There were three flat canvas hangars painted a dull brown, and a straggling line of rusty tin huts facing them from across the narrow landing space--like a deserted mining village, shabby and unkempt. As he watched, he saw the last machine of the afternoon patrol bank at a hundred and fifty feet and side-slip down for its landing. In his heart he could hear the metal scream of wind in the flying wires. A puff of black smoke squirted out in a torn stream as the pilot blipped on his engine for one more second before he came into the wind and landed. By the time the tender rolled up to the dilapidated squadron office, the machine had taxied into the row of hangars and the pilot was out, fumbling for a cigarette with his ungloved hands. A thin acrid smell of petrol and carbonized castor oil still hung in the quiet air between the shabby huts. Snow in large wet flakes commenced to fall slowly, steadily. The new pilot climbed down from the tender, tossed his shoulder haversack beside his kit bag, and pushed open the door of the squadron office. The adjutant was sitting on his desk top, smoking and talking to someone in a black leather flying coat and helmet--someone with an oil-streaked face and fingers still blue and clumsy from the cold. “Paterson, sir, G. K., second lieutenant, reporting in from Pilot’s Pool for duty with the 44th.” The adjutant raised a careless finger in acknowledgment. “Oh, yes. How do? Bring your log books?” “Yes, sir.” “Chuck ’em down. D’ye mind?” Paterson laid them upon the desk top, still standing to attention. The adjutant smiled. “Break off,” he said. “We’re careless here. This isn’t cadet school.” The new pilot smiled and relaxed. “Very good, sir.” “That’s better,” said the adjutant; “makes me feel more comfortable. Just give me a note of yourself now.” He reached for a slip of paper. “G. K. Paterson, Two Lt. Next of kin?” Paterson gave his father’s name. “Age?” “Eighteen and four twelfths.” “Good!” said the adjutant. “You’ll find an empty cubicle in B Block--that’s the middle line of huts. You’re lucky. Roof only leaks in three places. I’ll have your duffel trekked over shortly.” The man in the flying coat blew upon his numbed fingers and smiled. “I’m Hoyt,” he said. “Skipper of C Flight. I’m going to take you now, before A gets after you.” He turned to the adjutant. “That’s all right, isn’t it, Charlie? Tell ’em I intimidated you.” He grinned. The adjutant shrugged. “Righto!” “Come on,” said Hoyt. “I’m in your hut block. I’ll show you your hole.” They went out into the snow flurry. Mechanics were fussing in little knots around the five tiny machines that had just landed, lining them up, refilling them, and trundling them into the brown musty hangars. “Le Rhône Camels,” said Hoyt. “We’ve just been over around Cambrai taking a look-see.”