The god of good fortune is still guarding your son, and touching his
life with experience and romance. I am a guest at an old French
château—but I must start at the beginning. For the past few days I have
been too busy to write. After the altitude test, which I completed the
following day, I took two _petits voyages_, which were pleasant and
uneventful, save for the second when I arrived at the school after dark
and made my landing by the light of a bonfire. It was a good landing,
and gave me more confidence. The next man after me crashed to the ground
so loudly that it was heard a quarter of a mile. The next morning I
started upon my first triangle, which is a trip of over two hundred
kilometers from Tours to Châteaudun, thence to Pontlevoy, and back again
to Tours. My motor gave trouble before starting, but ran well for a
time. When I had gone over three-fourths of the way the motor began to
miss, and I landed in a field. Four out of the ten spark plugs had gone
bad. They had given me only two spark plugs and no wrench. I borrowed a
wrench from a passing motor car, and managed to clean the plugs and
start up again, but as no one was there to hold the motor I could not
let it warm up and it did not catch well, so I only rose twenty feet. A
short turn and side landing was the only thing that kept me from landing
in a stone quarry. I taxied back to the field and tried again. By that
time the motor was warm and picked up pretty well. I ascended to seven
hundred meters, and proceeded confidently on my way, and there is where
I “done” made my mistake. For a little time I was lost. Then I found my
landmarks and continued. The wind had become quite high, and it took
some time for me to come back against it to my course. In fact, it took
an hour. Then I continued forty-five degrees into the wind for half an
hour. I should have arrived long ago and I was a little worried. The
engine began to miss again. The country was spotted with woods and lakes
and there were few good landing places. By now I knew I was totally lost
and would have to descend, anyway, to find my way. I had no more come to
this decision than the engine became hopeless, and I aimed for a field
right near a little town under me; but the wind was so strong that I
misjudged and overshot my landing and had to turn on my motor again. It
caught but poorly, and barely raised me above a hedge of trees and
telegraph wires. I had hardly speed to stay up and found myself over a
wood, skimming the tree tops by no more than a meter. The slow speed
made the controls very difficult, and the currents from the woods tossed
me about like a cork on a choppy sea. The wind was blowing thirty miles
per hour. For half a mile I staggered over and between the tree tops
till I came to a little triangle of field. I made a vertical bank twenty
feet from the ground and landed into the wind. It was a good landing,
but the trouble was when I touched the ground I was going at thirty
miles per hour, and there was a row of trees twenty feet in front of me.
I hit between two trees, and when I crawled out, the wings, running
gear, and braces and wires were piled around on the ground and trees,
and I wasn’t even scratched. A crowd gathered to collect souvenirs, and
I telegraphed and telephoned to the school to come and pick up the
pieces. There was nothing to do but wait, so I went out to a bridge and
talked French with a little boy.
Soon a motor car drove up, and out stepped a young French chap. He asked
if I was the guy and I says “Yes,” and he “’lowed” that he was just back
from Verdun for his _permission_ and asked if I would come out and have
supper and stay overnight, so we got in the car and went out to a
beautiful château. I met the family and apologized for my clothes, which
they said were fine for war times. Then the children came in and played
until supper.
They were all charming—no formality or constraint. They all spoke
English, more or less, and the dinner was jolly, with difficulties of
understanding. The eldest son of the family had lost his life when a
bombing plane burned over Verdun last year. That gave them and me a
special bond of sympathy. The other son, of about twenty-two, is a
sergeant in the First Dragoons. The eldest daughter, of about
twenty-eight, mother of all the little children, sat beside me. Her
husband is a captain in the First Dragoons. She was very entertaining
and spoke English quite well. The other member was the little daughter,
about fifteen. Later I learned that M. Duval is a viscount, of the old
blood of France.
