But a word as to the reason for this book. Here is how it happened. We were at this school at Amanty, hoping each day for orders to move us on up to the real front. It was in February, 1918, and one day, by a great streak of good fortune, Major Schwab, the school adjutant, picked on me as I was passing the headquarters. “Hey, what’s your name!” he said, to which I replied, with a “wish-to-make-good” salute. “Here!” he continued, in a most matter-of-fact way, “you are excused from classes this morning. Take the commanding officer’s car, go down to Gondrecourt, and pick up three Y.M.C.A. girls who are going to give an entertainment out here this afternoon. Report them to me.” This was an unexpected pleasure, so, with all pomp and dignity, I seated myself in the rear of a huge Cadillac, with “Official” painted all over the sides of it. It was my first ride in the select government transportation—I had previously drawn trucks. Then we whisked along the ten miles to Gondrecourt. The surprise was a happy one, because the three girls were peaches, and, an aviator being a scarce article in those days (and I wore my leather coat to let them know that I was one), I was received most cordially. We had just started back to the camp, and I was Hero Number One of Heroes All, when they all harped as of one accord, demanding if I would not take them up in an airplane. This is a feminine plea which never seems to become old, because every girl you see nowadays still asks the same question. But I maintained silence on the subject of taking them up. So, they talked about aces, seemingly positive that I was one of those things—what a wonderful flyer I must be—and a lot of other bunk, until I began to feel exalted as if I were of the royalty, for it seemed that I was being worshipped. I interrupted their wild rambling to ask if they objected to my smoking. Of course, being a hero aviator, there was no chance for objection. So, as I unbuttoned my leather coat, threw back the left lapel, and pulled out a stogie from my pocket, the eyes of one cute little frizzle-haired girl fell upon my aviation insignia, which, of course, consisted of only one wing. Wild eyed and with marked disdain, she exclaimed sneeringly to the others, “Oh, he’s only an observer! A half aviator!” Actually I had not claimed otherwise, but, as long as I live, I shall never forget the sting of those words, and especially the biting insinuation on the word “only.” To their minds I was a branded hypocrite. Talk about the poor man standing before the criminal judge and being sentenced to the impossible “99 years” in the penitentiary; well, take it from me, this was worse, for my foolish pride had been embellished to an acute cockishness by this preliminary adoration, but my soaring little airplane of selfish egoism took a decided nose-dive—it smashed my whole day’s happiness.