letter I have finished the school at Tours, gotten my brevet, and now I

am down at Blois seeing a couple of the best châteaux.

I am collecting post cards to beat the band. They will make a wonderful library for my architectural design, as well as a foundation for a little series of travelogues I am going to give the family, and while I think of it I am growing more convinced that when you are young is the time to see the world, especially for the architect. When the war is finished you can figure it will take me a year or more to get home. The education of travel is so far superior to that of school (not “Tech”) that there is no comparison.

Love to all,

DINS.

_Paris, November 4, 1917._

DEAR MOTHER:

You see I am in Paris and am staying at the house of my _marraine_. I wrote you a letter in Châteaudun which was lost through my fault. I wrote father a letter a week ago and carried it till yesterday without mailing. The other letter I mailed, which you should receive, left Tours over two weeks ago. This all goes to prove I am getting careless in my letter writing, for goodness knows there has been so much to write about that I scarcely know where to begin. In the first place, I am a pilot—no longer an _élève_ pilot. My brevet is gained and I am recommended for a Nieuport—that is a fighting machine—all of which is as it should be. They overlooked my smash-up, as it was the fault of the motor.

Having finished at Tours, I went for a day’s sight-seeing to Blois. There I saw the grand old historic château of Catherine de’ Medici, and the beautiful architectural dream, the château of Chambord. It was a pleasant day, starting at six in the morning and ending with a five-mile walk between twelve and two-thirty last night. Then by a little flower-tossing, I got them to extend my _permission_ so as not to include the day at Blois, and left for Paris. I came to my _marraine_ at eight-thirty in the evening of Saturday, October 29, and she gave me a room. They have entertained me most generously ever since. I told you of her family in another letter. The daughter, who married a captain, looks for all the world like Marie Antoinette and keeps up an unending flirtation with her husband with refined French coquetry, which is a delight to watch. The two children of the other daughter are jolly little youngsters. We have an hour’s romp in the evening, and they have become my shadows. I have been doing Paris, as one might say. I have visited Napoleon’s tomb, the Palais de Justice, Sainte Chapelle, the jewel of Gothic architecture, Notre Dame de Paris, Sacred Heart, the Madeleine, and numerous other well-known sights of Paris. I have seen a French vaudeville, a French cinema opera, an afternoon musical of the first order, and four operas: _Madame Butterfly_, _Werther_, _Sapho_, _Cavalleria Rusticana_, and a little opéra comique. Never have things come my way stronger to make for a pleasant time. Outside of my clothes, my expenses for the week will not exceed twenty-five dollars, such is the manner of French courtesy.

You should see your son. Never has an Ely come so near being a dandy. Picture a modish khaki uniform of French cut and the best cloth, with a high collar, gold buttons, gold wings on the collar, a khaki cap with a gold crescent of the Foreign Legion on it, a Sam Brown belt and high leather boots of a well-kept mahogany brown, and over all, a very distinctive and refined Burbury coat and gray gloves. The effect is worth two hundred and fifty francs for the suit, one hundred and sixty-five francs for boots, one hundred and forty francs for overcoat, thirty-five francs for belt; everything is of the best and will serve as my officer’s outfit In the U. S. Army with a few minor changes. I felt I had better have the wherewithal to dress well when I was entertained, and I have not regretted it.

Yesterday I met two Chicago ladies. Some time after Christmas one of them might call at father’s office to say that she saw me.

The other day when walking from the flying school to the station in leaving for Paris, Frazier Hale, of Cherry Street, passed me in a machine. He yelled, and I did, and that was all. There will probably be a growing frequency of such meetings as time passes. In war news we hear of ignominious defeat in the Italian sector and good work in the French sector. Your war news is more reliable than ours, no doubt. I shall follow father’s advice as to study of the map. The first book on aeronautics arrived last Saturday and seemed satisfactory, though I have not taken time to read more than the introduction. I have plenty of general reading material at my disposal now in the way of history, aeronautical study, and novels by classic and modern writers.

Now, I do not see how anyone could hope to be an architect without seeing the works of this old country. I never knew what design or interior decoration or landscape gardening were before. Every day reveals a new jewel whose impression may leave an idea for future work. Certainly the unconscious assimilation of ideas and proportions will be invaluable. I am not endeavoring to drive myself into following any of these new interests, as I feel it essential to conserve all physical and nervous energy for what will probably be the greatest tax on my life at the Front. My natural tastes seem good enough for the present to lead me to an enjoyment of the best, and I am experiencing the novelty for the first time in my life of living entirely according to my natural taste—not that I have ever been cramped, but family environment and educational influence have always dictated my course in life. Now I am swimming entirely alone, and it is pleasant for a new man. This living abroad puts one in tune with the ways of the world.

My love to you all.

Your son,

DINSMORE ELY.

DEAR FATHER:

My first experience, a bit exciting, came rather early. On my second solo flight when I was half way around and going with the wind at a height of one hundred meters the motor stopped. That is about as bad as can happen at such a height for a student. The minute your motor stops you have to peak at thirty degrees and land into the wind. When my motor stopped, I looked for a landing, and peaked. The landing was a little behind me, so I made a short turn with a steep bank and managed to straighten her out just in time for a bare landing. It is very difficult to turn and bank with a dead motor, and I feel rather elated; and the best of it was that I was not frightened or worried in the least. It all went just as easily and naturally as I believed it would when I took up aviation. The great problem is not to lose speed, you know. In the Nieuport hangars they hang a motto: “Loss of speed is death.” Well, the field I had landed in was a bit rough and weedy, but there was a smooth, long stretch adjacent, so I decided to try to get her out myself. You see, the engines we use are Gnome rotary, an archaic type, and very impractical. At the field men hold the machine while the mechanic adjusts the carbureter, and then at a given signal it is released and soars skyward. The charm is that when shut off it won’t start again till you prime it, and the mechanic adjusts the carbureter over again for full speed. Well, a Ford was just passing, and they stopped and waited to see what I’d do. I went over and got a can from them to prime the engine with gas, then I cranked the thing and when it started up it darn near ran away with the poor scared man before I could get to the seat, so then I taxied the “girl” up to the far end of the field and wheeled her around. It takes two hundred yards to get to twenty feet height. I had three hundred yards to adjust the carbureter in and clear a row of trees thirty feet high, into the wind, of course. Well, they had explained the thing to us, and I had watched the mechanics, so I gave it to her and didn’t look up till I got the engine going. By that time the trees were one hundred yards ahead. She rose a little and I kept her low till she gained speed, and twenty-five yards from the trees I pulled her up and she fairly bounded over the road. I made an “S” curve and just got over the field at the school when the engine died again, and I came down by the bunch with a cylinder burned out.

_November 15, 1917._

DEAR FATHER:

Where the sky turns from an azure blue to a rosy pink the delicate new moon rests with its points toward the evening star. From these two jewels of heaven, the sunset sky grades away to a misty, mysterious horizon. The gray distance is offset with a delicate lacework of the autumn-stripped hedge of poplars with their slim, graceful lattice work, reaching to points in the pink, and where the dark earth and the white road come to the foreground, two great apple trees with their gnarled autumn boughs frame the scene of simple beauty as it fades to night. As I entered the kitchen of a little old farm house, which people who eat there choose to call the “Aviator,” cheery voices and appetizing odors greeted me in preparation for the evening meal. The clean tile floor, the whitewashed walls, the low-hung, richly stained rafters, and the old walnut chest by the brick fireplace all made me think of Aunt Maggie’s old kitchen where the pies and the cookies were kept, and that makes me think of other fireplaces and other rafters—and the folks at home.

So I just sit down to the oilcloth-covered table and try to tell them what a restless, twentieth-century lad thinks of the environment of his parents’ childhood.

DINSMORE.

DEAR FAMILY:

Today started out very foggy, because there was no wind. We stood in the field till one o’clock waiting for the air to clear. I got a machine by four. The next hour contained enough excitement to do for the day. The planes are like mad little Indian ponies turned loose in the field—or, better still, like Pegasus bound into the air with a spirit that must be tamed by steady nerves and gentle hand. It is hard to describe just the feeling which possesses one. We are taught the principles and the movements that control the machine and then we are sent alone into the air to find an understanding of them. Perhaps you are turning a corner at an angle of forty-five degrees on the bank. Suddenly you feel something is wrong. The wind whistles louder than usual. Is it because you are pointing nose down, or are you sliding out over the rim of the curve, or down into the center of it? It is one of the three, and to correct the wrong one is to make worse the other two, yet the correction must be made. Now it is too late to figure it out, so you just correct it without thinking, and wonder which fault it was. In an animal we call it instinct, but there is an instant there which, when it passes, leaves a vacuum in the nervous system. The machine climbs like a tiger, and as we are not yet permitted to cut down the gas, it takes much strength to hold its nose down. I made fifteen five-minute rides, and now I’m pleasantly tired and relaxed.

I had ten rides in the eighteen-meter Nieuport and am getting the run of it. It is one of the most difficult machines to drive. I had bad luck in motors or would have finished today. My motor stopped twice when I was twenty-five meters from the ground, but I landed without mishap. With these machines the wing area is so small you head almost straight for the ground and just straighten out in time to land. You make a tour of five or six miles and mount a thousand feet into the air in five minutes—but you will be tired of reading this sort of thing very soon. The thing to do is to go to some aviation field and see it all done.

One of father’s letters arrived with a lot of clippings in it. Those clippings are very interesting. I enjoy them much more than the papers. The _Saturday Evening Post_ is read from cover to cover and passed about till the pages are thin, so it would fill a big demand. Another book on aviation came. I have not yet had time to finish the first one. As they go into the technical end of things rather deeply, I can only study a small amount at a time. Most of my reading lately has been history.

DINS.

_Bourges, November 7, 1917._

DEAR FAMILY:

I am at Bourges on my way to Avord after my happy _permission_ in Paris. As there were no train connections I had to stay here over night. Well, last Sunday we went to an American church, with an all-American service. It seemed rather pleasant. In the afternoon we went to the Opéra Comique to see _Werther_ and _Cavalleria Rusticana_. They were both splendid and included some of the best stars. Oh, how I love the opera!

... I spent Monday afternoon in roaming about Paris. I went to the Louvre and Gardens of the Tuileries and Luxembourg, and to several of the less important churches. I saw St. James’s church from the tower of which the bells were rung as a signal on the night of St. Bartholomew. I believe I know Paris and its sights better now than Chicago, not that I have seen everything—one could never do that—but just the general layout. I never will get tired raving about the architecture.

My train leaves soon.

With love,

YOUR SON.

_November 10, 1917._

DEAR FATHER:

Yours of October 13 received. The letters of my family are of more interest and intimacy than ever before. You say I should be glad you are not in the machine with me to give me advice, but I say unto you, “You are the one to be glad.” If you are worried by the thought of what might happen if a steering buckle in an automobile should break, how would you feel to be hanging on wires and compressed air? Once in the air it is a fool’s pastime to think of what might happen. The god of luck is the aviator’s saint. Man pits his resource against the invisible, and never for an instant doubts his ability. Those who doubt are probably those who do not come back. They are much in need of Nieuport pilots, and rushing us through as fast as weather permits.

Cannot write tonight as everybody is telling flying stories.

Good night,

YOUR SON.

_November 12, 1917._

DEAR BOB:

Your letter came yesterday, and as I am in a great writing mood tonight I shall answer it. First, to tell you what we are doing. We are now back at the school of Avord. Here we learn to fly the Nieuport. A year ago that was the fastest plane at the Front and they still use them as fighting planes. First we ride in double command “twenty-eight’s.” (Twenty-eight means twenty-eight meters square of wing surface.) Then we do “twenty-three” double command and then are cut loose on them. Lastly, we finish with twenty rides solo in an “eighteen.” I finish the “twenty-eight” class tomorrow and will be through at this school in ten days. The eighteen-meter machines land at ninety miles an hour. They are wonderful little things and will do anything in the air. We go to work at six in the morning, and return at six in the evening, but the hardest work is waiting when there is too much wind to fly. We build a fire and sit about telling stories and making toast. When we cannot get bread we just tell stories. When it rains we go in the tent and read. I am reading a history of France. It is more fun to read history than to study it, and I think you know more when you get through. Of course I am surrounded by all the old castles and battle grounds and graves of the warriors of seven centuries. That makes a difference.

There was a bad accident the week before I got here. A two-passenger plane struck a solo plane in the air. It was a head-on collision, and all three aviators were killed. That is a very rare accident, though.

I see America is preparing for five years of war. You may get over yet. Write me whenever you can. You do not know how much your letters help to buck up a lonely brother sometimes.

Your ever loving brother,

DINS.

_November 13, 1917._

DEAR MOTHER:

Today was a wonderful, clear, crisp November day, and we breathed our fill of it. I had seven rides in a twenty-eight meter and one in a twenty-three meter Nieuport. In life the things we look forward to usually fall below our expectations, but not so in aviation. In aviation, every experience so totally eclipses all expectations that you realize you were totally incapable of imagination in that field. We change planes five times in progressing from Penguin to Spad. Each change is as great an advance and difference as stepping from a box car to a locomobile limousine with Westinghouse shock absorbers.

