n vieux! Tiens! Comment ca va, toi!
Ah, non! je suis presse!' or something like that. It amuses one."

This need of some means of humanizing shell fire is common. Aviators
know little of modern warfare as it touches the infantryman; but in
one respect, at least, they are less fortunate. They miss the human
companionship which helps a little to mask its ugliness.

However, it is seldom that one is quite alone, without the sight of
friendly planes near at hand, and there is a language of signs which,
in a way, fills this need. One may "waggle his flippers," or "flap his
wings," to use the common expressions, and thus communicate with his
comrades. Unfortunately for my ease of mind, there were no comrades
present with whom I could have conversed in this way. Miller was
within five hundred metres and saw me all the time, although I didn't
know this until later.

Talbott's instructions were, "If you get lost, go home"--somewhat
ambiguous. I knew that my course to the aerodrome was southwest. At any
rate, by flying in that direction I was certain to land in France. But
with German gunners so keen on the baptism-of-fire business, I had been
turning in every direction, and the floating disk of my compass was
revolving first to the right, then to the left. In order to let it
settle, I should have to fly straight for some fixed point for at
least half a minute. Under the circumstances I was not willing to do
this. A compass which would point north immediately and always would
be a heaven-sent blessing to the inexperienced pilot during his first
few weeks at the front. Mine was saying North--northwest--west--
southwest--south--southeast--east--and after a moment of hesitation
reading off the points in the reverse order. The wind was blowing
into Germany, and unconsciously, in trying to find a way out of the
_eclatements_, I was getting farther and farther away from home and
coming within range of additional batteries of hostile anti-aircraft
guns.

I might have landed at Karlsruhe or Cologne, had it not been for
Miller. My love for concentric circles of red, white, and blue dates
from the moment when I saw the French _cocarde_ on his Spad.

"And if I had been a Hun!" he said, when we landed at the aerodrome.
"Oh, man! you were fruit salad! Fruit salad, I tell you! I could have
speared you with my eyes shut."

I resented the implication of defenselessness. I said that I was
keeping my eyes open, and if he had been a Hun, the