---." The umptieth squadron then had the only machines of this
type in France.

During the short period of their stay with us, the crowd of boys thus
rudely snatched away were the gayest company imaginable; and, indeed,
they were boys in everything but achievement. As a patriarch of
twenty-four I had two more years to my discredit than the next oldest
among the twelve members of our flight-mess. The youngest was seventeen
and a half. Our Squadron Commander, one of the finest men I have met in
or out of the army, became a lieutenant-colonel at twenty-five. Even he
was not spared, being killed in a flying accident some months later.

Though we were all such good friends, the high percentage of machines
"missing" from our hangars made us take the abnormal casualties almost
as a matter of course at the time. One said a few words in praise of the
latest to go, and passed on to the next job. Not till the survivors
returned home did they have time, away from the stress of war, to feel
keen sorrow for the brave and jolly company. For some strange reason, my
own hurt at the loss was toned down by a mental farewell to each of the
fallen, in words borrowed from the song sung by an old-time maker of
ballads when youth left him: "Adieu, la tres gente compagne."

The crowded months of the umptieth squadron from June to November were
worth while for the pilots who survived. The only two of our then
flight-commanders still on the active list are now commanding squadrons,
while all the subaltern pilots have become flight-commanders. The
observers, members of a tribe akin to Kipling's Sergeant Whatsisname,
are as they were in the matter of rank, needless to say.

For my part, on reaching Blighty by the grace of God and an injured
knee, I decided that if my unworthy neck were doomed to be broken, I
would rather break it myself than let some one else have the
responsibility. It is as a pilot, therefore, that I am about to serve
another sentence overseas. A renewal of Archie's acquaintance is hardly
an inviting prospect, but with a vivid recollection of great days with
the old umptieth squadron, I shall not be altogether sorry to leave the
hierarchy of home instructordom for the good-fellowship of active
service. In a few months' time, after a further period of aerial
outings, I hope to fill some more pages of Blackwood,[2] subject always
to the sanction of their editor, the bon Dieu, and the mauvais diable
who will act as censor. Meanwh