The Nieuport is the plane we are using now, with a man to give the scale. It has a supporting area of twenty-three square meters. It is the fighting plane used at the Front seven or eight months ago.

DINSMORE.

_November 15, 1917._

DEAR MOTHER:

Things are going quite well. Day before yesterday I left the twenty-eight meter Nieuport class and today finished the twenty-three meter class and was advanced. Tomorrow I shall finish solo work on the twenty-three’s and take up eighteen’s. The monitors seem to think my work fairly good. The little eighteen-meter Nieuports are great. They are small and racy, with a wing spread of twenty-five feet. They have fine speed and land at eighty-five miles an hour. You land by cutting off the power and pointing the nose for the ground. By pulling the tail down she slows up and finally drops a yard to the ground. It is a very precise sport.

You would like it fine above the clouds, Mother. It is most beautiful and dazzling as the sun’s rays bounce along on the snowy billows, and you can swoop down and skim the crest of the cloud waves till the frost turns the wires to silver and your cheeks sting red in the mist.

DINSMORE.

_Ecole d’Aviation, Pau, November 22, 1917._

DEAR FATHER:

This is the most pleasantly situated and best regulated camp I have been in yet. Pau itself is on a little plateau overlooking a valley with a river and surrounded by the foothills of the Pyrenees. On the sky line to the south and west of the beautiful snow-capped peaks, 4,000 feet high.

In this environment we are to attain proficiency in the handling of the war plane. The trip down from Avord was a tedious one, with a pleasant break of day at Toulouse. I came down with two Frenchmen who were excellent company. We spent two nights on the train. All the sleeping cars are used at the Front to carry wounded, so we slept sitting up. Sleeping cars are not so common in Europe, I guess. When I woke up yesterday morning the character of the country had changed from the rolling valleys of Touraine to the more rocky and broken country of Toulouse. The buildings were brick instead of stone, and one could see the round arch and barrel vault of Romanesque influence, combined with the low broken roofs of Spanish architecture. Here and there appeared the beautiful pines which suggested the blue of the Mediterranean and cliff villages, as pictured in paintings of Naples and southern Italy. Arriving in Toulouse about nine in the morning, we washed and had breakfast at a very pleasant hotel restaurant. It had the atmosphere of a good Paris restaurant, but the waitresses were of the brunette southern type, with sparkling eyes and impetuous activity. We liked it so well that we had all three meals there. At lunch, the table next to us was occupied by a good-looking gentleman with a dark moustache, who evidently was suing the favor of the proprietress’ very attractive daughter, therefore the waitress who attended him was gifted with ability and liberty. She caught the spirit of her position, and ushered in each new delicacy with a pomp and grimace, playing the part of bearer of the golden platter and king’s jester with a flippant coquetry and grace which was more entertaining than any show I’ve seen in France.

We spent the day in seeing the town. It is rich in monuments of history and art. The cathedral of St. Etienne is a monument of brick which opened to me a whole new field of possibility in the use of that material. It combines the mass of Romanesque with the Gothic form of an early vitality. The great basilica of St. Sernin is truly Romanesque and a perfect example of the Provincial style which introduced the Romanesque influence into France. We saw the paintings in the Hôtel de Ville, done by masters of the city of Toulouse, who were of the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. These works were distinctly of the most modern school, and they appeal to me more than anything I ever have seen. Wonderful composition and lighting effect, combined with a freshness of color and naturalness which shows what really can be done with paint.

The large museum was in a great old monastery, built of hand-made bricks by the monks of St. Augustine in the ninth century. It is still beautifully complete, with cloistered court and brick-vaulted chapel. Past peoples live in monuments they leave. Monuments express the life and art and religion of a people. To build such monuments is the work of an architect. This is the greatest thing that ever happened to me. It shows me the purpose and benefit of education; for the rest of my life what I read will be absorbed with so much more interest and insight and profit. Maybe the course of technology is narrow and technical, but I find that never did I want to study and learn by reading as at present. It has waked me to the fact that I have tastes and the right to follow them as I please. And I can follow them in my many spare hours without detracting from my service in the Cause.

Your letter containing clippings and cartoons was very entertaining. I believe cartoons serve the purpose of keeping alive the trend of public thought without being filled up with unreliable censored facts and rumors.

Love to you all.

Your son,

DINSMORE.

_November 29, 1917._

DEAR FAMILY:

Today was Thanksgiving, and we all had the very pleasant surprise of a day of _repos_ given us by the captain that we might be present at a banquet given us by the American colony at Pau. It was held at one of the good hotels and had all the proper characteristics of a regular Thanksgiving dinner. There were forty-two of us there. After the meal we had some songs from local talent, which were of no mean variety, and then we went to a moving picture show which was rather a failure except as a place to digest an excellent and more than hearty meal.

My, but the machines we have now are a joy to run. They climb, they turn, they dive, and recover as you think. You have but to wish in the third dimension and you are there. It is beyond description. You sit comfortably behind a little windshield without glasses and watch the country far below. You forget the motor and space, and speed until suddenly something of interest causes you to lean out and you are struck in the face by a gust of wind which bends your head back and pumps your breath back into your lungs. Then you know what speed means. Soon your motor begins to miss, and you become worried and look for a place to land. You find the fields not more than one hundred feet square. You glance at the altimeter and find that you have unconsciously climbed to an altitude where the air is light, and your motor pants, so you make a readjustment, glance back at the school fifteen miles behind, which you left eight minutes ago, and go on your way.

Tomorrow I do spirals in fifteen-meter machines, and then go to _vol de group_. There we learn to fly in group formation and keep relative positions. They play “follow the leader” and “stump” in that class—some class! Then come acrobatics.

DINS.

DEAR FAMILY:

This is a country of beautiful views, wonderful colorings of distant hills and the snow-capped mountains as changeable as the sea. We fly among the foothills and look down upon the beautiful estates and castle ruins nestling among them. There has been little sun, but the fact that one catches but passing glimpses of the mountains among the clouds does not detract from their charm, and the moisture in the air makes the coloring richer. I am in no hurry to leave.

Erich Fowler, one who has been with us from the beginning, and one of our best liked and most congenial fellow-sportsmen, was the first among our crowd to be killed. He fell five hundred meters with full motor and did not regain consciousness. It is believed he fainted in the air, as the controls were found intact and no parts of the machine missing. He was buried today at Pau. When the fellows find no way to express their feelings it is taken laconically, and the subject has been dropped already. No one is unnerved or frightened by the experience. Fortunately the ego is strong enough in every man to make him feel the fault would not have been his in such a case, and he believes in his own good fortune enough to be confident nothing will happen to his machine.

This is the school where the poor aviators are weeded out. The men who have dissipated relentlessly have lost their nerve and dropped out. The poorer drivers have voluntarily gone to bombing planes. The physically unfit have dropped off in the hospitals, and here those who have not the head to fly come to grief. Four out of five of the Russians who enter this school leave in a hearse. Some national characteristic makes it almost impossible for them to complete the course.

Out of twenty-five machines broken in a fall, one man is killed. Out of ten men killed, nine deaths are caused by inefficiency on the part of the pilot. They say I have more than the ordinary allotment of requirements of a good pilot. My assets are perfect health and a clear mind to offset the chance of misfortune which may stand against me. Knowing me, realize that all the statements I have made are conservative.

In a letter I received from Viscountess Duval the other day she said: “As you are interested in art, it will be a pleasure to show you through our galleries when you come to Paris. They are as fine as any in the city.” Her husband is evidently a writer of some distinction. They are coming to Pau and I hope will arrive before I leave.

I shall be quite busy for the next week and not have a great deal of time to write. No letters have reached me from home for over three weeks.

Yours with love and wishes for a very Merry Christmas.

Your son,

DINSMORE.

Not till the last line did I realize that Christmas was so near. Naturally, the war Christmas will be more conservative than ever, but I hope that real festivities will continue. America is far enough from the Front to keep the sound of battle from breaking the rhythm of the dance. I should like to be back there for three or four days of the Christmas vacation, with a fair round of dancing and turkey and calling on old friends. I shall make every effort to spend Christmas at my _marraine’s_.

My present to mother is a silver frame containing a picture of her son in war array of leathers and furs, helmet and goggles, standing by the propeller of France’s fastest war plane. To father I give my _croix de guerre_ representing the first Boche I brought down, and to Bob goes a penholder shaped like a propeller and made from a splinter of the propeller of my first Boche plane—all imaginary gifts, but true.

Your son,

DINSMORE.

_December 1, 1917._

DEAR BOB:

Your letter written November 10 came yesterday with a lot of other letters and about five packages. Gee! it was just like Christmas. We all sat about the stove and ate nuts and dates, figs and candy, till our stomachs ached. You can’t appreciate what wonderful and necessary things figs and prunes are till you go without sweet things by the month. Take a prune, for instance. If I could have a candied prune for every mile I walked, I would use up a pair of shoes every week. Myrtle sent me three cans of salted nuts; and a girl in Boston sent me a surprise package.

Well, Bob, I am a real pilot now. I can play “stump the leader” with anybody. Turning loops and somersaults and corkscrew turns are nothing any more. The hardest things to do are the “roundversments,” “barrel roll” and “vertical bank.”

Here they give us a machine and we go up and do what we like for two hours. One day I went ’way up over the mountain peaks and circled close around the highest one; then I went down in the valleys and played chicken hawk over the villages and followed the railroad train down the valley. You should see the cows and sheep run when my shadow crossed their fields. You can head right for the mountainside and then whirl around and skim along with the fir trees passing close by—twice as fast as an express train.

Inside the machine the seat is comfortable and you huddle down behind the windshield as comfortable as can be. The wind roars by so loudly that it drowns out the noise of the motor. Before long your ears are accustomed to the sound and you feel as if you were slipping along as silently as a fish.

Another day we went sixty-five miles to Biarritz. It is a bathing resort on the ocean. I went down over the ocean and circled around the lighthouse on the way back and then sped down the beach just over the water line. I didn’t see any submarines, but maybe they saw me first and beat it. I got back to the school just before dark and didn’t have gasoline enough left to go five miles. They gave it to me for being gone so long, but it was a great trip. The next day I tried for an altitude and made next to the highest in this school—6,500 meters or 21,320 feet. It wasn’t much joy. I froze three finger tips and frosted my lungs I think, and had chills and headache till supper time. For an hour I pounded my hands together while steering with my knees. There were six strata of clouds. The last was above me and at the top. I didn’t see the ground for an hour and a half. When you realize that they do their fighting between five and six thousand feet, you see what endurance it will take. They are right to make the test high for aviators.

The most fortunate of us are being sent to Cazaux on the coast near Bordeaux. There they have all kinds of target practice from an aeroplane. You shoot at floats in a lake by diving at them, and at sausages dragged through the air by another plane. Well, we have done some of that here. We went up and dropped a parachute and then pretended it was a German plane and dived at it back and forth. Believe me, it was no easy matter to aim a gun into that machine while you are diving down at a speed of 250 miles an hour. Then we go in pairs for team work and dive at it turn about.

The last few days we have been having a great time. We divided into two groups and called one the French and the other the Boche, and we go out and hunt each other up and down the valley. We have sham combats and keep our squadron formation during the maneuvers. We do this for ten days before going to Cazaux. I am unusually lucky to get so much of this training, and am pleased about it, though I’m afraid I’ll not be in Paris for Christmas. (I hope you will write and tell me about your dance and your Christmas holidays, and I’ll tell you what I do Christmas.) As for this war, I’m not saying a word, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you and your children would get a chance to fight in it. There have been hundred-year wars before now, and our modern civilization is not so small that it can’t reproduce what has been done before. But if every American has to return to the United States and start producing, raising, and training soldiers for the next fifty years to beat them, we’ll thrash them, by God, if it leaves America a desert and Germany a hole in the ground.

The shoes the family sent me are a perfect fit and just what I wanted, and the socks were a surprise. As for that surprise box, I will continue to enjoy that for many a day. I ate a little and passed around a little each day.

Good night, Bob.

Don’t lose any sleep over studies.

Your loving brother,

DINS.

Merry Christmas—Happy New Year.

_December 6, 1917._

DEAR FAMILY:

The past few days have been wonderful in weather and accomplishments. I have been seeing southern France at the rate of a hundred miles an hour—five hours a day. Yesterday morning I flew to Notre Dame de Lourdes. It is a place to which thousands pilgrimage each year to be healed by the flow of waters there. It is a beautiful little village at the base of the mountains, and is hidden in the shadow of steep cliffs. From there I wandered among the foothills and circled over the little mountain hamlets. In the afternoon I headed straight for Pic du Midi. It is the second highest mountain in this vicinity. In three-quarters of an hour I was a thousand meters above it. I swooped down around it and took pictures, with it in the foreground. Then I came back by way of another canyon, and arrived at the school at dusk. After a lot of foolish monkey business, I spent the last hour running at a height of two hundred feet with my motor throttled ’way down. Sitting low in my seat, hardly touching the controls, skimming the tree tops in the quiet hazy evening air, it made me think of how father used to love to see the old White throttle down to two miles an hour, the difference being that I had throttled down to ninety.

