"I own up that I am a little bit stale, Milt. But you wait until we go
out for squadron practice. I'll show you!"

"Yes, you will," replied Finzer, good-naturedly caustic. "Perhaps I'll
show you another trick or two then."

And so the chaffing went on as the lads adjourned to the eating-house
for lunch.

This meal over, a bugle sounded from the parade ground near the grove
of trees. It was the general summons for squadron practice. As the
boys filed out, each in full flying rig, they saw Commander Byers on
the field, watching the mechanics roll out the machines. There were a
dozen or more of the fighting planes, like those which Erwin and Finzer
had used for morning practice. In the east, from over a monotonous
expanse of scarred and war-torn country, came the sullen roar of
artillery at the front, a stern reminder that real war was close at
hand.

Each aviator at once mounted his own machine, Blaine as squad
sergeant in the one he had indicated to Erwin earlier in the day.
Erwin took his, while Finzer, Brodno, and a real American lad from
Butte, Montana, were assigned to others of these fast, nimble, scouting
planes that are really the wasps of the air, carrying their sting with
them, always ready and willing to bite.

Meanwhile at each machine two mechanics, under the eye of the airman,
went carefully over the mechanism until all were satisfied. Up they
went, singly or in pairs, gyrating playfully, always climbing, and
swooping higher, higher, until to the naked eye they became mere dots