Dear Father:--

Sherman's remark about war was only half right. I wish I would never hear another shell. People used to come into this war for adventure. This war isn't adventure, it's a dirty, stinking, rotten, nasty hell. There isn't a man living that likes it who has seen it close. Lots of things we read in the American papers are screamingly funny, but pitiable in their ignorance of what war really is. Even the Parisians don't know what it's like, and America can't possibly begin to imagine the terrible realities. The Consul General was here the other day, and said he would feel safer in the trenches than crossing the Champs Elysees. Poor fool! That's the most asinine remark I've ever heard. He was itching to see the trenches. You couldn't pay me, the other ambulanciers, or the French soldiers to go near them if it wasn't our duty. I like the ambulance tremendously, and would like to reënlist, but feel it my duty to fight. Believe me, I don't want to fight, and if I get killed I hope I kill at least fifty of those cochons first. It's terrible, the things they do. I'll believe any story I hear of them now. Is America making much heavy artillery? That's what's winning this war, for the British. They can't possibly make enough.

Lovingly,                 

HOUSTON

Sunday, May 12th, 1917

Dear Mother:---

I just finished reading your letter of April 24th this minute, and am answering immediately. Have been too busy rolling and sleeping lately to find time to write anyone, and even now am stationed at a poste de secours, and expect a call any moment. The French expect to attack again tonight, which will mean hard work for another two days. So this may be my only opportunity for some time.

To save time, I'm going to just jot things down as they come into my head, which will probably result in incoherent reading, but as usual, "c'est la guerre."

You spoke in your letter about sending Abercrombie shoes. Thank heaven, they have come at last. I was about to borrow money and cable for them special. But please send that other pair. I will need both pairs greatly---if they fit.

My ideas have been completely revolutionized about many things since seeing this war close. In the first place, I admire Woodrow Wilson greatly now, strongly endorse his policy, and think him a mighty clever man who has handled the situation excellently. I'm darn glad he kept the United States out of the war as long as he did, but now that we are involved, I think we shall be the ones who win the bloody game. France has shot her bolt. Her fighters now all lie under the sod. Her army comprises old men for the most part, and they are dreadfully tired. Tired in body and tired in soul. Her one strength now is the Foreign Legion and the Moroccans---but how those devils do fight! They are used only for attack, are never kept in the trenches for defense, gain ground nearly every time they do attack, and are the terror of the Boche army. The Boches are scared to death of them, and I don't blame them. I, too, would hate to see those swarthy khaki devils coming at me with their flashing black eyes craving blood, knife in mouth, bayonet set, intent on killing. They don't take many prisoners. Kill! Kill! Kill! are the words they use in describing their onslaughts, and it's their tradition that they are never taken prisoners themselves. I admire those Algierians. They're fierce fiends, but they're the most magnificent fighters imaginable. All last night and today they've been marching to the lines, hence we expect an attack very soon. We were ordered to have every car in perfect readiness to roll at six this evening, but I hope it won't be another sixty-hour session without sleep. I was up all night before last, and slept only seven hours last night, so am pretty tired to start this attack. I would like to describe the military situation here, but c'est defendu, as it would indicate our position. It's a tremendously interesting sector and we see every phase of warfare, from hauling supplies to artillery barrages and air duels---excepting, of course, the attacks over No-man's Land.

I am crazy to enter aviation. If that fails, I think I can study the artillery game till Uncle Sam sends his new young blood to drive these swine out of France. Fresh blood, that's what's needed. No amount of drugging the poilus and getting them drunk is worth a young devil of nineteen to twenty-six when it comes to a charge.

