The officer drew me to a large scale map of the British Isles and the French coast which hung on the wall, plentifully jabbed with little flags. His finger fairly flew from one dot to another. "Well," said he, "we have a station here, another station here, another station there, ... there's a station on this point of land; right about here we're putting up buildings for a depot but there is nobody at hand yet, here's a big station...." I believe that he could have continued for five minutes. "You seem to have a big affair well in hand," I suggested, rather surprised. "No," he corrected, "just beginning. The department scheme for the naval aviation service is one of the big things of the war. It's so big, so comprehensive that people over there haven't woken up to it yet. Aren't you going to Base L next week? Why don't you go down the coast a few miles and see the outfit at Z? Only don't forget that we've 'just begun to fight.' Come upstairs and let me give you a letter." A few days later I ran down to see the aviators in their eyrie. The naval station lay in a sheltered cove hidden away in a green and ragged coast. Landing at a somewhat tumble-down old pier, I saw ahead of me a gentle slope descending to a broad beach of shingle. Mid-way along this beach, ending under the water, was to be seen a wide concrete runway which I judged to be but newly finished, for empty barrels of cement and gravel separators stood nearby. At the top of the slope, in a great field behind mossy trees, lay the corrugated iron dormitories of a vast, deserted camp once the repose quarters of a famous fighting regiment. There was something of the atmosphere of an abandoned picnic ground to the place. Sailor sentries stood at the entrance of the quiet roads leading to the empty barracks, and directed me to those in authority. The naval aviation is a new service. For a long time the uniform of the cadets was so unfamiliar that even in their own America the boys used to be taken for foreign officers. It was a case of "I say he's an Italian. No, dear, I'm _sure_ he's a Belgian." A not unnatural mistake, for the uniform has a certain foreign jauntiness. In colour, it is almost an olive green, and consists of a short, high-collared tunic cut snugly to the figure, shaped breeches of the riding pattern, and putties to match. Add the ensign's solitary stripe and star on shoulder and sleeve and you have it. I found a group of the flyers in one of the tin barracks that did duty as a kind of recreation centre. The spokesman of the party was a serious lad from Boston. "Fire away," they yelled good-naturedly to my announcement that I was going to bomb with questions. "First of all, about how many of you are there helping to make it home-like for Fritz in this amiable spot?" "About fifty of us." "Been here long?"