This morning four of us went down to Biarritz and out over the ocean. I went down and circled around the lighthouse. All these things are forbidden by the school, but as men are daily risking their lives in gaining proficiency in flight, it is difficult to waive a punishment, so they all do it.

DINSMORE.

_Hôtel de l’Univers, Tours, December 8, 1917._

DEAR FAMILY:

I am too tired tonight to write a real letter, but all the stuff arrived, and it was great. The shoes and surprise package with the Christmas card, and letters from October 20 to November 10 arrived. If you knew how we gloat over those prunes and dates and figs and candies and nuts, you would—send some more. Thank you much.

I am now a real flyer in every sense of the word, and am working five hours every day. I’ll tell you all about it soon.

YOUR SON.

_Pau, France, Saturday, December 15, 1917._

DEAR FAMILY:

We are having sham battles every day. They thought a few of us good enough to hold over for extra training ten days and send us to a special shooting school as Cazaux. This increases our efficiency some fifty per cent before going to the Front and gives us that much more chance. I have had more training than the average, due to more luck and interest. Today I shot a machine gun at a pointed aeroplane. Out of eighty shots, of which three bullets failed to leave the gun, sixty-seven hit the square target; of these sixty-seven, twenty-seven struck the plane and the man in it. It is the best score I have seen, and encourages me. This shooting is very vital.

We leave here in about two days, and remain at Cazaux about ten. Then we go to Paris and wait for our call to the Front. I’ll be in Bordeaux Christmas, and in Paris New Years. At the Front we go into different escadrilles, French, and spend the first month as apprentices before going to fight the Boche. We attend lectures and fly all the time here and sleep twelve hours a day. It is a full-sized job, and enough for me. It may be a beautiful life in training, but I am beginning to realize that the real service will take all that war requires of any man. In fact, it will be all that I anticipated before entering the work. There has been a period in which I thought it rather an easy branch of the service. But I am much better fitted for it than the average man doing it. I was a little afraid I would be too conservative; not devilish enough—but I guess my reason does not curb my abandon. There is not much to be told just now, as we follow a pretty steady routine from 6 A.M. to 9:30 P.M. The weather has been beautiful; frost on the trees and mist on the mountains, lighted by a rose-colored winter’s sun in beauty unsurpassed. I sketch a little and read a little and struggle to keep up my correspondence. Family letters are slow in coming, but have been delayed or lost, no doubt.

Good night, and love to all from

DINSMORE.

_Ecole de Tir, Cazaux, December 18, 1917._

DEAR FAMILY MINE:

Here I am back near Bordeaux where I started on my tour of France. We came to this school understanding that we were to be abused by the severest military discipline, but we are delighted to find that they continue to spoil us. We have as pleasant barracks as are to be had in France. We are permitted to eat in the _sous-officers’_ mess—a very special mark of favor, which is really a break of military discipline—and to cap it all, they are giving the whole camp _repos_ to go to Paris for Christmas and for New Years. That is pretty nice. You know we are really only corporals—that is to say, privates of no rank—yet they really treat us like commissioned officers.

My affection for the French people continues to grow. They are not more gallant in action than the American is at heart, and they are less gallant at heart, but the French politeness which irritates some people seems to me to express a desire to be inoffensive to one’s fellows.

Our interpreter and lecturer speaks English very well, and is an excellent fellow. He has served in the Arabian division of the French Army, and in the French lines also. He says the Arabians are volunteer veterans of the French Army and make some of their best fighters. They cannot stand bombardment and so are used only for attacks. They go over the top with bayonets, swords, revolvers, cutlasses, and war cries. They throw the weapons away in the order mentioned, as they close with the enemy. At the finish, they are using only cutlasses, and they take no prisoners. They fight like devils, and ask no quarter. We see many of them around the aviation school. They have fine, sensitive features, and those novel, keen but dreamy eyes of the Orient. Their carriage is proud, and their smile disarming.

The Senegalese are another interesting factor in the French fighting forces. They, too, are volunteers, and of the finest aggressive troops used only in attacks. Great, stalwart blacks from Africa, with intelligent faces and a rather indolent air, which impresses one as masking a latent virility. They little suggest the man-eating head-hunters that they are. They are of many tribes, and are distinguished by a tribal mark in the form of great scars, which have mutilated their features since childhood. One will have great symmetrical slashes cutting each cheek diagonally; another a large cross upon his forehead; another a ring of little pie cuts enclosing his eyes, nose, and mouth, and anyone able to remember their strange name can recognize the tribe by the mark.

They tell some terrible stories of these men. It is rumored that at this camp two of them went wild under the influence of liquor and killed and ate two members of an enemy tribe. In an attack these men are worse than the Arabs and outbutcher the Huns. The Germans fear them like death. In the advance, when they come upon a German who may be playing ’possum, they drive the bayonet in an inch or so to test him out and sink it to the hilt if he moves. They charge with their teeth showing, and do their nicest work with a weapon which is a cross between a butcher’s cleaver and a corn knife. They are called “trench cleaners” and return with strings of human ears and heads, which after boiling make good skull trophies. Yet these vicious Africans make reliable soldiers, and one sees them standing guard night and day in prison camps and aviation schools.

There is a great Russian camp near here in which thousands of Russians are held in detention. There was a mutiny of Russian troops in the French lines and they sent them down here. They will not fight or work, but only wander about the landscape eating good food. Something will, no doubt, be done with them as soon as it is possible to focus on the Russian question, but this is cause enough for the French to hate the Russians. A man in Russian uniform is mobbed in the streets of Paris now. Officers there are forced to go about in civilian clothes. It is very hard on some of the conscientious aviators who are anxious to fight. For a time they were quite broken-hearted and disconsolate. But now it has been arranged that Russian escadrilles will be formed as part of the French service. One of these Russians, with whom I’ve struck quite a friendship, is a great, six-foot-two fellow, with a splendid face and a genial nature. He has served three years in the Russian cavalry, and was describing their life. They travel in groups of six for reconnaissance work and are gone from their companies days at a time. One will forage the meat, another the bread, another the drink, and so on. Their experiences are fascinating, but too long to tell here. He spoke highly of the valor of the Cossacks. He said he had seen a Cossack attack an entire company of German infantry single-handed. (As he told it, a light came in his eyes and he lowered his head, making gestures with his big hands. His name is Redsiffsky.) The Cossack drew up in front of the Germans, looked on one side and then the other, drew his long saber and raising in his saddle charged into the heart of them. His great frame swayed and his saber cut circles of blue light about his horse’s head as he slashed down man after man. A German’s arm would be severed as it raised to strike; a German’s head would roll down its owner’s back; a German’s body would open from neck to crotch. Still the Cossack on rearing horse slashed through and the Germans crowded in. Then the Cossack’s mount went down, stabbed from beneath, and with a final slash, the Russian threw his saber and drew his poniard from his belt. He ripped and stabbed at the Germans as they closed in for the final sacrifice. His life was marked by seconds then, but every second paid till a telling musket in full swing descended on his skull. When the Germans withdrew, nine of their number stayed behind and seven left with aid. Of the Russian, nothing was to be found. The German revenge had been complete, but a Cossack _had died_.

YOUR SON.

_December 19, 1917._

DEAR UNCLE:

Please consider this a Christmas letter. It will not arrive on Christmas, it isn’t even written on Christmas, but the Christmas spirit is responsible for its writing, and wishes for a “Merry Christmas” and “Happy New Year” go with it to you, Aunt Virgie, and all my Cleveland friends.

There are a whole bunch of us sitting at the same table writing home. We have just discovered that we are to have _permission_ to Paris for Christmas. The result is that it has required three-quarters of an hour for me to write this much. Between the silences are bursts of conversation connected by laughter.

We have now arrived at the last stage of aerial training in France. It is a school of special merits, and the best of its kind. Not only that, but it is also a very pleasant place to live. The barracks are situated in orderly rows in a wood of Norway pine bordering a large lake. From the shores long piers and rows of low hangars painted gray and white run out into the water, forming harbors. In the little harbors, speed boats with khaki awnings and machine guns on prow and stern lie anchored in flotillas, and hydroaeroplanes are drawn up in rows on the docks. Flags float, and sailors and soldiers in the uniforms of five nations move about in military manner. From one broad pier containing a row of shooting pavilions, the rattle of musketry and light artillery keeps the air tense. The sky line is dotted with man-flown water birds going and coming, and off In the distance the chase machines at practice look like dragon flies as they swoop and whirl about the drifting balloon which is their target. Though it has the sound and aspect of war, there is the spirit of a carnival present.

Our work consists of lectures, target practice, and air training. In the lectures we learn the science of gun construction and that of marksmanship in aviation. It is a science, too. Considering that the target and shooter are both moving at the greatest speed of man, allowance must be made instantaneously without instruments for the speed of each plane. The angle of their flight is in three dimensions, and in addition there is the speed of the bullet to be considered. Of course, each plane type of the enemy has its own speed, which varies according to whether it is climbing or diving. Practice must make all this calculation second nature. The calculation made, we are then ready to try our ability in directing the course of an aeroplane in carrying out the calculation. The target practice consists of shooting clay pigeons with shotgun and rifle, shooting carbines at fixed and floating targets and shooting floating targets from the observer’s seat of an aeroplane. The third branch is shooting from a chase monoplane; we shoot at balloons and sausages towed by other machines, and dive at marks in the water and on the ground. It is great sport.

In twenty days we leave here. We hope to be at the Front.

I must eat now. Love to all.

Yours ever,

DINS.

_December 19, 1917._

MY DEAR MRS. HALBERT:

After all, it is the surprises that add the most spice, and it was certainly a pleasant surprise to receive your knit helmet. As a matter of fact, no gift could have been more aptly chosen. The only helmet I had was knit by a girl friend whose enthusiasm was greater than her skill; it no doubt represented much painstaking, but romance will not keep the head warm nor the ravelings out of one’s eyes when aloft, and I had wished hard and oft for a helmet of just the type you sent; others had them. Thank you so much for it, it fits perfectly.

You probably know something of how my time has been spent. I am still in the LaFayette Flying Corps of the French Foreign Legion. We have been through four French schools of aviation and are now as good pilots as can be made without experience at the Front. We are now working in machines the same as are used at the Front, and engage daily in target practice and sharpshooting as well as the theory of gunmanship. We have been trained for pilots in the class machines, that is, fighting monoplane biplanes. They travel at a speed of from ninety to one hundred and fifty miles an hour; in a dive they will go two hundred and fifty or so. Aerial acrobatics in these machines are like a morning swim, and they have the appearance of a clipped-wing dragon fly. The life is wonderful and healthy and full of thrills. Every flight brings a new experience. We have flown circles around the highest peaks of the Pyrenees and swooped over the bathers at Biarritz. We have played hide-and-seek in the clouds and fought sham battles above them. One day I went to an altitude of 21,500 feet and froze three finger tips; I came down out of the sunshine through a snow storm and landed in the rain after sunset. Such changes were never possible before this age. They are a great strain on the system, and it is resisting that strain which is an aviator’s real work. The rest is play and sport.

I would like to write more but must go to bed. Thank you again for your thoughtfulness. My best wishes for a happy, prosperous New Year to the Halbert family.

As ever, sincerely,

DINSMORE.

_December 28, 1917._

DEAR FAMILY:

I awake to the melody of the same reveille which brings ten million soldiers to action over the world each morning; the same bugle which sounds the end of the night’s bombardment, and the beginning of the day’s carnage on battle fronts from the North Sea to the Mediterranean. I yawn, stretch, lie in ten or fifteen minutes of delicious indecision and then dress sitting on the edge of my cot. My underwear in the daytime is my night clothes; socks are changed almost every week, dried of the dampness of the day by the warmth of the night in bed; my sweater and shirt also work twenty-four hours a day. The muffler mother knitted for my neck is a fine pillow; my great sheepskin coat—my greatest comfort and the envy of officers—plays the comforter; all these are the constant guardians of the warmth of my body. It is they, and not parade dress that should be allowed to wear war’s honors if they are worn for it is they who have served. Then I rush out and wash hands and face dutifully in cold water. Then I hasten to my breakfast—three slices of bread and butter. The bread is free, but the butter costs five cents, twenty-five centimes in French money, and is eaten while walking to the field. During the morning I fly perhaps an hour and a half. I return to lunch and an hour’s repose. Another hour or so of flying and a lecture occupy the afternoon. On the way home at four o’clock we stop in at a little shanty where three amiable and good-looking country girls serve us with oysters and jam and chocolate. The oysters are better than blue points, and cost ten cents a dozen. We talk and sing and walk home. At six I have dinner and after dinner write letters till weary. Then I go to bed.

