charge of a corporal. After this I was put through another "questionnaire." One officer asked for my pedigree; to another I gave the name and address of my nearest relative, to be notified in the event of my death. After this came the "vestiaire." Each "dépôt," or headquarters, has one of these, where every soldier is completely outfitted by the government. I received a uniform, two pairs of shoes, two pairs of socks, an overcoat, two suits of underwear, two hats, a knapsack, and a tin cup, bowl, and spoon. The recruit may buy his own outfit if he wishes, but the government offers it to him gratis if he is not too particular. I was now a full-fledged French soldier of the second class, second because there was no third. My satisfaction was only exceeded by my embarrassment. I felt very self-conscious in my uniform, but, as a matter of fact, I was less conspicuous in this garb than I was before I gave up my civilian clothing.

The adjutant now gave me three cents, my first three days' pay as a soldier, and warned me "not to spend it all in one place." Aviators receive extra pay, but I was still only a simple "poilu." He then handed me a formal order to study aviation—to be an "élève pilote," as they say in France—and also a pass to proceed to Pau.

My time was now my own, so I decided to take a look around the hangars, and before long two "élèves pilotes" greeted me and inquired whether I was entering the Aviation Corps. When they heard that I was, and that I was an American they told me that they also, and several of their friends to whom they afterward introduced me, had lived for some time in the United States. With all this welcome I became conscious of the understood but inexplicable freemasonry that binds all aviators together. I was greeted everywhere as a comrade and shown everything. I was amazed at the vastness of it all and at the scale of the organization. In one corner of the establishment they were teaching mechanics how to repair motors, in another how to regulate aeroplanes. Beyond were classes for chauffeurs, and countless other courses. There must have been several thousand men, and all of them were merely learning to serve the national heroes, the "aviateurs."

In the evening we all went to Dijon together. We dined and went to the theatre. The theatre was full of soldiers, and every little while the provost marshal's guard, composed of gendarmes, would enter and make an arrest. Any one who does not produce papers explaining his absence from the army is hustled off immediately. There are very few Frenchmen who attempt to dodge their service, but this system of supervision has been found necessary to keep down their number and to discover any German spies who may be about.

After the play I went to the station. The road was clogged with troop-trains carrying reinforcements to the Near-Eastern front. During the four hours I spent in the station twelve trains of British artillery passed by. The entente between the Tommies and the French was very cordial. As the trains came to a stop the men would make a rush for the station buffet, and the French would exchange all sorts of pleasantries with them. Right here I had a lot of fun with the Tommies, for they could not understand how a Frenchman could speak English so fluently.

Then came my train, and I found myself en route for Pau. As there were already several American "élèves pilotes" at the aviation school, I had no difficulty in learning the ropes. It was all very simple. But it was well to know what to expect, especially when it came to the question of discipline, which was very strict until one became a full-fledged aviator. It was just like going back to school and I settled down for the long grind.

FIRST PRINCIPLES

I have rarely been as much impressed as when I first saw the flying school at Pau. It is situated eight miles beyond the town on the hard meadow-lands granted in the sixteenth century to the villages of Osseau by Henri IV. The grant is still in effect, and the fields now in use are only rented by the government. They make a perfect aviation-ground. Four separate camps and a repair-station lie about a mile from one another and are named—Centre, Blériot, etc. At Centre I saw the low, gray hangars that house the aeroplanes, the tall wireless mast over which the communiqués from Paris are daily received, the office-building for the captain and monitors of the school, and the little café across the road where every one goes when off duty. Beyond were the Boche prisoners working on the road, building fences, or cutting wood, under direction of their non-commissioned officers and decrepit old territorials—grim reminders that this flying business is not all play. It was early morning—the mists were slowly lifting—when the "élèves pilotes" gathered for their daily work. Mechanics ran the machines out on the field in long lines, and the motors woke to motion with startling roars. One by one the pilots stepped in, and one by one the little biplanes moved swiftly across the field, rose, dipped slightly, rose again, and then mounted higher and higher into the gray sky. In the distance the snowy peaks of the Pyrenees formed an impressive background. At almost any time during training hours one can see from ten to twenty machines in the air. There are over three hundred men training. The repair-shops are like a large manufacturing plant. Five hundred mechanics are continually employed there. Among these are little Indo-Chinese, or "Anamites," as the French call them, who have come from distant Asia to help France in her struggle for liberty. As French citizens they are mobilized and wear the military uniform, but their tasks are usually of the monotonous, routine variety.

"Mechanics ran the machines out on the field in long lines."

The repair-shops are continually working under pressure, as accidents occur daily.

It is estimated that the average cost to France of training each pilot is five thousand dollars. Most of the accidents, however, are caused by carelessness, stupidity, or overconfidence. The day I joined the school two of the members lost their lives in a curious accident. They were flying at a great height, but thoughtlessly allowed their machines to approach too closely. Before they could change direction there was a crash, and both came tumbling to earth. When two aeroplanes come too near to each other the suction of their propellers pulls them together and they become uncontrollable. That is what happened to these two unfortunate "élèves." The officer in charge of the school explained at length just how this accident happened. We were cautioned against overlooking the fact that the speed of an aeroplane is always spoken of in reference to the body of the air in which the machine is moving. Thus an aeroplane travelling eighty miles an hour with a twenty-mile breeze is travelling at a speed of a hundred miles an hour in reference to the ground. The two machines at the time of the accident were flying east and west, but, while both were travelling at the same speed with reference to the ground, the plane moving in the direction of the wind was