After dinner we went into the _petit salon_. They entertained me by
showing me innumerable photographs. M. Duval is a camera enthusiast, and
does all his own developing and printing. He takes these double pictures
on plates, and you look at them through a stereoscope. They have
traveled very extensively. They have hunted big game and small game in
mountain, forest, and plain, and the pictures tell the story like an
Elmendorf lecture. Meanwhile, they all contributed interesting remarks
in broken English, and so we got better acquainted. Mme. Duval showed me
her postcard collection of French châteaux. The Duvals owned more than
twenty through Touraine and Normandy, they and their direct relatives by
marriage. We all went up the old stairway together and bid each other
good night in the upper hall. They asked what I wanted for my breakfast
in bed, but I came down bright and early and joined them at a seven
o’clock breakfast. We looked at some more pictures and then went rabbit
hunting in the drizzling rain. They gave me an American repeating gun.
M. Duval assigned us to our positions, not far from the château, and we
waited. Three or four men set about to drive the rabbits. Off among the
trees I saw the strangest looking rabbit. I pulled up, about the fire,
when it struck me there was something wrong, so I looked again. There
were two of the creatures gliding around from one rabbit hole to
another. Their color was cream yellow. After a little guessing, I
concluded they must be ferrets, so I let them live. Suddenly a man
called “Oh-ee,” and a rabbit humped past right by my feet. I took a pot
shot, but it had me scared and I almost hit my foot, it was so close.
Two more went by and didn’t mind my shooting at them. They were so close
it seemed a pity to shoot them, yet that didn’t quite explain my
missing. Well, you know what an old hand I am at rabbit shooting. I was
just a little out of practice, having fired a shotgun, once when I was
twelve years old. The blessing was that no one was there to see. Then I
got one at a good distance, and found that it was much easier to hit
them at a hundred feet than twenty-five. My average began to go up, and
the first fifteen shots I had three rabbits. Then we changed positions,
and I found that the son had eleven. I don’t think he had fired more
than ten shots. At thirty shots I had twelve rabbits, and I felt a
little more respectable. It was a pipe after you got used to it. Then we
took a walk about the place and went in to lunch. All the food they had
was from their own place: meat, wild and tame; fish from the river near
by; and chestnuts, mashed like potatoes and baked. These latter are
called _les marrons_. There were also sweet cakes, salads, mixed and
dressed by M. Duval, and—wonder of wonders—American apple pie! I ate
three pieces, and they had it for every meal while I was there. I
understand why menus are written in French and old novels rave on French
cuisines. Never did I eat such delicious food. Every dish is served
separately as a work of art. The service was fine old china, with cracks
all through it. The knives, forks, and spoons were gold plated, and the
daughter would get up from the table and serve the bread if the maid
didn’t happen to be in the room. Everyone eats the food as he gets it
hot, and one person may be a course behind the others without causing
inconvenience.
My word, how I enjoyed every minute of it! It would have been a lark any
time, but it was a humming, white-feathered buzzard of a time to one who
has been eating in a mess for a month.
Well, that afternoon we hunted some more, and I drove the Renault down
to see if the plane was still where it had fallen. That evening the
mechanics came with a truck to fetch it, but it was too late, and they
had to stay at the château all night. Then their machine broke, and they
had to telephone for another. Well, I did not get away until after
lunch, so we hunted some more and played tennis. They all came down to
the gate to see me off, and truly they made me feel that they were as
sorry to see me go as I was to go—and that was “some sorry.”
I’ve tried to finish this letter and send it off, but like all the great
things man attempts, it is never finished.
When I left the Château du Bois, they gave me their address in Paris,
where they will go in a fortnight; their address at Pau, where they go
the last of December, and where I shall probably go at the same time;
and the address of their cousins who have a villa a short way from
Bordeaux (the place where I shall probably be perfected on the
Nieuport). That opens up considerable opportunity to make some friends
that are really worth while.
* * * * *
Gee! when things happen here they happen in bunches. I have enough more
to tell to make another letter longer than this. Since I started this
letter I have finished the school at Tours, gotten my brevet, and now I
am down at Blois seeing a couple of the best châteaux.
I am collecting post cards to beat the band. They will make a wonderful
library for my architectural design, as well as a foundation for a
little series of travelogues I am going to give the family, and while I
think of it I am growing more convinced that when you are young is the
time to see the world, especially for the architect. When the war is
finished you can figure it will take me a year or more to get home. The
education of travel is so far superior to that of school (not “Tech”)
that there is no comparison.
Love to all,