In clothes and get-up the mechanics follow the pilots' lead, but in language the situation is reversed--we take pride in memorizing, chuckling over, and using at every opportunity the latest word or phrase invented by these gifted slangsters. An aeroplane is never "avion" or "appareil," but "zinc," "taxi," or "coucou." Motor is "moulin"--to start it, one "turns the mill." In the aviation, one does not eat, one "pecks." One is not killed--one "breaks one's face," though face is not the inelegant word in use. Gasoline is "sauce"; to open the throttle, you "give her the sauce." A motor breakdown is not, as in the automobile service, a "panne," but a "carafe"--heaven knows why! and so on. Life out here is in many ways a contrast to the last six months. Though only a beginner, a bleu, I am Somebody, through the mere fact of being a pilot, and most of all a pilote de chasse--a most chic thing to be. I must dress well, shave daily, wear my hair brushed straight back and long,--in contrast to all other branches of the army,--have my boots and belt polished like a mirror, and frequent only the best café in town. These are, of course, unwritten rules, but sternly lived up to--and I confess that the return of self-respect, after months of dirt and barrack life, is not unpleasant. Our escadrille, composed of ten French pilots, two Americans, and the officers, is really a very decent crowd of chaps of good family and education. Frenchmen of this kind are good fellows and pleasant companions, differing from us only on certain racial points of outlook and humor. Among them are two lawyers (with all the French lawyer's delicate wit, irony, and love of play on words), a large wine-grower (if you can grow wine), a professional soldier from Morocco, a medical student, and my room-mate, a most attractive chap, an English public-school man, whose family are French importers in London. He has been nearly everywhere, is absolutely bi-lingual, and is the sort of man who is at home in any kind of company. From time to time, of course, some one is brought down, and though I dislike it intensely, one feels that decency demands one's presence at the funeral. Elaborate, rather fine ceremony usually, where the Gallic emotional nature appears at its best. At the last one, for instance, the captain (brave as a lion, and a man to his finger-tips) was overcome in the midst of his speech of eulogy and burst into tears. Impossible to an Anglo-Saxon, but to me there was something very fine in the sight of this splendid officer, frankly overcome with grief at the loss of one of his men. When the ceremony is over, each pilot and friend comes to pay respect to the departed comrade, takes up in turn an implement shaped like an Indian-club, dips it in holy water, makes a sign with it over the coffin, draped in the Tri-color, and sprinkles a few drops of water on the flag.