The war’s toll has been 3,000,000 lives or so. A fourth of the ships are sunk. The great nations will be bankrupted. Will we dare speak of God? Will architecture be a good profession after the war? What is one man in all this? I go to bed each night trying to get a perspective of life and the world and my place.

DINSMORE ELY.

_December 28, 1917._

DEAR FAMILY:

My Christmas was spent in Paris with my _marraine_. There was snow on the ground. On Christmas Eve I went to the great Paris Grand Opera House. It is a monument to the artistic appreciation of the French public, and as a piece of architecture it is a masterpiece. As you ascend its grand stairway and pass through the foyer and grand balconies into the gorgeous theater, you feel the power of the master designers and builders and artists who contributed to its conception. The opera was _Faust_. The French singers are no better musically but they are splendid actors, which is not the case in American opera. The love scene in _Faust_ was done with the taste of Sothern’s and Marlowe’s _Romeo and Juliet_. The _Faust_ ballet was splendid. Oh, how I enjoyed that evening. On Christmas day I went twice to see David Reed, whom I liked so well in the Ambulance Unit, and who has been sick in the hospital with grip and a broken arm. He is one of those the war cannot soil.

My _marraine’s_ grandchildren gave me a big box of candied fruit, which I found in my shoes on Christmas morning. I gave the little girl a doll, dressed in “Old Glory,” and the boy an American pocket flashlight. The train left at eight on Christmas evening. My four comrades and I met in our reserved compartment and had a very pleasant journey back to Cazaux, arriving at ten-thirty in the morning. We all had a good time telling of our merry Christmas. The cakes and chocolate which my _marraine_ gave me helped to fill five empty stomachs at five in the morning.

My worst experience in the air was awaiting me. We flew in the afternoon. I took a machine and a parachute and climbed to 1,800 meters. We were only supposed to climb to 1,400, but I disobeyed and it probably saved my life. I threw out the parachute and took a couple of turns at it. After diving at the thing and mounting again, I started into a “roundversment” with my eyes on the parachute. Unconsciously, I went into a loop and stopped in the upside-down position, where I hung by my belt. I cut the motor, and grabbed a strut to hold myself in my seat. The machine fell in its upside-down position till it gained terrific speed, then it slowly turned over into a nose dive, and I came out in a tight spiral which slowly widened into a circle at _ligne de vol_, but the controls were almost useless, and it took all my strength to keep from diving into the ground. You know what skidding is, so you can imagine what loss of control in an automobile going at high speed would be, but you cannot imagine what loss of control of an aeroplane is any more than a lumberjack can imagine a million dollars.

When a machine is upside down, the stress comes on the wrong side of the wings and is apt to spring them. My plane had fallen a thousand meters, and the wings had been thrown out of adjustment so that the controls were barely able to correct the change. I did not regain control of any sort until I was 400 meters from the ground, and then I could do nothing but spiral to the left. In that fall, when I found I could not control the machine, I believed it was my last flight. It was the first time I ever had been conscious of looking death squarely in the face. After the first hundred meters of fall, I was perfectly aware of the danger. I was wholly possessed in turn by doubt, fear, resignation (it was just there that I was almost fool enough to give up), anger (that I should think of such a thing), and, finally realization that only cool thinking would bring me out alive—and it did! From 400 meters I spiraled down with barely enough motor to keep me from falling, in order that the strain on the control would be minimum. The old brain was working clearly then, for I made a fine adjustment of the throttle and gasoline—just enough to counteract the resistance of controls, crossed in order to counteract the bent wings, and just enough to let the plane sink fast enough so that it would hit the ground into the wind in the next turn of the spiral, which I could not avoid. Allowing for the wind, I managed to control the spiral just enough to land on the only available landing ground in the vicinity. The landing was perfect, but the machine rolled into a ditch and tipped up on its nose. As I had cut the motor just before landing, the propeller was stopped and not a thing was broken. If the wing had been bent a quarter of an inch more, they would have carried me home. The machines they use here are old ones, and that was probably responsible for the accident. This weak spot of the Nieuport caused many deaths before anyone ever survived to tell what had happened. Again the gods were with me, and I lived to be the wiser.

When I undid my belt and climbed out of the machine my hands were never steadier nor my mind more tranquil. Many Russians from the detention camp near by swarmed around, and I set them to work righting the plane and wheeling it over to a post, where an American was on guard.

Leaving the machine in his care, I hit cross-country for the aviation field. As I walked through the brushwood, the beauties of nature were possessed with renewed charm, the sea breeze laden with the scent of pine seemed a sweeter incense, the clouds were more billowy, my steps were wondrously buoyant, for I felt like one whom the gods had given special privilege to return among the treasures of his childhood. The passing of death’s shadow is a stimulus to the charm of living.

Today I had an hour and a half of flying, and engaged in a sham combat of half an hour with another pilot. We both killed each other several times.

It is rumored that a plot was discovered in the Russian camp. They were to attack the camp here today at two o’clock and seize the armory. They had all the machine guns and armored planes ready and a guard around the school and camp, but nothing came of it. It would have furnished good target practice.

We get another _permission_ New Years, but the trip to Paris is a long one, so I shall stay in Bordeaux. An invitation from Countess Duval for Christmas dinner at Arcachon was too late to reach me. I shall pay a call, as it is only an hour on the train from here.

_Villa St. Jean, Arcachon, January 1, 1918._

MY DEAR FAMILY:

Happy New Year. Fortune has again been very kind to me. You will remember the Duvals who were so kind to me when I had a forced landing at La Ferté-Imbault. When I left them, they gave me the address of their cousins at Arcachon, and said to be sure and let them know when I came down to Cazaux, so that they could write to their cousins, and give me an opportunity to meet more people of such charming hospitality. An invitation reaching me after my return from Christmas in Paris, invited me to Christmas dinner here at the Villa St. Jean, where I am writing. I acknowledged the invitation, and received another one for New Years dinner. I said I would call two days before New Years to pay my respects, and it was then that the Marchioness Duval asked me to come New Years. I remained that night and returned to the school, where four of us had to do patrol duty over the Russian camp. Returning to Arcachon that evening that I might stay at a hotel and so not have to rise for the early train, chance caused me to run across the Viscount Duval, who was returning on the same train from Bordeaux. He insisted that I return with him and spend the remainder of my leave with them, which I am doing.

Now, who are they? Lord only knows. I have not been able to distinguish their titles from their names yet, but finding me interested in pictures they thought perhaps I would be interested in looking over one of the family albums. It was a daughter-in-law of the Viscount Duval who showed me the album. The Countess Duval had three sons, the eldest an author of some note; the second owns Château Du Bois, and the third is the one with whom I am staying now. This family consists of a married daughter, formerly the Marchioness Duval, now Viscountess Richecourt; the son, married to the Marchioness Ribol; and the daughter, still the unmarried Marchioness Duval.

Devoting a short paragraph to the latter, which is her due. She is charming, beautiful, of what might be called the flower of French gentility, and is twenty-three. She speaks English very well, plays the piano and violoncello, and is much interested in art. She has not had so much time for these, however, since the war has centered her real interests in the soldiers at the Front. It was she who described the spirit of Frenchmen as “so beautiful.” Speaking of a mass for their dead, which was held by the family some six months ago, the smile did not fade, but there was sadness in her voice as she said, “More than twenty-five of our poor boys had died at that time.” That included cousins and second cousins of their family, but she said, “We must be happy.” She just came in where we are all writing letters, with her hair hanging about her shoulders. I didn’t notice what she was saying, but I think she was thanking me very much for a little sixty cent maiden-hair fern with a little white flower in the center which I brought her on the way from the barber shop as a New Years present. She set it on her desk. It will grow there.

They are going out to distribute meat to some poor people, so I shall go with them, and continue this anon.

This being anon, I have forgotten titles and history and nationality in the acquaintance of the finest people I have ever met.... There is a climax in one’s estimate of the worthiness of people, and I believe I have reached it. Their fortunes and family have been irreparably depleted by the war, yet they devote all their time and energies to the poor, the wounded, and their soldiers on the firing line. They are French, yet knowing them has wiped out the possibility of superiority of nationality or race. They are Catholics, yet knowing them has wiped out the possibility of superiority of faith or religion. I do not understand their language well enough to know them as they are to be known, nor my own language well enough to give them their due. Their faith, their hope, their charity, is superior to any I have ever known.

They attend mass early and late. They share their prosperity among all. They fill their holidays with the writing of letters to those in the trenches who are theirs to cheer. I have known the home life of American families as I am seeing the life of this French family, and I am convinced that these people are no less superior in the art of living than in the other arts.

My standards of life and ambitions and ideals and philosophy are not so high as I thought they were. They fill the bill as far as self-restraint is concerned, but as for using the superior ability so gained in the benefiting of other lives I am almost wholly lacking. I thought my character was getting pretty well rounded out, and now I find it is still only a bulged seed, with the skin cracked by sudden growth.

Whether the atmosphere of this family is the indirect result of the war I rather doubt, but if America is to be subjected to such a renaissance this war is a blessing. This may all be enthusiasm on my part, but enthusiasm involving higher ideals seldom is dangerous. Every so often one bumps his head as he passes through the less prominent doorways in life, and is suddenly brought to realize that he has been asleep. My last bump is still on the rise. Since coming to France I have been resting, and now I am through. It is time to set a new pace for myself. It is a foolish thing to write that down, but it emphasizes the fact that it’s the truth.

Another short paragraph to this girl. She is the first girl I have ever met who I am sure knows more than myself, and whose faith inspires all in me. The interesting details of the daily life of this family would hold your interest in many such letters as this, but they fall into such insignificance in the light of my admiration for their bigger qualities, that I cannot recall them.

For the present, I shall say good night. Tomorrow I fly. I am coming to take dinner here and stay all night day after tomorrow. I have not received mail since December 10, save one short letter from father.

Love to you all,

YOUR SON.

_January 8, 1918._

DEAR FATHER:

Check No. 7498 for 250 francs arrived yesterday. Thank you very much. I had four francs left. I am living at the home of the Duvals for the remainder of my stay at Cazaux. I’ll tell you all about it when I have more time. Till then, know that the Prince of Ely is guest of honor to the best blood and truest people of France. Their daughter reads many English books and would like to read some American novels. Will you please send to me at 45 Ave. Montaigne the following books: _The Virginian_, by Owen Wister, _Laddie_, by Gene Stratton Porter, and _The Turmoil_, by Booth Tarkington. These depict American life as she would enjoy knowing it. She is giving me French books to read.

YOUR SON.

My final shooting record was very good, fourteen per cent at a flying target. The reward for merit, a two days’ _permission_.

_Villa St. Jean, January 9, 1918._

DEAREST FAMILY:

Here’s to say that I am still enjoying your Christmas presents and those of our kind friends. It is mighty good to eat the nuts and “rocks” that make me think of the home pantry. The only thing lacking is a great glass of milk. The money, too, came just in time. Not all of it came, but I have checks Nos. 7506, 7504, 7505, 7488, 7499, which will be good insurance against hard times for many a month, I hope. All my mail had been sent to my next address by the Personnel Department, and was returned by special request. The Personnel Department will continue to be my address until further notice.

You asked what the Lafayette escadrille is. It is the continuation of the small group of American flyers who originally went into the French service in the early part of the war. Its signal service was made the basis of romantic interest and used to bind the feeling of friendship between France and America. The interest caused other Americans to seek admission in such numbers that a new division of the French Foreign Legion called the Lafayette Flying Corps, and, later, the Franco-American Flying Corps was formed. It was for selected Americans. The original Lafayette Flying Corps, a group of ten men, continued distinct. It was the Franco-American Flying Corps that I joined. Many men please to let the public believe that they are members of the Lafayette Flying Corps, and so profit by its valor. It is because of this that it is essential to keep one’s position clear.

As to my letter which was so widely published—I am sorry that my name was attached. I find there is a distinct repulsion at seeing my name in print in connection with such an expression as “quiet valor.” The letter described a milestone in my life, but in the world of aviation and the war at large such an incident is no more than a blow-out in an automobile race. To people not acquainted with aviation, it would be very interesting, indeed, but the name would not add much to its interest. The editor’s comment was encouraging, but that he should think of the book which was recommended to all their reporters, is not so extraordinary; nor does it mean that my letter was on a level with it. It would be a great pleasure to me if I could turn my letter writing to actual advantage, but to do so in the first person, with name attached, is something I am not ready for. You spoke of all good things going into the _Post_. Did you mean the _Saturday Evening Post_? If it were possible to get an article in the _Saturday Evening Post_, I could aspire to that. I know that it is a pretty big thing, but every number has an article in it written by a night-shift reporter who got out to some aviation school over Sunday. What I have in mind for the _Post_ is an article, not on aviation, which is already over-written, but on the intimate side of the French people, our allies.

