August 31, 1917.
Dear ----[C]:
Here it is almost September and I am still a dog-goned _élève pilote_.
Verily, every time I think of how the time passes along without
results, I go wild. My complaint is caused by the west wind, which
has blown about twenty-five days during the month of August and seems
likely to continue well on into September. The only variety is an
occasional storm. For the past two weeks I’ve been waiting to start my
voyages, two trips to a town forty miles away and back and two other
triangular trips about 180 miles long each. When they are done, one
becomes a _pilote élève_; and there’s a great if subtle difference when
the words are reversed. An _élève pilote_ is the scum of the earth,
looked down on by mechanics, pilots, monitors, and everyone else; a
_pilote élève_ can wear wings on his collar and is as good as any one
else. He is permitted to fly in rough weather, to take chances and is
not in so much danger of getting radiated if he gets in trouble. The
proper thing to do on a triangle or _petit voyage_ is to have something
bust directly over a nice château; make a skilful landing on the front
lawn under the eyes of the admiring household and then be an enforced
guest for a few days until one is rescued by a truck and mechanics. One
has to be very careful where the _panne de moteur_ catches him lest he
have to make his landing in a lake or on a forest, which is apt to be
a bit awkward. One chap, an American, has been out on a triangle for
two weeks, staying at some country place, and there are four others at
another school near a big town waiting for weather to return. Reports
give us to believe they are having a much better time there than we are
here.
Between here and the point for the _petit voyage_--a little bit off the
route, is the big future American aviation camp and also an Artillery
camp. There are quite a bunch of fellows there, Quentin Roosevelt,
Cord Meyer, etc., I think. Every American that has left on his voyages
in the last month has stopped there against all orders and been
bawled out by the monitor. One has to keep a recording barometer or
altimeter machine, a barograph, during the voyages, which indicates all
stops. One chap came back home the other day with a barometer record
showing beyond the shadow of a doubt that he had made a stop of about
fifteen minutes _en route_. The monitor saw it, said, “_Alors_, all
you Americans stop off there, I don’t like it.” Then the chap tried to
explain how he had had a _panne_ and come down in a field out in the
country somewhere, fixed the motor and come on home. He almost got away
with it, but the monitor happened to snook around a bit and noticed on
the tail very clearly written a good Anglo-Saxon name, the name of the
town, and the date--quite indisputable evidence. I fully expect to have
a _panne_ there myself before long.
By the way, to declare a short pause in my chronicle of aviation, how
about all those “letters that are to follow”? If you try to tell me how
good you are to your Belgian soldier, I refuse to believe a word until
you treat me in the same way. And I also refuse to accept anyone as a
_marraine_ (isn’t that what you call these fairy godmother persons one
is supposed to correspond with during the war and marry afterward?
How inconsiderate some of them are, to take three or four soldiers,
just assuming that not more than one will survive; however, they may be
wise to have more than one iron in the fire. But my parenthesis grows
apace.)--I say I refuse a _marraine_ until she approves her ability.
But let me see again. Does said _marraine_ have to be a complete
stranger? It seems to me that is customary, and also usually they are
of different nationalities. All of the foregoing weak line will be
interpreted as a mere plea for that other letter. I’ve never made this
“absence makes the heart grow fonder” stuff at all. Even ---- has given
me up; I remain to her only another of the forgotten conquests (?) of
the dead past....
This odd person, Bassett, wandered in all dressed up like a patch of
blue sky and I just had to let you know he was here. With absolute
confidence in each other’s integrity, we put our loving messages side
by each. By the way, he _is_ a good scout, don’t you think? I have
gotten to like him immensely since he has been here. I never had a
better time in my life than one evening in Paris with Chet. However
quiet the party, he is the life of it.
It must be that I take my weekly shave--in cold, cold water, with a
dull, dull razor. Oh, happy thought! Tell the father and brothers hello
from me. Also tell ---- to drop me a line of what he’s doing and when
he’s coming over.