wing the signals which would be
given us by the commander, we were to go on; or return to the aviation
field, if the weather, the wind, the clouds, or poor grouping of our
machines made it necessary.

[Illustration: The heroic American ace, Raoul Lufbery, wearing his
well-earned decorations just after an official presentation. Behind
him stands a member of the French Cabinet.]

An engine at the end of the line on our left is purring. The plane
starts and rolls along the ground and then takes to the air. A second
follows it, and then a third. My machine is number seven. I ask my
observer, Allard, if he is ready. He answers, "Yes." I start the
engine, give it all the gas, like the others roll along the ground for
a few seconds, and then take the air.

Just before leaving, Allard informs me that he will try to get a little
sleep while I am reaching the proper elevation. He says he will be
ready to study the map when we get beyond our trenches. As he can be
of no service whatever to me in helping the machine rise, I see no
reason to object to his going to sleep if he desires. I turn around
and look at him several times while we are climbing up. His eyes are
closed, but I doubt his sleeping. He surely has a perfect right to,
for very soon he will need all his coolness and strength.

2:20 P.M. I am at the place named, exactly on time. I recognize the
commander's machine by the little red flags at the ends of the wings.
I get the signal to go on, and I proceed with the group.

After the trenches are crossed, the faster planes make a few spirals to
allow the slower ones to catch up. The group is now more compact and
we go on with the shrapnel bursting now and then around us. This
troubles no one of us, however, for only by luck or chance would we be
injured. A few or even many holes in the fabric do little or no harm.

I watch the country as it spreads out beneath my feet. To my right is
the Seille River, its banks washed away by floods so that it looks like
a great necklace of ponds. To my left is the Moselle and the canal
beside it. They look like two beautiful silver lines which disappear
at the north in a cloud of mist. And now I see that that which I call
a cloud of mist is only the smoke from the chimneys of Metz.

As I get nearer, I can see through this smoke the houses and churches
and the long buildings with red tile roofs, which are probably the
barracks. A circle of green surrounds the wh