I sat down on a trunk in the corridor and nodded off to sleep, only to
be awakened half an hour later by H---- F---- (S----'s cousin), who
stole up with a gesture for silence, and pointed at me with a shake of
his head and a broad grin. It must have been rather a rakish tableau.
On the floor to my left were half a dozen empty bottles; on one end of
the trunk I sat, heavy-eyed and half awake, and beside me, sound asleep,
with her head on my shoulder, was a respectable, very attractive, and
utterly unknown young woman! C'est la guerre! I motioned H---- away and
promptly went to sleep again.
In Marseilles I had time for the Corniche, to see Monte Cristo's castle,
and eat a bouillabaisse, which I cannot recommend without reserve. With
an enormous floating population of sailors, shipping booming, and
streets ablaze at night, Marseilles seems far away from the war, after
the hushed gloom of nocturnal Paris.
The trials for my military brevet were by far the most interesting thing
I have done in aviation. On finishing the sixty horse-power Blériot
class, I was told that I would have to do my brevet work on a small
Caudron biplane, as there were no Blériots available. A few short
flights in the Caudron gave me confidence that I could handle it; so one
rather cloudy morning the officer told me to make my official
altitude--which is merely one hour's stay at heights of over seven
thousand feet. I pulled on my great fur combination and fur-lined boots,
adjusted mittens, helmet, and goggles, and stepped into my machine,
number 2887, which the mechanic had been tuning up. "Coupe, plein gaz,"
he shouted, above the roar of a score of motors, and gave the stick half
a dozen turns. Then, "Contact reduit"; and as I yelled back, "Contact
reduit," after the old starting formula, he gave a quick half turn to
the blades. Off she went with a roar, all ten cylinders hitting
perfectly, so I motioned him to pull out the blocks from before the
wheels. A quick rush and a turn headed me into the wind, and the next
moment the starter's arm shot forward.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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