“Report to the personnel officer up there,” answered the driver, waving his arm vaguely toward the row of long barrack buildings nearby. So saying, he climbed once more to the seat and began to churn his way backward toward firmer ground. * * * * * Leaving the sad monument of his baggage, Tommy sloughed through the mud until he reached a pathway of duckboards which ran parallel to the row of barracks. On one of these buildings was a sign, and as he approached it, the latest addition to the great American flying field was able to see that it read as follows: PERSONNEL OFFICE for OFFICERS FLYING OFFICERS FLYING CADETS CADETS “And the shepherd separates the sheep from the goats,” thought Tommy as he climbed a short flight of steps and entered the office. The shepherd, a small, pot bellied man with captain’s bars but no wings on his serge blouse, eyed the newest flying lieutenant, his whipcord uniform and his papers with disfavor. “All right,” he said in a querulous voice. “Find yourself a bunk in the flying officers’ barrack. You will be assigned to a section for duty. Look on the bulletin board in the operations office.” Tommy saluted and went out. He saw his baggage still forming an island in the sea of mud, but it seemed to have shrunk appreciably since he left it. He had an idea that he must salvage it before it disappeared entirely. Walking along the duckboard, he heard a chorus of voices raised in ribald song in one of the barracks and stopped, feeling that he had reached a friendly haven. “When I joined the Army I was clean and neat, Now--” The noise ceased abruptly as the flying officer entered. “Attention!” shouted one voice. “Ma-a-a-a-ah!” said another. The place was full of irreverent and antagonistic cadets, and Tommy retreated, feeling that it was not the time to stop and explain that the only reason he was not among them was through the mistake of some nodding Homer in Washington in giving him a commission as soon as he enlisted, instead of when he got his pilot’s license. The song followed him: “The officers live on the top of the hill, The flying cadets in the slush and the swill-- I don’t want any more Army. Gee, how I want to go home.” He came to the last barrack of all, which was only about three-fourths built. Going inside, he found it empty of human life, but the contents was reassuring. Under the neatly spread double-decker bunks were officers’ boots, and the walls were covered with overcoats bearing the single stripe of a first lieutenant, and with various flying clothes and equipment. In what would be the middle of the long building was a single large stove which feebly radiated its rays of heat against the blasts of cold damp air from the open end. Near that end were several unoccupied bunks, one of which Tommy decided must be for him. * * * * *