Other nerve-shattering things they do, these soaring young demigods of the air, feats so marvellous to such earth-bound ones as myself--feats indeed so wildly daring it would seem no ordinary human could ever hope to attain unto. But in and around Paris and at the front, I have talked with, dined with, and known many of these bird-men, both English, French and American, and have generally found them very human indeed, often shy, generally simple and unaffected, and always modest of their achievements and full of admiration for seamen and soldiers, and heartily glad that their lives are not jeopardised aboard ships, or submarines, or in muddy trenches; which sentiment I have heard fervently expressed--not once, but many times. Surely the mentality of the flier is beyond poor ordinary understanding! It was with some such thought in my mind that with my friend N., a well-known American correspondent, I visited one of our flying squadrons at the front. The day was dull and cloudy, and N., deep versed and experienced in flying and matters pertaining thereto, shook doubtful head. "We shan't see much to-day," he opined, "low visibility--_plafond_ only about a thousand!" Which cryptic sentence, by dint of pertinacious questioning, I found to mean that the clouds were about a thousand feet from earth and that it was misty. "_Plafond_", by the way, is aeronautic for cloud strata. Thus I stood with my gaze lifted heavenward until the Intelligence Officer joined us with a youthful flight-captain, who, having shaken hands, looked up also and stroked a small and very young moustache. And presently he spoke as nearly as I remember on this wise: "About twelve hundred! Rather rotten weather for our business--expecting some new machines over, too." "Has your squadron been out lately?" I enquired (I have the gift of enquiry largely developed). "Rather! Lost four of our chaps yesterday--'Archie' got 'em. Rotten bad luck!" "Are they--hurt?" I asked. "Well, we know two are all right, and one we think is, but the other--rather a pal of mine--" "Do you often lose fellows?" "Off and on--you see, we're a fighting squadron--must take a bit of risk now and then--it's the game, y'know!" He brought me where stood biplanes and monoplanes of all sizes and designs, and paused beside a two-seater, gunned fore and aft, and with ponderous, wide-flung wings. "This," he explained, "is an old battle-plane, quite a veteran too--jolly old bus in its way, but too slow; it's a 'pusher', you see, and 'tractors' are all the go. We're having some over to-day--tophole machines." Here ensued much technical discussion between him and N. as to the relative merits of traction and propulsion. "Have you had many air duels?" I enquired at last, as we wandered on through a maze of wheels and wings and propellers. "Oh, yes, one or two," he admitted, "though nothing very much!" he hastened to add. "Some of our chaps are pretty hot stuff, though. There's B. now; B.'s got nine so far."