been ordered for that day, in which case only two or three go out at a
time.

Now the east is pink, and overhead the sky has changed from gray to
pale blue. It is light enough to fly. We don our fur-lined shoes and
combinations and adjust the leather flying hoods and goggles. A good
deal of conversation occurs--perhaps because, once aloft, there's
nobody to talk to.

"Eh, you," one pilot cries jokingly to another, "I hope some Boche
just ruins you this morning, so I won't have to pay you the fifty
francs you won from me last night!"

This financial reference concerns a poker game.

"You do, do you?" replies the other as he swings into his machine.
"Well, I'd be glad to pass up the fifty to see you landed by the
Boches. You'd make a fine sight walking down the street of some
German town in those wooden shoes and pyjama pants. Why don't you
dress yourself? Don't you know an aviator's supposed to look _chic?_"

A sartorial eccentricity on the part of one of our colleagues is here
referred to.


GETTING UNDER WAY

The raillery is silenced by a deafening roar as the motors are tested.
Quiet is briefly restored, only to be broken by a series of rapid
explosions incidental to the trying out of machine guns. You loudly