pilots, treat him with respect. His two mechanicians are under his
orders. Being volunteers, we Americans are shown more than the
ordinary consideration by the ever-generous French Government, which
sees to it that we have the best of everything.

On our arrival at Luxeuil we were met by Captain Thenault, the French
commander of the American Escadrille--officially known as No. 124, by
the way--and motored to the aviation field in one of the staff cars
assigned to us. I enjoyed that ride. Lolling back against the soft
leather cushions, I recalled how in my apprenticeship days at Pau I
had had to walk six miles for my laundry.

The equipment awaiting us at the field was even more impressive than
our automobile. Everything was brand new, from the fifteen Fiat trucks
to the office, magazine, and rest tents. And the men attached to the
escadrille! At first sight they seemed to outnumber the Nicaraguan
army--mechanicians, chauffeurs, armourers, motorcyclists,
telephonists, wireless operators, Red Cross stretcher bearers, clerks!
Afterward I learned they totalled seventy-odd, and that all of them
were glad to be connected with the American Escadrille.

In their hangars stood our trim little Nieuports. I looked mine over
with a new feeling of importance and gave orders to my mechanicians
for the mere satisfaction of being able to. To find oneself the sole
proprietor of a fighting airplane is quite a treat, let me tell you.
One gets accustomed to it, though, after one has used up two or three
of them--at the French Government's expense.

Rooms were assigned to us in a villa adjoining the famous hot baths of
Luxeuil, where Caesar's cohorts were wont to besport themselves. We