enclosing broad levels with what
in America would be termed a creek but was here poetically named a
river. By here I mean eastern France, not so many miles from
No-Man's-Land. The "striking" feature was the "Flying Camp" spread out
over a dead level of much trampled greensward, enclosed by high board
walls, irregularly oval in shape, with a large clump of trees in the
center and a multiplicity of large, small, mostly queer-shaped
buildings scattered about.

There were a few wide roadways, with smaller avenues intersecting them,
and larger open spaces, bordered by hangars, at either end of the oval.

On a bulletin board in one of these open spaces a placard was tacked,
at which several young men in khaki and wearing the aviator cap were
gazing, commenting humorously or otherwise. All that this plainly open
placard published, apparently for all eyes to see, was as follows: