and I had another of those
moments of intense fear common to the experience of aviators. Well, by
Jove! I hardly know how I managed it, but I kept from crashing nose
down. I struck the ground at an angle of about 30 degrees, the motor,
which was just hanging on, spilled out, and I went skidding along,
with the fuselage of the machine, the landing chassis having been
snapped off as though the braces were so many toothpicks. One of my
ankles was broken and the other one sprained, and my poor old nose
received and withstood a severe contact with my wind-shield. I've been
in hospital ever since until a week ago, when I was sent to this
temporary camp to await assignment to a permanent one. I now hobble
about fairly well with the help of a stick, although I am to be a lame
duck for several months to come, I believe.

Needless to say, the lot of a prisoner of war is not a happy one. The
hardest part of it is, of course, the loss of personal liberty. Oh! I
shall know how to appreciate that when I have it again. But we are
well treated here. Our quarters are comfortable and pleasant, and the
food as good as we have any right to expect. My own experience as a
prisoner of war and that of all the Frenchmen and Englishmen here with
whom I have talked, leads me to believe that some of those tales of
escaped or exchanged prisoners must have been highly imaginative. Not
that we are enjoying all the comforts of home. On the contrary, a
fifteen-cent lunch at a Child's restaurant would seem a feast to me,
and a piece of milk chocolate--are there such luxuries as chocolate in
the world? But for prisoners, I for one, up to this point, have no
complaint to make with respect to our treatment. We have a splendid
little library here which British and French officers who have
preceded us have collected. I didn't realize, until I saw it, how
book-hungry I was. Now I'm cramming history, biography, essays,
novels. I know that I'm not reading with any judgment but I'll soon
settle down to a more profitable enjoyment of my leisure. Yesterday
and to-day I've been reading "The Spoils of Poynton," by Henry James.
It is absurd to try cramming these. I've been longing for this
opportunity to read Henry James, knowing that he was Joseph Conrad's
master. "The Spoils of Poynton" has given me a foretaste of the
pleasure I'm to have. A prisoner of war has his compensations. Here
I've come out of the turmoil of a life of the most intense nervous
excitement, a