Finally, came an incident truly French and delightful in its boyishness, as _mon capitaine_ hinted that I should ask _mon colonel_ if he would permit _mon capitaine_ to go into town and have dinner with my friend and the admiral and myself, returning in my friend's car in time to proceed to the firing-line with the battalion to-morrow. Accordingly I spoke to the colonel and the twinkle of his eye as he gave consent indicated, perhaps, that he knew who had put me up to it. _Mon capitaine_ had his dinner and a good one, too, and was back at dawn ready for battle. It is not that France has changed; only that some people who ought to have known better have changed their opinions formed about her after '70 when, in the company of other foreigners, they went to see the sights of Paris. XIX ON THE AERIAL FERRY The "Ferry-Pilot's" office--Everybody is young in the Royal Flying Corps--Any kind of aeroplane to choose from--A flying machine new from the factory--"A good old 'bus"--Twenty planes a day from England to France--England seen from the clouds--An aerial guide-post--Stopping places--The channel from 4,000 feet aloft--Out of sight in the clouds midway between England and France--Tobogganing from the clouds--France from the air--A good flight. Personal experience now intrudes in answer to the question whence come all the aeroplanes that take the place of those lost or worn out, which was made clear when I was in London for a few days' change from the fighting on the Ridge through a request to a general at the War Office for permission to fly back to the front. "Why not?" he said. "When are you going?" "Monday." He called up another general on the telephone and in a few words the arrangements were made. "And my baggage?" I suggested. "How much of it?" "A suit case." "The machine ought to manage that considering that it carries one hundred and fifty pounds in bombs." On Monday morning at the appointed hour I was walking past a soldierly line of planes flanking an aerodrome field scattered with others that had just alighted or were about to rise and inquiring my way to the "Ferry-Pilot's" office. I found it, identified by a white-lettered sign on a blackboard, down the main street of temporary buildings occupied by the aviators as quarters. "Yes, all right," said the young officer sitting at the desk, "but we are making no crossings this morning. There is a storm over the channel." Weather forecasts, which had long ago disappeared from the English newspapers lest they give information to Zeppelins, had become the privilege of those who travel by air or repulsed aerial raids. "It may clear up this afternoon," he added. "Why not go up to the mess and make yourself comfortable, and return about three? Perhaps you may go then."