On this I want your advice and help if it proves possible. Everybody agrees that the United States waited too long before entering the war, but I always felt that it did right in waiting until the people were ready. However, having waited too long, it cannot take its full part except in that part of the war which remains. I do not believe that that fulfills its duty. As France has been the field of devastation it is to France that further aid should be given in completing the duty of the country. This could best be done in aiding her to recover after the war. This has all been thought of and acted upon to some extent in the States.

One method suggested and perhaps carried out was that American towns should act as godmothers to French towns ruined in the battle front. This method is thoroughly practical if rightly carried out, and contains a touch of the romantic which would probably appeal to the public mind enough to interest it. It has been long since I left the States as far as the changes which have taken place are concerned. I suspect that the attitude has changed from “Help France to beat the Germans” to “Help the United States to beat the Germans.” The result would be that where the godmother movement would have received hearty support earlier, it might now fail. It is of this I want you to tell me, if possible. Would the people, by the right method of approach, be willing to adopt a French town and subscribe quite liberally to its rebuilding, and does the government permit such donations?

The United States is athrob with the scale of its task and the enthusiasm of its attack. It pats itself on the shoulder that a liberty loan of two or three billion dollars should be oversubscribed. Though one heard very little about it in street conversation in French towns and Paris, the French oversubscribed a two billion liberty loan after three years and a half of this war. This speaks for itself.

But to return to the godmother movement. I have been asked by the family Duval if such a thing were possible and if I might be able to find the ways and means of doing it. The town is one in which their family is interested and they wish to take the responsibility of looking out for its welfare after the war. I have not talked with the people who are directly interested and in charge of detailed information concerning it. I shall see them in Paris in a few days and may withhold this letter till then.

I am going to write to Dr. Gordon, Mr. Davies, and Professor Lawrence to find their opinion on the possibility of raising such a godmother fund. Professor Lawrence spoke of the possibility of architectural societies sending representatives to engineer the building of such towns. My letters to these people will be brief, written from the position of one speaking for friends here who wish to know possibilities.

Just a glance at the possibilities will show you the cause of my interest. I am interested in France, and if I could spend a year of my life in doing some such service, it would be no more than I believe any American owes. I might even take charge of the rebuilding of the town. It would benefit France, as you can see. It would benefit America in making stronger the feeling of love between herself and France. It would gratify the Duvals, who have been so kind to me. As for me, it would give me permanent access to the best that France can offer; an opportunity of architectural study and practice are among other things. Tell me what you think of it.

YOUR SON.

_Arcachon, January 13, 1918._

DEAR FAMILY:

I’ll tell you what the Duvals have done for me and let you judge what kind of friends they are. First, they invited me to Christmas dinner, and having failed to reach me, invited me again for New Years. They have insisted that I stay with them, and so I have had dinner and afternoon tea here every afternoon and stayed all night since that time, and have spent my four days’ leave with them. During that time their interest in my pleasure has not relaxed in the least, yet there has been no feeling they were neglecting their duties for my pleasure. Finding that I loved music, there has been hardly an afternoon that other people of musical talent were not invited to tea, the Duvals, themselves, being very musical. Among these people have been some of the finest women of France, many of them daughters of French nobility of the last three centuries.

On January 3 the aviation school gave itself over to a fête day in honor of a delegation of the neutral countries of the world. All the guns were firing from morning until night, and all the aeroplanes were constantly in flight. The delegation consisted of the principal dignitaries of the countries they represented and were arrayed in gorgeous attire.

Conducted about in automobiles by the commandant of the school, they beheld with strained dignity, the war preparation of France. We pilots discussed among ourselves these dukes and lords of different skins, whom the French call “Neuters.” The work finished and pomp dismissed, I went as usual in the officers’ special truck to Arcachon. The array of automobiles before the door warned me of what was coming, so I swallowed my surprise successfully when I was ushered in among the array of “high-heads” to inspect their medals at close range. As I passed from room to room all the Duvals, each in turn, stepped out from their “Neuter” guests with marked cordiality to say how glad they were to see me, and where it was convenient, introduced me to the others as an “American aviator in the French Foreign Legion.” It always pleased me to note the embarrassment of the duke or prince in question when he tried to decide whether or not he should shake hands with me. When they seemed anxious to do so, I permitted it. Then Catherine Duval, the daughter, led me to the next prettiest girl in the room and said I would find her charming. We talked of music and the difference between French and American girls. Meanwhile, the “Neuters” were trying to make their school-French a common meeting ground.

In the next room, the sister of my partner was occupied with a gentleman from Argentina. She being a very charming girl, he proceeded to scatter “bouquets” with glances ardent. “Of course,” said she, “while you are paying me pretty speeches here, your brother may be suing the favor of some general’s daughter in Berlin.” The “Neuter” lapsed to more commonplace remarks. If you knew what the French have endured, you could excuse her frankness.

Among those present were first consul to the king of Spain, the prince of Siam, and others of the same hue. They departed, and as I happened to be near the door when the migration started, most of them thanked me for their pleasant time; the rest admitted the honor. Then we had a little music feast; the girl with whom I had talked has a voice which would be ready for Grand Opera in three years. Oh! They are all so absolutely charming that I shall never be content till you meet them. You may begin to plan now on a trip to France after the war.

They had not told me of their intention to entertain this delegation lest perhaps I would not have come. How courteous. But they didn’t know me.

Their family is numerous. The man in charge of the delegation was a cousin. Another cousin is on the staff of the school here at Cazaux, having been incapacitated by service at the Front; he said he would be pleased to do anything he could for me at the school. Another cousin, an aviator, with eight Boche to his official credit, and twice as many actually, who is chief of his escadrille and came down to this school to give lectures, has been staying here for four days. He is twenty-four, and a charming fellow. I asked if he would permit me to apply for admission to his escadrille, and he said he also would make the request, and that it might well be accomplished. It might mean a matter of life and death some day to be in the escadrille whose chief was personally interested in one. Two years ago, this boy’s brother was brought down in a fighting plane. Two days later the father and mother took this boy to Paris and enlisted him in aviation to fill his brother’s place—and he has filled it. Do you get the spirit?

A captain whom I met here was a civilian at the beginning of the war. His son enlisted in the infantry, and he enlisted, too, that he might be by his son’s side. His son died in his arms. Now the father is a captain, but his lips turn white when he speaks of the Germans. Do you get the spirit?

The First Dragoons are a company of cavalry whose ranks have been filled by certain families for generations. One of them was killed. The boy’s father, a captain of infantry, resigned his position and enlisted as a private to fill that place in the First Dragoons which had been occupied by his son, his father, and his grandfather before him. Do you get the spirit?

Do you see why I say that the United States can still bare its head to France without loss of self-respect? Do you see why, though American, I feel it something of an honor to remain for a time in the French Army?

Just to give you an idea of what I have in mind, I’ll tell you the possibilities, but bear in mind that is all conjecture, guided more by my own reason than by knowledge of what is taking place. At first, all men entering United States aviation were made first lieutenants. Some of these, still unable to fly, are in this country helping to build barracks. Others were taken from the French Army as first lieutenants and are already making use of their experience at the Front. It is now the policy of the United States to give first lieutenancies to aviators only when they get to service at the Front; they are second lieutenants until then. In other words, they started out by throwing first lieutenancies about before they could judge the men that were getting them, and they are having to back down by making men of superior training inferior in office to men who have received commissions without the training. This is obviously unfair, and although I can see why it is necessary, I do not propose to suffer by their mistake and permit myself to be cramped in service by accepting too low a position in the U. S. Army. We signed papers applying for the offer of first lieutenancy about four months ago, and no steps have been taken until very lately. Now some of the men have been released from the French Army, but are not yet taken into the U. S. I may be among them and will find out when I go to Paris. I think, however, that an intentional failure to sign a duplicate application for release from the French Army may have prevented my release. In that case, I can go into a French escadrille and get a couple of months’ service and experience with the French before they can accomplish anything with their red tape. By that time, U. S. aviation will be turning out men and planes in preparation for the summer or fall drive, and will need men with practical experience as heads of the escadrille which they will want to put on the Front. As there are so many first lieutenant aviators, it will be necessary to make the chiefs of their escadrilles captains. By that time I will have had experience, a clear record, and a good recommendation from the French. It seems reasonable to me that I will be in a position then to ask for a captaincy, and it is this course of action that I propose to follow. In staying with the French I must be self-supporting. If I do not play my cards correctly I might be refused a commission in the U. S. Army, but that would be rather unlikely. It really depends greatly upon that signature of release from the French. I feel, however, that I will eventually get what I deserve—whatever that may be—and I await results. Meanwhile, I am serving the Cause as much as an aviator can.

I have before me another letter to you as long as this, which I will not mail until I talk with Countess Duval in Paris, whom the letter concerns.

My love is with you all. Be content that you are in America. Coal may be high—but it is better than no coal. People in France don’t eat butter. Lump sugar is jewelry.

Ever your son,

DINSMORE.

_Villa St. Jean, January 13, 1918._

DEAR FAMILY:

I forgot to say that I have five days’ _permission_ as a reward for raising the school record in aero marksmanship from twenty-two per cent to twenty-seven and a half per cent. It is the first thing which is actual cause for believing that I may be a successful fighting pilot. Many men can fly and many can shoot very well, but the combination of the two is the rare thing which much increases one’s opportunity for service and chance for survival in the struggle for existence over the lines.

The test is made on a sleeve the size of the body of the smallest aeroplane. This sleeve is dragged behind another aeroplane traveling at sixty or seventy miles per hour. The plane I drove had a speed of 100 to 120 miles per hour, and the machine gun is fired from it, and mechanically arranged to shoot through the propeller. You approach the sleeve from various directions, making snap judgments as to target and shooter’s deflection, which I explained in another letter, and then fire six or eight shots at a time at a range varying from 600 to 75 feet. The centering of the bullets is important. You have a hundred shots.

Your son,

DINSMORE.

_Plessis Belleville, France, January 17, 1918._

DEAR BOB:

Seven of us fellows met in Paris after a five days’ _permission_ and took the train for this place. We arrived at about four in the afternoon, and it was raining about one hundred per cent. We piled our luggage into the truck and climbed up on top of it. It was some ride! By the time darkness fell we had become skilful enough to keep our balance on top of the luggage. It was very dangerous to ride that way. I understand why they give aviators the balance test. We pulled in here in the dark and waded half a mile through mud three inches deep, and mounted to the second story of a one-story building where they served us a three-course dinner in one course. We used the same half mile of mud to get back to the barracks. The question came up as to how we were to get our baggage into the barracks from the trucks, so we carried it in. Meanwhile, the rain kept up its standard. I forgot to mention we had been dressed in our best clothes. My hat was covered with mud because it had fallen off; the rain washed the cap, and that’s how the mud got into my eyes. We were to sleep on boards. I had my bed made when a Frenchman came along and offered me a mattress, as he had two. I wanted to be generous and give it to one of the other fellows, but I thought it would hurt the Frenchman’s feelings, so I used it myself to sleep on. But yesterday I put the mattress under the boards; I do not think he will notice the change and it is more comfortable. The saving grace of it all is that we have a great bunch of fellows. We have what _we_ French call _esprit de corps_, meaning in your English language “good spirit.” We sing when rained upon and laugh when we are sad. They are all pretty straight fellows and do not let people stumble over their crooks. It is only when others thrust their faults upon you that you object to their faults. One might write a nice discourse on the moral rights of a person to pollute the free atmosphere with the expression of poisonous thoughts. But these fellows do not do that.

In passing through Paris, I found that I can remain in the French Army at my option, which I choose to do for some months. I am slowly using up the great stock of clothing I brought over with me. The hip boots are best just now. I was dressed in my brown sweater, my American campaign hat, black boots, and rain coat. I had just finished signing up, when I heard the door open and smelled some one come in. It was a mixture of Port and Burgundy wines that I smelled. Having heard that the captain had a taste for wine, I wheeled around and came to a salute. He looked me over, up and down, and asked me who I was. I said I was an American in the _Legion Étranger_, and that I had purchased my clothes at Marshall Field & Company’s on Washington Street, in Chicago. I knew he didn’t like my camouflage, because he turned to an assistant and said, “Dress this man in a complete French uniform.” The man took me in another room and tried on the clothes. I let him. When he started to hand me a blue flag, I looked at him questioningly. So he sat down on the floor and folded the flag lengthwise, running it over his knee to make the creases stay. When he finished, it was a two-inch band which he wound about my neck, gave a cross hitch, and pinned it with a pin he bit out of the lower corner of his coat. He was very serious all the time. He gave me a cap of the type discarded by the Miners’ Union in 1883. Except when I see the captain coming, I wear it under my coat. My new uniform is sky blue in rainy weather. In my next letter I’ll tell you how it looks when the sun shines. When the weather improves, we may fly.

We are in the war zone now, about thirty-two miles from the Front. We can see the flare of artillery in the sky and hear the guns on a clear night. Today we took a walk to a village seven miles away, and crossed a road where many trains of trucks were passing with supplies. That begins to sound exciting, doesn’t it? In each village the houses are marked with the numbers of men and horses they can accommodate. I should be excited, but I’m not, because I’ll not see the Front for another month.

