oughout the land, had summoned them from the four points of the
compass. How they had ever been assembled at one field is a problem
known only to the white-collared dignitaries who sat in swivel chairs
and shuffled their service cards. The result of the shuffle caused many
a commander to tear his hair and declare that the cards had been stacked
against him.

No two members of the squadron came from the same town or city; no two
of them had the same outlook on life; no two members thoroughly
understood one another. A Texan, such as Yancey, from the wind-swept
Panhandle, may bunk with a world-travelled, well educated linguist, such
as Siddons, and may even learn to call him Wart, but he never thoroughly
understands him. A tide-water Virginian, such as Randolph Hampden, of
the bluest of blue blood, may sit at mess by the side of a Californian,
such as Hank Porter, but he will show no real interest in California
climate and will never be able to make the westerner understand that
Virginia is American history and not just a state. A nasal-voiced
Vermonter, such as Nathan Rodd, brought up among stern hills and by
sterner parents, will never fully understand a soft-voiced Louisianian,
such as Edouard Fouche, who has found the world a very pleasant place
with but few restrictions.

Leaving out the question of patriotism, the members had but three common
attributes: They had scornful disregard for any officer in the air
service who knew less of flying than they had learned through the medium
of hard knocks; they were determined from the very beginning to get to
France; and they were the most care-free, reckless, adventurous,
devil-may-care bunch of stem-winders that had ever plagued and
embarrassed the service by the simple procedure of being gathered into
one group.

It may be that the War Department, in despair, at last thought to be rid
of them by sending them overseas where their ability and proclivity for
stirring up trouble could be turned to good account against the enemy.
In any case, they were at last in France and from the moment of their
landing had been exceedingly voluble in their demands for planes. They
wanted action, not delay. And now that Yancey had brought word of this
last crushing indignity, they opened wide the spigots of wrath, all
talked at once, and the sum total of their comments contained no single
word that could be considered as complimentary to management of the war.
More instruction in flying! I