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.