“I don’t care how many hours you’ve had in the air. I asked you how many hours you have had over the lines. That’s what counts with me,” he said emphatically. There was no escape. If I lied he could look up the record, so, I decided to tell the truth from necessity for this was not the place or time for “period of the emergency” statements. “Fifty-five minutes, Sir,” I confessed. “I thought so,” and he nodded his head in proud self-approval just as does the cross-examining prosecutor when he finally forces an admission from the man at bay. “How many adjustments over the lines?” “None, Sir.” “None!” he said with a noticeable inflection. “How many in the air at school?” “None, Sir,” I said meekly enough. “None!” he exclaimed emphatically. “How many on paper?” “One, Sir,” I said, hesitatingly, for my energy was getting low. “Well,” he snapped, as if glad to dispose of me on my own lack of merit. “You don’t know a damn thing about observation. How in the hell did you get to the front, anyway? I might use you as a mess officer, but if you ever intend to fly over the front you’ve got to go back and learn something about your job. This is a service squadron, operating over the front. Whoever ordered you to Toul intended to send you to Tours, so I’ll call up and get orders for you to go back to the rear.” Tours, by the way, was the great aviation primary school of the American Forces—while Toul in those early days signified the front. My pride fell like a demonstration of Newton’s law of gravity. This hardboiled man could not be approached by man or beast; and it seemed the only thing I could do was to say “Yes, sir” and beat it. I had visions of returning to the rear for further instruction, yet here I was at the front—I had finally realized my ambition and yet was on the verge of having it strangled by this man’s inconsideration. I could not endure the thought—my attitude changed in a moment—I determined to assume hardboiledness, for after I had gotten that close to the front I certainly was not going back without putting up some sort of a fight. Besides, I had a few days before written my folks and my friends that I was actually at the front, and what kind of a legitimate reason could I give in my next letter when I would have to tell them I was no longer at the front. The only legitimate excuse a soldier has for leaving the front after being fortunate enough to get there, is an incapacitating wound, and while Brereton had dealt me several wounds which were sure enough incapacitating, yet they were not the kind that would put pretty little gold wound stripes on my arm. Sure enough—I was down and about to take the count.