And artillery is what I hope to see. Cannon, cannon, more cannon, still more cannon. That's the reason of the extraordinary British successes. They knock the very hell out of the Boche trenches, hurl a flood of steel on the roads in back, which prevents the bringing up of reserves, and when the Tommies, with their wonderful bravery, charge over No-man's Land, they find nothing but wreckage, with the Boches holding up their hands, begging food. Prisoners? The British don't take prisoners during an attack. For instance---they come upon a dugout. "Wie viele Männer," they have been taught to yell down. "Sieben," answer the Boches, expecting to come out and be taken. But not a bit of it. Into that dugout the British hurl seven hand-grenades, and hurry on, leaving behind a mess of brains, blood, and shreds of clothing. That's the way to fight this war. The enormous numbers of Boche prisoners taken is due to their being surrounded in big groups during a good advance. The English have paid pretty dearly, however. Mitrailleuses spit death at them from every hummock, burrow and shell hole. They say the number of Boche mitrailleuses encountered is terrific. But the Huns never live to tell the tale afterwards. They're losing awfully heavily, the Germans, but thousands upon thousands more will have to be killed or taken prisoners before they will give in. I hate it intensely, this wholesale slaughtering. Kill, maim, destroy is the spirit everywhere. Americans so far away from it can't begin to imagine the horror and awfulness of it all. It's true that our section is in the midst of the biggest offensive of the Allies since the war started, but even quiet warfare is bad enough.

Voilà! Out on call. Must stop. Such is life. Am in excellent health, and taking good care of myself. Don't worry about my taking extra risks. There are plenty enough in ordinary duty in this bloody sector.

Very lovingly,             

HOUSTON

May 19th, 1917

Dear Father:--

I think I wrote Mother last, so I guess it's your turn for a letter. We are en repos now, and as everything is very indefinite and our division has moved, we are rather up in the air as to what will happen to us. Now that it is all over, I guess it's all right to mention a few names about where we have been, but I can't be too definite.

I reached Maffrecourt, near St. Menehould, about half-way between Châlons and Verdun on April 1st. Section 13 was there catering to the lines around Maisons de Champagne, Beau Sejour, etc. If you have a good map of the Marne (district) you will see these places. Get a big map of the Marne, and you can trace all our way, as we have never left the district. The next day we left Maffrecourt and moved to Somme Bionne, ten kilometers---one kilo is five eighths of a mile. Stayed at Somme Bionne three days. Rained all the time when it wasn't snowing, and was horribly cold. That was where I caught a cold that put my stomach on the bum. Left at four o'clock one morning and arrived at Lepine (six kilos east of Châlons) at 6:30. Slept most all day in sleeping bag on hay in barn as I was pretty low. Stayed about three days at Lepine, then moved to Champigneul, about half-way between Châlais and Epernay, south of the main road. Stayed here ten days almost, while our division recuperated, a few cars every day doing the rounds for the malades. One round took in Pocancy, St. Mard, Vouzy, Chaintrix, Châlais back to Champigneul. The other took in Athis, Falais, Aulnay, Matouges, Châlons.

Champigneul was a delightful spot. We were cantoned on a large farm, and lived the most comfortably of any place so far. Being way back of the lines we saw no real work, but spent a very pleasant week. Finally, the 14th of April, we packed up, leaving as much stuff as possible at Champigneul, and moved to Villers-Maruery, and here trouble, work, danger and excitement set in.

Villers is a village about ten kilos back of the lines. It is owned by Mumm, who makes the champagne, and as he is a German, the Boches had left it strictly alone. It was always full of troops, but never molested, thanks to Mr. Mumm. Our cantonment was pretty poor, and sleeping quarters rotten, but we were never there much, so it didn't matter an awful lot.

The night of the 14th I slept on the hard floor on the mezzanine of a rickety old barn, so was a little stiff in the morning, but c'est la guerre. The evening of the 15th Develin and I took a walk to a battery of the 155s in action. It was a long walk, and we returned tired and hot, looking forward to a good long sleep. I had put hay under my bag, and it felt awfully good when I turned in at eleven. Well, at twelve I was awakened by a terrific bombardment of the French guns, their famous tir de barrage, also simultaneously came a call for cars. I got up after my hour's sleep, and didn't get to bed again for two days and two nights, and worked every minute of that time, scarcely getting time to eat. I think I have described our work there already.

May 29th

Have been too busy to write before now. It's almost impossible. Will adopt new system.

May --- 1917

Dear Mother:--

I am going to use these little things hereafter for my letters. Have been through two attacks since letter headed May 19th. The Algierians took Mt. Cornillet at a terrific loss and the French have been advancing a few yards every day since. We have been getting the blessés of these attacks. The whole section is pretty fagged out. The work has been awfully heavy. Between loss of sleep and constant subjection to the Boches shell fire, my nerves are pretty jagged. Three nights ago the Boches bombarded the hospital where we were working. It was a terrible piece of barbarism, the deliberate slaughter of wounded in a hospital. Seventy-five men were killed outright, and many more wounded. Our lieutenant had his knee badly hit, and may have to have his leg amputated. Two Americans were wounded, though not badly. I escaped being hit several times by lying flat when I heard that the shell would land close, and the bits of steel went shrieking harmlessly over me. We added to our already splendid reputation by sticking on the job throughout the bombardment while the French all sought shelter. Lots of men fell around us, but we weren't killed, luckily. The hospital has been removed, but should never have been so close to the lines.