Your ever lovin’ brother,

DINS.

_January 19, 1918._

DEAR FAMILY:

Today I received twenty-five letters dating from November 1 to December 1....

A little tin box containing sugar, candy, and candied pineapple came day before yesterday. I ate it nearly all by myself, though I share all other things. The big can of candy sent by Mr. Buchanan has set open to the barracks for three days and has been a great pleasure to all of us. A knitted sweater from a Boston girl whose father was a “Tech” man, came, and I have all the warm things I could wish for and all the money I can use for three or four months. I may go to Nice on my next _permission_, with some of my Christmas money. Father’s check No. 7499 for 250 francs came. Thank you for all these things. Those five pictures of the cabin touch a chord of their own.

We are near the Front now—twenty-five miles. Last night we saw the great searchlights playing and the star shells floating at the end of their fiery arcs. But the country here is fertile and well cared for, and the only signs of war are a few scattered graves of unknown victims of the battle of the Marne. We take long walks when not at work—work being the business of waiting for a chance to fly. There were seven machines broken yesterday and no one hurt; expenses for the day must have been thirty thousand dollars. It is a rich man’s game. I had four rides. The machines are better here.

Today I got half a cup of water, so I washed my teeth. Next Sunday I shall shave. I cleaned my boots from a puddle in the road. Water is scarcer than wine, but I am still teetotaling. I am tired tonight.

Good night,

YOUR SON.

_January 20, 1918._

MA CHÈRE FAMILLE:

Yesterday I made an appointment with the town barber to have him cut my hair at 5:15 P.M. I was quite prompt but found him unprepared. He lived off a little court yard which was connected by a close to the main alley of the borough. In crossing the threshold of the kitchen I entered the tonsorial parlor. His work bench was next to the family range, and a moth-eaten mirror reflected pox-marked people. The madame set the chair in the middle of the room and brought the scissors and comb from the other room. The twelve-year old offspring was arrested in the midst of rolling a cigarette when his father commanded him to hold the lamp. So the little fellow stood transfixed with the half-rolled cigarette in one hand and the family lamp in the other. Every time the father hesitated, the boy tried to set down the lamp and finish the cigarette, but the father would jump to it again and keep the boy from making any headway. Believe it, the boy kept his father hard at it. Sometimes the lamp nearly lost its balance, but the cigarette kept level, so I took to watching the cigarette. He never would have succeeded in rolling it if the father hadn’t had to go to the shed to get the clippers. As it was, he returned before the boy could light up. Meanwhile, the old dame, who needed a shave more than I did a hair cut, was preparing to feed the animals. Once when she was leaning over me to get a dipper of water out of the pail under the barber’s table, she lost her balance and fell into my lap. But she didn’t spill the water and the old man didn’t miss a clip. She would stop her work from time to time and come over with folded arms to see how the hair was coming off. The professor didn’t cut any off the top. When I suggested that he cut just a little I think it hurt his feelings, because he changed my hair from a “Broadway-comb-back” to a “Sing-Sing-sanitary” in about ten strokes. But it was the quickest hair cut I ever had and he didn’t tell me I needed a shampoo, so I gave him eight cents instead of six.

YOUR SON.

_January 31, 1918._

DEAR BOB:

It has been wonderfully clear for the past three nights, and in the light of a big London raid, the French have been expecting a raid on Paris. Last night I went to bed early. Thump—thump—boom—boom—boom; I rolled over to sleep on the other side. Boom—boom—bang—bang—bang; my ears felt funny and I turned over on my back and looked at the ceiling. Bang—crash—crash—thunder; something must be wrong. I sat up in bed, to see figures passing the moonlit windows and voices whispering between the continuous detonations which jarred the night air. Someone lit a light, and a hiss went up from the barracks. One heard the words “Boche” and “bomb” oft repeated. I yawned and pulled on the other sock. We could hear the hum of motors as we crowded out of the barracks doors, scantily clad.

The air was crisp and clear. The moon was just rising. It was twelve-thirty, and there were stars in millions. Now the crashes came just over our heads. First, over to the east, just behind a clump of trees not half a mile away we would see a couple of sudden flares; then came the crash of the report, followed by the receding war song of the shells as they went up through the darkness; then would come the bright glare which would blind the sight and scare away the stars, leaving the sky black; and finally, as we would blink and begin to see the stars venturing forth again, the great crash of the shell on high would reach us. Then we would discuss how close they may have come to the place and whether the falling shells would come near us. But the hum of the planes came and went in the direction of Paris without our seeing them, for only the explosion of shells marked their course across the sky. We are thirty miles from Paris. For fifteen minutes we watched the explosions of the anti-aircraft shells. Then suddenly there were low grumblings, booming with increasing rapidity of succession. The groups of lights signaling in the Paris Guard formation flashed off and on, changing location with great rapidity. Then came the returning hum of the motors, the line of shells flaring in the sky, a series of red-rocket signals, and the raid was over.

Today I had my first rides in the Spad. It is the most wonderful machine going. It has an eight-cylinder motor, and is built like a bulldog. It is the finest thing in aeroplanes, and I certainly hope I get one at the Front.

The first copy of _Life_ came yesterday. Say, you couldn’t have given me a present that would cause us all more pleasure. I read every word of it, and now it is going the rounds. Thank you for it ever so much.

Well, we have an _appel_ (roll-call) and I must stop. Love to you all. Write me when you can.

Your ever lovin’ brother,

DINS.

_February 10, 1918._

DEAR FAMILY:

The first week here was restless, the second nerve-wrecking, and now I have relaxed and settled down to pleasant, contented routine which varies according to the weather. When it rains or is foggy, I come over alone to a little wine shop in a near-by village; its name is Tagny-le-Sec. Here I have chocolate, toast, and butter for _petit déjeuner_ (little breakfast). Then I write and read and draw according to my whim till lunch time. If the sky has not cleared in the afternoon, I go for a walk and up to the barracks where I lie down and read until supper. After supper a bunch of us go to a wine shop and talk until roll-call at nine o’clock.

When the weather is favorable, we stand out on the field eight hours a day waiting our turn to fly; that is a strain. Usually we fly a half hour a day, but at times, one may go three or four days without a flight, but no matter how long you wait, a single half hour in the air satisfies all desire for action, excitement, and exercise for the time being. That is one of the strange things about aviation. Though a man is strapped in his seat and moves no part of his body more than three inches, an hour in the air will keep him in excellent physical condition, provided he is nervously fitted for the work. And the mind and eyes are equally fatigued. Absolute concentration is necessary. The more I see of the game, the more I believe that nine-tenths of the accidents and deaths are due to the inability of the pilot to concentrate or to recognize that concentration is necessary.

We are using the best and fastest fighting plane now, the Spad, Guynemer’s plane. In starting, one must immediately throw every nerve into stress to keep the machine in its given course; not doing so means a quick turn, a crushing of the running gear, and a broken wing. This is an inexcusable accident with a trained pilot; yet it happens about once a day because someone is only three-fourths on the job. In gaining speed, the machine must be brought to its line of flight, the danger here being to tip it too far forward and break the propeller on the ground. This is easy to prevent, and so is inexcusable, yet it happens once a week because someone forgets himself. There is danger in leaving the ground too soon, and danger in mounting too quickly.

About one pilot a month is killed at the Front by attempting to mount too quickly while close to the ground. At a height of twenty feet, one must be all alert for sharp heat waves that are liable to get under one wing. When one comes to make the first turn, there is danger of too great a bank allowing the head-on wind to get under the high wing and slide you down, yet this almost never happens because by the time the pilot is up there he is all present. All this time he must have been alert for arriving and departing machines which are dangerous, not only because of collision, but because of the turbulent current of air they leave in their wake. One machine passing through the wake of another acts like a wild goose frightened by a passing bullet.

As the pilot gains height and distance from the field he may begin to relax and get his geographical bearings, and it is well for him to do so, for the strain he was under in those first thirty seconds would exhaust him in fifteen minutes. He can then glance over his gauges and listen to his motor. When he gets to a thousand or fifteen hundred meters he can lean back, throttle down his motor, and count the clouds with a freedom from worry which the motorist never knows. At the Front of course it is different. There the pilot must make a complete study of the whole horizon every thirty seconds to be sure of his safety from enemy planes, meanwhile changing his course and height continually to evade the anti-aircraft shells. Most pilots are brought down at the Front by surprise, which again is due to lack of concentration.

Having had a pleasant flight and enjoyed the beauties of nature, it is time to drift down to the home roost. You locate the hangars, cut your engine down low, and strike your peaking angle. The good old machine purrs like a kitten, the clouds whisk by, you breathe a sigh of relief and wonder if dinner will be any better than lunch. Well, anyway, it was a good ride. And just there is where “dat dar grimacin’ skeleton pusson begins to rattle dem bones.” Maybe you have let the plane flatten out its peaking angle a little and lost your velocity. Maybe the engine was turning over a good speed because of your descent when you last noticed it. Maybe the evening air has quieted down somewhat and it was safe enough to drift along and settle as long as you had altitude. But now that you are fifty meters from the ground and the _piece_ two or three hundred meters away and you have come to horizontal flight a little and your plane is slowly losing its speed of descent and your engine is still throttled down too slow to even roll you along the ground—and the sunset is beautiful—like a hole in the sidewalk, your plane gives a sudden lurch, you jump all over and find your controls “mushy”—you slip sideways, the ground coming at you—you jerk open the throttle—the motor, cold from the descent, chokes a bit—you can see the grass blades red in the sun—then she catches! God bless that motor—she booms! There is a moment of clenched teeth while the plane wavers in its slide, and then she bounds forward, skimming the ground, gaining speed just in time to clear those deadly telegraph wires. With eyes set on the horizon, you let her sink, and every nerve tense, she pulls her tail down, touches the ground in a three-point landing like a gull on the wave. She rolls up and stops; you take a breath and feel the color come back to your cheeks. Slowly you raise your glasses to your forehead and undo your belt. Slowly you raise yourself out and drop to the ground. Pensively you wander back into the group of aviators who watched you land.

“Some landing like a duck,” says an American.

“_Très bien_,” says the monitor. But you go over and lean against a tent pole silent, and without a smile. You know what your comrades do not know—that “a fool there was,” and he lives by a fool’s luck. And you swear an oath to yourself and the dear old world that you’ll never be caught like that again.

Most everyone has the experience sooner or later and almost everyone lives to be a wiser and more prudent man, not excluding

Your son,

DINS.

_February 13, 1918._

DEAR FAMILY:

We are right here among the pines. Great forests of splendid Norways stretch away over the rolling sandy country, broken only by the clearing around some old manor château with its radiating vistas and its towers standing white amidst the green. Would you think that France with its dense population and old culture would be covered with great forests, almost primeval in the abandon of their growth? Throw in a few lakes and it would be Wisconsin.

Yesterday I cut the noonday roll-call and succeeded in losing myself as an excuse. As I swung along the road, I could feel the spirit of the blazed trail humming in the pine boughs; and my breath came deep. Here was a clearing with the logs fallen and the smallest branches cut and tied in neat sheaves—there, off to the right, was a hill which mounted above the tree tops. I climbed to the top and saw the stretch of woods on all sides with here and there a rock-strewn, barren stretch of sand. Going down the other side, a pheasant clapped up from under foot and made me start. As my eyes glanced along the trail ahead of my wandering feet, I saw many deer tracks. They say that since the war, wolves are not infrequent; and have we not heard of wolves in the streets of Paris not many decades ago? Now and then a rabbit bobbed out of sight. It soothed me and yet made me homesick. Out there in the open woods with the gentle spirit of the mighty pines, I could not help despairing at the question, “What good is war?”

Today we had an accident. A machine had mounted to fifty meters when it stopped climbing and started to lose speed. It turned to come back to the _piece_, but slipped sideways and fell in “_vrille_,” and crashed headlong to the ground. The tail broke backward and the motor gave a final groan, as in a death struggle. Men covered their eyes. It was a quarter of a mile away. All started to run, and I was first there. The pilot, a little Frenchman with whom I had been exchanging French, had crawled out on top of the wreck. He sat shut in by the wreckage. There was a whimper on his face. I climbed up on the wreckage and held him in my arms. He called me by name and then managed to tell me that his arm was broken. Well, you can imagine how relieved I was. I handed him out to the others who had arrived by this time. The doctor came up and cut the clothes away from his arm. There was no bruise nor blood, and as he began to regain his color, we tried to divert his mind. About the first thing he asked for was a piece of the propeller for a souvenir. Well, we put him on a stretcher and into the captain’s car and went to the hospital in a little town, Senlis, some two miles away. He seemed to prefer me to all his French friends. The hospital was a nice old Catholic institution, with old Sisters and young Red Cross nurses. We left him contented and resigned to his lot of another two or three months before reaching the Front.

