inquire at what altitude we are to meet above the field.

"Fifteen hundred metres--go ahead!" comes an answering yell.

_Essence et gaz!_ [Oil and gas!] you call to your mechanician,
adjusting your gasolene and air throttles while he grips the
propeller.

_Contact!_ he shrieks, and _Contact!_ you reply. You snap on the
switch, he spins the propeller, and the motor takes. Drawing forward
out of line, you put on full power, race across the grass and take the
air. The ground drops as the hood slants up before you and you seem to
be going more and more slowly as you rise. At a great height you
hardly realize you are moving. You glance at the clock to note the
time of your departure, and at the oil gauge to see its throb. The
altimeter registers 650 feet. You turn and look back at the field
below and see others leaving.

In three minutes you are at about 4,000 feet. You have been making
wide circles over the field and watching the other machines. At 4,500
feet you throttle down and wait on that level for your companions to
catch up. Soon the escadrille is bunched and off for the lines. You
begin climbing again, gulping to clear your ears in the changing
pressure. Surveying the other machines, you recognize the pilot of
each by the marks on its side--or by the way he flies. The
distinguishing marks of the Nieuports are various and sometimes
amusing. Bert Hall, for instance, has BERT painted on the left side of
his plane and the same word reversed (as if spelled backward with the
left hand) on the right--so an aviator passing him on that side at
great speed will be able to read the name without difficulty, he says!