“Come in, Evans,” stated the Major. “You are here a month and a half before the hundred-odd picked veterans of the service arrive to commence practising for the bombing tests. The reason for your orders is that we want you as a ferry pilot. Your job will be to commute between here and Cleveland, Ohio, where the Martin factory is located, flying a new twin-motored Martin bomber to Langham each trip. Have you ever flown one?” I shook my head. “We have two on the field now, and Captain Lawton will teach you. You had a lot of big ship experience in France, I believe, and you also were officer-in-charge of ferrying three tankwings from Long Island to Texas a year or so ago, were you not?” I agreed to this without reservation. “The big ship squadron will be the 114th to which you’ll be assigned immediately. Captain Lawton in command. It’s just a skeleton squadron until the other flyers arrive, of course. Report to him immediately. Just one thing more, Evans.” I knew something was coming. Major Lamb was always full of good advice and uplifting thoughts. “I have never served in the same outfit with you. However, your reputation is that of a flyer who gets where he’s going by hook or crook, but that as an officer you are somewhat lax and careless. We are face to face with the biggest opportunity the service has ever had. Every man must put his shoulder to the wheel and live, think and breathe nothing but these tests, working twenty-four hours a day if necessary and----” He went on with his discourse for some five minutes for the good of my soul and the glory of ----. At the end I expected that he’d lead in prayer for my unregenerate soul or something. Finally I got out after agreeing piously with everything he’d said and resolving to lead a better life. Then I hied me up to the ten big hangars which were to house the 114th, and found old Cap Lawton, who’s three inches over six feet and hence only a couple of inches shorter than I. In lankiness we are about alike, but whereas his feet are bigger than mine, my nose makes his seem like merely a microscopic growth in the middle of his thin face. I knew him well, and he greeted me with a broad smile as he shook hands. After fanning a while I found out that my teammate in trips from Cleveland to Langham would be Les Fernald. We’d ferry two ships at a time. “You’ll be in command of Flight Three of the squadron, Slim, after the ships get here and the boys come in. At present that flight’s got one sergeant first class in charge, and two mechanics. Later it’ll have four sergeants, meaning one crew chief apiece for the ships, and eight mechanics. Your flight sergeant is Marston, a good man, although peculiar. Better stroll down and get acquainted with him, eh? You’ll probably use him as mechanic on these trips of yours.”