The village in which we found the hospital has been heavily shelled in the early days of the war. Every third or fourth house was a monumental ruin to the price of war, but by some happy chance the two beautiful cathedrals of the town had been spared, yet the ruins seemed very old and the vines which formerly climbed the walls now fell about the broken stones and trailed through the blind windows, giving the whole an aged aspect; and between these ruins were the untouched abodes of unconscious inhabitants.

Truly your

SON.

DEAR FAMILY:

A letter clipping describes that part of France which is shrouded in the historic pages of knights and kings; that part which has pleased me so much when written by another, makes me think of the poorer classes who have lived and died in the environment of their birthplaces without ambition, that those knights and kings might carve their deeds of blood on shields of gold.

In this great war, these poorer classes, peasants still, are the _poilus_ who keep the trench mud from driving them mad by that pint of the red French wine, and they sit about me now in a little old wine shop whose many-colored bottles, oft refilled, are as numerous in shapes and styles as the decades they have served. The walls are spotted and stained, and the ceilings smoked, but the delicate moldings in the stone tell of a day when this was the thriving hostelry of the village. Now the poorly dressed, worn-out veterans of the Great War bend over the scarred tables and confer or wrangle as to how their work, so hard begun, will end.

DINSMORE.

_February 18, 1918._

DEAR FAMILY:

I am told that the American captain at this school is looking for me to offer me a second lieutenancy in the U. S. Army. I must decide immediately, and I am tempted to toss a coin.

* * * * *

_Well, this is the result_: I signed for the release from the army Français. I was refused a _permission_ to Paris and took it anyway to find out from the American authorities what would become of me. My trip to Paris was unsuccessful. I returned to camp late at night, and when I awoke in the morning I was told that the _permission_ had been granted after all and that I had been ordered to the Front at eleven o’clock that day in Escadrille S 102, Sector Postal 160, located near Toul. I stopped over at Paris a day and a half and landed here day before yesterday. So now, God be praised, I am at the Front. It has taken eight months to come to it, but I guess it will be worth it.

YOUR SON.

_Near Toul, France, February 26, 1918._

DEAR FATHER:

Plessis Belleville was a great strain. I had to fight the curse of idleness and it is a losing fight, as with a man who is muscle bound who tires himself out. Reading, studying French, drawing and walking helped, but they were a failure through lack of inspiration. No Americans had been sent to the Front and there was a rumor that we were to be held there till the United States took us over. Then came the offer of our commissions as second lieutenants, and so inactive had our minds become that it upset us to decide. I asked for my release from the French Army although it is not what I wished to do; yet it seemed best. It means that I could hardly expect to go to the Front in French service and might have to wait months for action in United States service. I was in despair.

The next morning I asked for a _permission_ of twenty-four hours in Paris. It was refused. I took the eleven o’clock train the next morning with an officer. I myself was mistaken for an officer. He was good company. We went and had a Turkish bath. That night I went to the opera. In the morning my _marraine’s_ grandchildren came up to see me. I held them in my arms. Children seem to love me. I think children’s love protects people from wrong and trouble.

That day I found that I could not learn anything from the U. S. Army, so I went to the opera again in the afternoon, but it was poor. Then I walked in the crowds and laughed at all who would laugh with me. After a good dinner, I rode back to Plessis with a pretty girl who was good company. That night sleep came easily and was sound.

The hoodoo was broken.

The next morning when I awoke, they told me I was to leave for the Front at eleven o’clock. I was assigned to the French Escadrille S 102, Sector Postal 160, near Toul. Well, I was busy packing and getting papers signed and saying good-bye to everyone. So now I was just where I wished to be.

It is the custom to take two days in Paris without permission on your way to the Front. My _marraine_ was surprised to see me back so soon. I spent the day shopping and then we went to see Gaby Deslys last night. We sat with three American soldiers who had asked us to get their tickets for them. The show was full of pep and American songs, besides having some really wonderful dancing. Between acts there was a regular New York “jazz” band playing in the foyer. It was a jolly way to say good-bye to Paris.

My _marraine_ had received your letter telling of wiring me money. As I have received no mail whatever for more than three weeks I knew nothing of it. I deposited the money in the Guaranty Trust Company of New York, 1 and 3 Boul. des Italiens, Paris. I have a trunk at the Cécilia Hôtel, 12 Ave. Mac-Mahon, Paris. With me I have two duffelbags and a suitcase. At the “Tech” Club, University Union, 8 Rue Richelieu, Paris, are some films and key to my trunk. There are some post cards and perhaps a few odds and ends at my _marraine’s_. Thanks very much for the money; I hope I shall not have to use it.

Well, I went down to the station, and just naturally took the train for the Front as if I were going to Milwaukee (if such a city does exist anymore). There were three American flyers still in the French Army on the train. Wallman, Hitchcock, and another; the first two have been doing exceptional work lately. They explained to me how to kill German flyers, and I am quite anxious to try it now. We passed through some towns which had been shelled, but they didn’t look so terribly bad. Arriving at Toul I descended and informed the captain by telephone that I had arrived. An automobile was there in twenty minutes to take me out.

So I am just where I have been working for eight months to get, namely, in a French escadrille, at the Front; flying the best French monoplanes, fighting plane, and with a commission (only a second lieutenant) in the American Army waiting for me. All I wish for now is to be completely forgotten by both French and American authorities until I give them particular reason to remember me; and this may very easily happen (the forgetting part).

And now I am living in a nice little room, which with the room adjacent, is shared by four Frenchmen; one of them is an architect of the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. In the morning chocolate and toast is served to us in bed, as is the French custom. We rise at eleven and have the day to do as we wish, provided it is not good flying weather. Breakfast is served at twelve and supper at seven.

The first day was rainy, but the second day was beautiful, and the captain, who is a corker, gave me a ride in one of the best machines. It was only for forty minutes to look about the country, and of course I did not go near the lines, but I was very lucky to get a ride at all. It will be some time before I have a machine of my own and can work regularly, but that is what I look forward to. Yesterday two Boche planes came over, and the anti-aircraft guns blazed away at them, but all the good it did was to reassure me in the fear of their guns; when they hit it is by accident.

Last night I heard booming and stepped out of the back door. The moon was full and the sky clear. But the whole sky in front of the moon was mackerel flecked with the puffs of anti-aircraft shells. This was literally true, the sky was speckled as thickly as with stars. A minute after I was out a plane passed before the moon, and for thirty seconds I could see the light reflected on its wing. But the number of shots they fired at it appalled me. You could see the little burst of flame which left its puff of smoke. They went off at the rate of seven a second, and they kept it up steadily for twenty minutes. Get out your pencil. The air was still and the smoke remained; probably the smoke from the first shell could be seen to the last (8,400 puffs in twenty minutes and every puff worth $100—$840,000 without getting the effect). As a matter of fact, I imagine it was more for the moral effect upon the populace of the town being bombarded than anything. All night the sullen boom of the cannon can be heard, one boom a second, every other minute. It sounds like a heavy person walking on the floor above. We are twenty miles from the Front and we can get there in thirteen minutes.

Well, I shall probably have some interesting things to write these days, though it is possible that it will be deader here than anywhere else; that is sometimes the case.

Today it was cloudy and I went down to the village and made a couple of sketches of the cathedral which is very fine indeed. There is months of study in it alone.

Good night all; my love to everyone.

Your son,

DINSMORE.

_Escadrille S 102, S. P. 160, March 5, 1918._

DEAR FAMILY:

It will soon be boresome if I trouble you to read of all my narrow escapes. As a matter of fact aviation is so full of them that they become almost commonplace. What happened this time was only an incident of the training for real encounters. There is a little lake near here, and in it is a German aeroplane as a target. We go over and dive at that target and shoot. It is the second good flying day we have had. The captain told me to go over and shoot. On my first drive at the target I shot two handfuls of bullets. I had been peaking 200 meters with full motor. I pulled the machine up too quickly and there was a rip, a crash, and the machine shot into a vertical bank upward. I swung into _ligne de vol_ by crossing controls. A glance at my wing showed the end of the lower right wing torn away. The machine was laboring but I still could guide it, so I returned to the school and landed without mishap. It was one more miracle of a charmed life that I returned. They all came out to congratulate me. Well, sir, the whole front edge of my lower right wing was broken away and bent down. The end of the wing was gone and shreds of braces and cloth dangled along. I really cannot understand why a machine has a lower right wing when you can come home without it. It was caused by too brutal handling at a formidable speed. I had been led to understand that a Spad could peak 500 meters with full motor and redress quite strongly. I had only peaked 175 with three-quarters motor, which I learned was far too much. I begin to think I am a fool, for reason tells me anyone but a fool would have been afraid. But, honestly, there was no more fear than with a blow-out on a tire. Yet all the way home I knew that it would be probable death if anything more went wrong. I came home because I knew the landing ground and it was only five minutes’ flight.

DINS.

_March 12, 1918._

DEAR FAMILY:

In the first place, we are all sad because our captain leaves us today. He is a wonderful man and everyone loves him immediately and always. I have only been here three weeks and yet I wanted to weep. As for him, the tears ran down his cheeks when he said _au revoir, mes amis_ (good-bye, my friends). Another takes his place.

Last night gave a pleasant diversion. It started with a visit to our squadron of a group of aeroplane spotters for the United States balloon service. At their head was the first lieutenant by the name of Grant, from Ohio. He fell into conversation and it developed that he was a very good friend of “Stuff” Spencer’s at Yale. We proved interested in each other’s work and he invited me to come over to have dinner at his camp, located some twelve kilometers from here. I said I’d be glad to some time. He left soon after.

I went over and shot a few rounds at the target, this time without mishap. At about five the craving to walk was upon me, so I took the road leading to the balloon camp, hardly expecting to reach it. With the help of passing trucks I came to the camp, and passed through a town swarming with Americans. Along the roads were blocks of American trucks and ambulances, waiting for darkness to hide their movements. Many mistook me for a French officer and saluted. Those who answered my questions of inquiry stood at attention and replied with “sir.” I wanted to shake hands with them all for they acted as if they had been at it for years. When I came to the officers’ quarters I was introduced to them as into a college fraternity. I was proud rather than angered at having to salute them. They were gentlemen. Now I know why college men will make the best officers. They had a victrola, good food, good _esprit de corps_. I stayed all night and came back this morning. Well, I want to be a member of the American organization. With all its youngness and inexperience, it is good. God give it speed. I shall go over there again.

This showed me another thing: it is quite simple for me to go to points of interest within a radius of fifteen miles from here and return by morning, this giving me an opportunity for seeing other branches of the service. I am reading up on ballooning, aerial photography, and map work, artillery _réglage_ and reconnaissance, and after that I shall study U. S. Army regulations and also wireless. I may have to change at any time to the United States forces, in which case I wish to be in a position to compete with the men I shall find in it.

It seems to me in my last letter I told you of an accident while shooting and said they were common. Well, since then I have had a real accident, so miraculous in its outcome than I am superstitious as a result. You have read of bandits whose bodies could not be marred by bullets. The gods must be saving me for something. Father has always feared a speed greater than twenty-five miles an hour in an automobile. One has the impression that to hit anything at that speed is very apt to kill one. Also, you know the marked increase in speed between twenty-five and thirty-five miles per hour. Say you have gone fifty miles an hour. Now imagine yourself going twice that fast along a precipice road. Suddenly the machine comes to the edge of the cliff, and plunges out into space, at a hundred miles an hour, and down three hundred feet into a pine forest below. Picture what you would find if you went down and looked into the remains of such an accident. Well, the equivalent happened to me. As soon as I hit I cut the spark and turned the cock which relieves pressure from the gas tank, to prevent fire; released the belt which held me in my seat; reached up and pulled myself out of the wreckage by the limb of a tree which had fallen over my head; and made my way through the underbrush without turning to look at the machine. As I stepped out upon a road half a mile away, a Red Cross Ford came along and took me to a near-by village. There I ate a heavy meal while talking to the madame’s daughter, and then telephoned for them to come and get me. When they arrived we were all singing and playing at the piano.

It was my first flight over the lines. I had been flying alone up and down our sector for half an hour. I had seen seven Boche planes a few miles off, but they had immediately disappeared in the clouds. From the first my motor had been running cold. I had attained the height of 4,700 meters. When I started to come down I found it impossible to descend and yet keep the motor warm enough to run. Clouds had gathered below. I tried to wing slip, but still the temperature of the motor dropped. So I wing slipped through the clouds. I had not planned on it, but they were 2,000 meters thick. I came down from 2,800 to 800 meters in some fifteen seconds, a rate of considerably over 250 miles an hour. If the fog had not been so thick the outcome would have been different for the engine would not have gotten so cold, but by the time I could think of adjusting my motor I was at 400. When I found the motor would not work it was fifty, and over a pine wood. I tried to turn back to a field, but started to wing slip, which is death, so I straightened out, let it slow down a bit, and then pointed it down into the trees at an angle of thirty degrees. It is less dangerous to hit an object that way than in line of flight. Things happened just as I expected. The plane mowed down seven or eight six-inch pines. The motor plowed ahead of me and the trees took the shock as they broke. Just before the machine hit the ground it pivoted on a tree and cut an arc, which slowed it up more. All this happened with the suddenness and sound of a stick broken over the knee, yet I was not jolted. The pine trees fell around me without touching me. The wings and framework and running gear and propeller were shattered, but I was not scratched. I was pinned in the very heart of all this débris, without a bump, a bruise, or a broken bone. Goggles on my forehead, a mirror within an inch of my face, and the glass windshield in my lap were unbroken, though the steel braces all about them were bent and broken. The gasoline tank under me did not have a leak. The rest of the machine was good for souvenirs. It was too big a mystery for me to understand.

