I, for instance (being in the Foreign Legion), wear khaki, open-fronted tunic, a very unmilitary khaki stock necktie, Fox's puttees, and United States Army boots. Naturally, I have to duck for cover whenever I see the general loom up in the offing; for he is a rather particular, testy old gentleman, very military, and can't abide the "fantaisies" of the aviator tribe. Lately he has caught and severely reprimanded several of the boys; so I guess that I shall have to have the tailor make certain unfortunate changes in my garments. The weather of late has been wretched for flying. A low, frosty mist hangs over the countryside; the trees, especially the pines, are exquisite in their lacy finery of frost. The few days we have of decent weather are usually interesting, as the Hun ventures over chez nous to take a few photographs, and with a little luck the boys are able to surprise him into a running fight. At night, when the tired war-birds buzz home to roost, a crowd of pilots and mechanics gathers before the hangars. All gaze anxiously into the northeastern sky. The captain paces up and down--though he has flown four hours, he will not eat or drink till he has news of his pilots. Jean is missing, and Charlot, and Marcel. Night is drawing on--the sky flushes and fades, and faces are growing just a trifle grave. Suddenly a man shouts and points--Jean's mechanician,--and high up in the darkening east we see three specks--the missing combat patrol. Next moment the hoarse drone of their motors reaches our ears; the sound ceases; in great curving glides they descend on the aerodrome. We hear the hollow whistling of their planes, see them, one after another, clear the trees at ninety miles an hour, dip, straighten, and rush toward us, a yard above the grass. A slight bumping jar, a half-stop, and each motor gives tongue again in short bursts, as the pilots taxi across to the hangars, snapping the spark on and off. Then a grand scamper to crowd around our half-frozen comrades, who descend stiffly from their "zincs," and tell of their adventures, while mechanics pull off their fur boots and combinations. Other "mecanos" are examining the machines for bullet- and shrapnel-holes--often a new wing is needed, or a new propeller; sometimes a cable is cut half through. Snatches of talk (unintelligible outside the "fancy") reach one; we, of course, know only the French, but the R.F.C. stuff is equally cryptic. "Spotted him at four thousand eight, 'piqued' on him, got under his tail, did a chandelle, got in a good rafale, did a glissade, went into a vrille, and lost so much height I could not catch him again."