h of rest and
recuperation. It distributed itself among houses, cottages, and barns,
while the Frenchwomen looked sweet or sour according to their diverse
tempers, and whether they kept estaminets, sold farm produce, had
husbands _labas_, or merely feared for their poultry and the cleanliness
of their homes. Next day the exhausted men would reappear as beaux
sabreurs with bright buttons, clean if discoloured tunics, and a jaunty,
untired walk. The drum and fife band practised in the tiny square before
an enthusiastic audience of gamins. Late every afternoon the aerodrome
was certain to be crowded by inquisitive Tommies, whose peculiar joy it
was to watch a homing party land and examine the machines for bullet
marks. The officers made overtures on the subject of joy-rides, or
discussed transfers to the Flying Corps. Interchange of mess courtesies
took place, attended by a brisk business in yarns and a mutual
appreciation of the work done by R.F.C. and infantry.

Then, one fine day, the drum and fife rhythm of "A Long, Long Trail"
would draw us to the roadside, while our friends marched away to Mouquet
Farm, or Beaumont Hamel, or Hohenzollern Redoubt, or some other point of
the changing front that the Hun was about to lose. And as they left, the
men were mostly silent; though they looked debonair enough with their
swinging quickstep and easy carriage, and their frying-pan hats set at
all sorts of rakish angles. Their officers would nod, glance enviously
at the apple-trees and tents in our pleasant little orchard, and pass on
to the front of the Front, and all that this implied in the way of mud,
vermin, sudden death, suspense, and damnable discomfort. And returning
to the orchard we offered selfish thanks to Providence in that we were
not as the millions who hold and take trenches.

The flying officer in France has, indeed, matter for self-congratulation
when compared with the infantry officer, as any one who has served in
both capacities will bear witness. Flying over enemy country is
admittedly a strain, but each separate job only lasts from two to four
hours. The infantryman in the front line is trailed by risk for the
greater part of twenty-four hours daily. His work done, the airman
returns to fixed quarters, good messing, a bath, plenty of leisure, and
a real bed. The infantry officer lives mostly on army rations, and as
often as not he sleeps in his muddy clothes, amid the noise of war,
after a long shift crammed