And the reward? One day, in a letter written by a captured Boche airman, was found the sentence: "The most-to-be-feared of British machines is the S----." The umptieth squadron then had the only machines of this type in France. During the short period of their stay with us, the crowd of boys thus rudely snatched away were the gayest company imaginable; and, indeed, they were boys in everything but achievement. As a patriarch of twenty-four I had two more years to my discredit than the next oldest among the twelve members of our flight-mess. The youngest was seventeen and a half. Our Squadron Commander, one of the finest men I have met in or out of the army, became a lieutenant-colonel at twenty-five. Even he was not spared, being killed in a flying accident some months later. Though we were all such good friends, the high percentage of machines "missing" from our hangars made us take the abnormal casualties almost as a matter of course at the time. One said a few words in praise of the latest to go, and passed on to the next job. Not till the survivors returned home did they have time, away from the stress of war, to feel keen sorrow for the brave and jolly company. For some strange reason, my own hurt at the loss was toned down by a mental farewell to each of the fallen, in words borrowed from the song sung by an old-time maker of ballads when youth left him: "Adieu, la très gente compagne." The crowded months of the umptieth squadron from June to November were worth while for the pilots who survived. The only two of our then flight-commanders still on the active list are now commanding squadrons, while all the subaltern pilots have become flight-commanders. The observers, members of a tribe akin to Kipling's Sergeant Whatsisname, are as they were in the matter of rank, needless to say. For my part, on reaching Blighty by the grace of God and an injured knee, I decided that if my unworthy neck were doomed to be broken, I would rather break it myself than let some one else have the responsibility. It is as a pilot, therefore, that I am about to serve another sentence overseas. A renewal of Archie's acquaintance is hardly an inviting prospect, but with a vivid recollection of great days with the old umptieth squadron, I shall not be altogether sorry to leave the hierarchy of home instructordom for the good-fellowship of active service. In a few months' time, after a further period of aerial outings, I hope to fill some more pages of Blackwood,[2] subject always to the sanction of their editor, the bon Dieu, and the mauvais diable who will act as censor. Meanwhile, I will try to sketch the daily round of the squadron in which I am proud to have been an observer. * * * * * "Quarter to five, sir, and a fine morning. You're wanted on the aerodrome at a quarter past."