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.