Yours in a horse-shoe halo.

Son.

_March 21, 1918._

MY DEAR MRS. HAMILTON:

It was a pleasure to hear from you, for if ever letters were welcome it is here. People are so kind in writing that I really cannot pretend to answer as I should, but as you were so near my family, I hope you will forgive me if I let you learn the personal side of my experiences from them. Your letter came yesterday. The box has not yet arrived, but thank you for it in advance.

The great German offensive began last night and we wait the results of the distant thunder. Our sector is quiet. If this is not the final scene of the war, I cannot look far enough ahead to see it.

Aside from the war, I like my work. Wonderful architecture abounds. New peoples fascinate. If not a pleasure, it is a privilege to serve in this war.

As ever,

DINSMORE ELY.

_Wednesday, April 5, 1918._

DEAR FAMILY:

So long since I wrote, can’t remember where I left off. Last ten days spent as follows:

_Mar. 25._ Over German lines.

_Mar. 26._ Ascension in United States balloon.

_Mar. 27._ Orders to leave Toul with entire escadrille.

_Mar. 28._ Packed and left Toul, arriving in Paris.

_Mar. 29._ In Paris preparing to go to Front.

_Mar. 30._ Reported to aviation center near Paris where escadrille was to receive new equipment of planes.

_Mar. 31—April 1 and 2._ Reported each day to headquarters and returned to Paris in evening.

_April 3._ Orders to the Front in new planes.

Reported to headquarters to find I was released from French Army and must go to United States headquarters. Left for Paris and there received orders to go to American Army center in France.

_April 4._ Arrived at A. A. C., was sworn in as second lieutenant.

_April 5._ Returned to Paris, ordered clothes, and now await orders to action.

With love.

Your son,

LIEUTENANT DINSMORE ELY.

_A. E. F., 45 Ave. Montaigne, April 5, 1918._

DEAR FAMILY:

You have probably heard more from me in the last ten days than you will in the next ten. Please pardon me for not having written. Things have moved fast, and all the world strains at attention.

What do we know of the great German offensive? The Boche has made great gains with suicide tolls as a price. The English have made splendid resistance with a retreat which will need explaining. And the turn of the battle came when the French Army arrived. It is hoped that the American Army can be of assistance in the world’s greatest battle, of which the first phase has lasted twelve days already. German communics say this offensive may last for months, but it is the final of the war. The statement was made when they thought the allied line was broken. When the German people discover that the great offensive failed to gain its end, they may interpret it as defeat. If the German people cannot be made to believe that the ground gained in this offensive is of more value than a place to bury their dead, the German Government is whipped.

I went up in a balloon. Lieutenant Grant from Ohio, with whom I formed a friendship, took me up one morning from five to six-thirty. The great balloon made a curved outline against the sky above the tree tops. As we approached in the morning dusk, the darkness and the night chill still struggling to keep off the coming day, many figures hustled to muffled commands. Then, at the order, the balloon moved out into the open and upward until the men clinging to the wet side ropes formed a circle about the basket on the ground. We were put into belts and fastened to our parachutes before getting into the car. Then at the command to give way, the car left the ground and mounted upwards. Soon we were at two thousand feet, and the woods and machines and human forms were lost in the ground haze which clung in the hollows.

With all the flying in the sky which I have done, this was the first time I had hung in the air. I had never realized the air was so empty and so still. The stillness of the mountains is broken by its echo. There are splashes in the stillness of the sea, but the air doesn’t even breathe. Only the desert could be so silent. My companion spoke into his telephone in low tones, to test the wires. He showed me the map, and then pointed out the direction of the enemy lines. Suddenly there was a flicker of fire in the western horizon, like fire flies in the grass. Some time after, there came the distant booms. Opposition firing started, and for a time the duel lasted. But as the sun began to rise, and the mist clear, the firing became intermittent, and finally ceased, and the appalling silence seemed to bear us skyward with its pressure. I shivered. I wonder if the soul shivers as it leaves the earth in search of peace. I think I should prefer to have my soul stay down in the warm earth with my body and the kindly reaching roots of flowers and all the ants and friendly worms than to float up in that everlasting silence. It seemed high, too—much higher than I had ever been in an aeroplane, though it was only seven hundred meters. It was a wonderful experience—but give me the aeroplane, or the submarine, and leave the balloonist to listen for the heartbeat of the Sphinx.

We had just gotten our room nicely decorated with curtains, rug, table cover, hanging lamps, and pictures when we were ordered to move; but everyone was glad of the prospect to get into the fight. We had gone on a patrol nearly to Metz that day and had tried but failed to catch two enemy planes which were located by anti-aircraft shells. That evening we ate our last meal in Toul, and the next morning were in Paris after an all-night ride.

Paris is neither excited nor exciting. Refugees were coming in and going through. Many had left the city while it was being bombarded. All my friends had gone to various country places, and I could see the streets were not so crowded.

I have been here for five days now. We came to a distributing station just outside of Paris to get new machines and then go into the Amiens sector. It took a few days for the machines to be prepared. I was to have a new Spad. On the day we expected to depart, I reported to the captain and he informed me that I was dismissed from the French Army and had a second lieutenancy in the American Army. What could have been more inopportune, just as I was going to the real Front? Well, I said good-bye to the escadrille and hurried to Paris and from there to a distant American Army center, and then back to Paris for more orders, and by that time I was officially an officer. Meanwhile, my suit was being made, and two days later, I was all dressed up in new clothes. With the assistance of a letter from one captain, I had obtained a promise from the lieutenant, the captain, major, colonel, and general of the Paris office of the Aviation Section to have me returned to the French escadrille as a detached American officer. As it was necessary to receive written orders from another distant headquarters, I have been waiting for them here in Paris. I went out yesterday to see the escadrille leave; they had been detained by bad weather.

I expect to return to the French escadrille in two or three days. After that, I shall be an American officer and probably not be able to obtain further _permissions_ to Paris. At present, my one desire is to reach the defensive Front. Right now, it is hard for the French mind to grasp how much the Americans have wanted to help in this defensive during their first year of preparation. No matter how great a thing the American organization is to be, if we suppose there are 300,000 Americans actually fighting in this offensive (no one knows numbers) we must keep things in scale by remembering that Germany alone has probably had more than a million and a half put out of action in this battle alone.

_And I want to say in closing, if anything should happen to me, let’s have no mourning in spirit or in dress. Like a Liberty Bond, it is an investment, not a loss, when a man dies for his_ _country. It is an honor to a family, and is that the time for weeping? I would rather leave my family rich in pleasant memories of my life than numbed in sorrow at my death._

Your son,

DINSMORE.

ADDENDA

_The Services at Paris_

Dr. Alice Barlow-Brown (of Winnetka) was in Paris at the time of Lieut. Ely’s death, and attended the services, which were very impressive, and which indicated the appreciation of the French for the personal and national service which we as their allies are endeavoring to render to them and to the common cause.

Extracts from Dr. Brown’s letter follow:

Paris, April 24, 1918.

DEAR MRS. ELY:

This afternoon I realized how very proud you should feel that you have given to the “great cause” one of the noblest and best of young men. I was more impressed of this as I walked with many others behind the hearse and saw the reverence and homage paid him by every one—men, women, and children—to “les Americains,” as the cortege moved along from the chapel at the hospital to the English church—in front of which was draped the Stars and Stripes—where the services were held. The French artillery escorted from the chapel to the church, remaining outside until the services were concluded—then from the church to the gates of the cemetery.

After the detachment of French artillery came a detachment of U. S. marines, the chaplains, then the hearse, on both sides of which were members of the Aviation Corps, five of them from the LaFayette Escadrille, on each side of these were four French artillerymen, marching with their guns pointed down. Behind came the pall bearers and then representatives of the government, the prefect of the Seine et Oise, representatives of the Allied Council and French military. Then followed civilian men and women, the representatives of the Y. M. C. A. and Red Cross. The services at the church and the grave were conducted by the English chaplain and a U. S. army chaplain. The songs were “Abide with Me” and “For All the Saints Who from Their Labors Rest,” also a solo.

From the church the cortege proceeded across the Place des Armes to the Ave. de Paris, for some distance. Here, while in progress, a friendly aviator descended very low and followed for a distance. In passing, every man bared his head, from the small boy of five years of age to the gray haired old men, every one standing reverently while the cortege passed. The silent tribute paid by the French was very touching.

Two striking incidents occurred. At the church when we entered was sitting a French woman in mourning, who joined us in walking to the cemetery, and said that she had a deep sympathetic feeling for the absent parents. Asked for your address to write you. She had lost two sons. The other, an old French woman of 70 years, seeing that it was an American who had given his life for France, joined the procession to pay tribute to him.

While waiting in Versailles, I spoke to Mrs. Ovington, whose son was a fellow companion of Dinsmore’s. She has been the secretary of the LaFayette Escadrille for some time and looks upon all the boys as her own. As soon as she heard of the accident, she visited the hospital, where two Y. M. C. A. workers had preceded her, and found that the best surgeon and nurses were in attendance and everything was being done that was possible for the boy’s comfort. He was taken to the hospital badly injured, with a fractured skull, unconscious and never regained consciousness.

The casket was covered with the Stars and Stripes, over which were many beautiful floral tributes, fully as many as if he were at home. Two very large wreaths, containing the most beautiful flowers, were given by the Aviation Corps, one for his family, the other theirs. These were fastened to the sides of the hearse as it carried the remains. After the lowering of the casket, the bugler of the U. S. marines gave the last reveille. It is difficult for me to describe in detail all that I want to, but I do so want to convey to you that if it had to be it could not have been a better testimonial of one country to another’s countrymen. I was so impressed by the reverence from every one—the military, standing at attention and saluting, the civilians of every class, all in reverence, not in curiosity.

The French feel so deeply grateful to the Americans and love them all. Tears were in their eyes, for they, too, have sacrificed much.

VALHALLA BY DINSMORE ELY

This poem written a few days before Lieutenant Ely’s death was dedicated by him “To My Comrades of the French Escadrille, the Fighting Eagles of France; How They Fought and How They Died.”

Day breaks with sun on the bosom of spring. Motors are humming, the pilot shall fly today. Mists clear and find him regarding his bird of prey. With crashing roar and whirr, three airmen mount the sky.

Cael, tall, and gaunt, eyes of hawk, seeing far; Parcontal, thrice an ace, steady aim, deadly fire; Devil Le Claire, quick as light, wheeling like lark at play— Three grow dim, turn to specks, lost in the morning sky.

Off in the distant sky white bombs of thunder burst, Signs that the pilot Huns pass bounds that they should fear,

Signaling avions to turn their warpath there. Men listen tense in groups to catch the sound of strife, The purr of distant guns, like rustling leaves of death.

While minutes pass, everyone waits.

Then in their vision sweeps, curving in steep descent, One plane returning. Rushes by close o’erhead, skims like a gull to earth, Races back, comes to rest; those in wait run to meet.

Cael, tall and pale, unsteady of step but cool, Dismounts to reaching hands. Eyes of the hawk are dim. Helmet all wet with blood, fur coat all spotted red, Fall into willing hands, showing raw angry wounds To angry eyes that see how balls explosive, rend. And riddled plane reveals how near death spoke and fast.

Now Cael, in gentle hands, speaks slow to eager ears; Tells of the cloudy fray that only gods could see; How three, attacking three, put them at once to flight, Till four more by surprise, made odds with the Huns. Then, swift as hornet darts, fire-spitting eagles fought; Wheeling high and sweeping low, hailed lead on foe.

“Quick as the light” Le Claire, ere seconds passed, had two, Falling like shrieking crows to death, three miles below. Parcontal, nearly caught, feigning right, wheeled to left; And so met another foe on him descending. His gun spoke balls of fire, flashing true to the mark. One more Hun fell in flames, leaving but smoke. Three were down, four remained; Cael was apart with three, Met and surrounded at each swoop and turn.

Le Claire and Parcontal came now like vengeance sent; All but too late for Cael; riddled and wounded sore, he left the fight.

The tall, gaunt, frame relaxed, Eagle eyes saw no more. His comrades breathed a curse. “Vengeance for Cael.”

Than that, more is known from the survivor, One Hun a prisoner in France descended. How for great distance combat continued Till the last Frenchman fell, vanquished victorious. Vengeance for comrades dead, dearly the Huns shall pay! Mead to the victors gone to drink in Valhalla.