June 13th, 1917

Dear Mother:--

Just received another letter from you this morning, and I must admit that you and Father are much better about writing letters than I am. It really takes pretty much of an effort to write from out here, though.

At last we are en repos. Seven weeks of incessant night-and-day rolling comprised our spell in Champagne. Many's the time we've all rolled forty-eight hours at a stretch, twenty-four hours without a wink of sleep is nothing to speak of now. We were attached to division after division---five altogether. We started work the 16th of April, before our division went into the trenches, and stayed for attack, attack, attack, until the 1st of June. One division would come, attack, wither, and go, then another, but we stayed on for five such divisions and about nine attacks. The night the Algerians and Moroccans took Mt. Cornillet, section 13 broke the record of the A. A. for carrying blessés between dusk and daylight. I greatly exceeded the section record myself by carrying eighty-three blessés assis in the camionette from Sept Saux to Mourmelon Le Petit between daylight. It was at Sept Saux a couple of weeks or so later that the hospital was bombarded, and where the croix de guerres were won and the section received its citation. That certainly was a nightmare of a night. The Americans did better than the Frenchmen that night, and won such an excellent name for themselves that we have been offered to be attached to an attacking division---a great honor, never extended to any other A. A. section, but a very hazardous job.

I believe I have already written you about that bombardment. As for my own personal experiences, this diagram will best illustrate them :---

I was in the door of the assis hospital when the first shell landed, scattering mud and splinters of the shell on the camionette though not on me, for I had gotten behind the car, when I heard where the shell would land. My blessés were just on the point of climbing in, but they hesitated a few seconds. Then obus No. 2 arrived, but thank God didn't éclat (explode). The blessés in the hospital began to stir then, and about thirty seconds afterwards, when No. 3 fell, everyone cleared out the back door, and headed for the woods as hard as he could go. Men with broken arms, smashed ribs, banged up heads, cripples of every description, suddenly became strong and fought for a way out. The fools lost their heads. All pushed for a place through the back door, resulting in delay, pain and confusion, when the front door lay perfectly open. My blessés took to their heels for the woods, and wouldn't get in my car. I grabbed two and tried to curse the others into the car, but to no avail. They were too frightened, and it was the luckiest thing in the world for them and me that they were, for had they gotten in my car, and we had started, shell No. 4, which landed just in front of the couché hospital, would have fallen right at our wheels, and every one of us blown to blighty. As it was I had just shut off my engine, and was wondering what to do since there were no blessés left to evacuate, when the shell landed and exploded with a prolonged and brilliant glare. By its flare I saw our own French lieutenant drop like lead with a horrible cry of pain, and at the same instant a French chauffeur standing beside him shivered, staggered and fell, with his head half severed at the neck, and an ugly jet of blood spurting out. The flare lasted several seconds, other men, who appeared more like shadows, dropped before it disappeared, the whole picture forming a ghastly, horrible silhouette I can never forget. Half sick and half dazed by what I had seen, I ran forward to assist our lieutenant, when the fifth shell dropped, and I had to throw myself flat in the mud to avoid the screaming steel splinters as they sang their way above and over me. I did not know what to do, and right then said the most sincere prayer of my whole life. I certainly prayed to God and prayed hard that night! Such things make a fellow pretty religious. Then I figured that since the Boches had the range so well, more shells would probably come, and that there was no use in remaining there with the chance of losing my life unnecessarily, when by waiting somewhere in comparative safety till the worst was over, I could return and be of just as much value and a good deal more than if I remained and got killed. This takes a long while to tell, but only a fraction of a second to think. I got up; ran to the door of the assis hospital, flashed my electric torch inside, saw that it was empty except two couchés lying helpless with broken legs on stretchers, didn't see how I could help them in any way, so climbed the small bank between the hospital and the road, and, just as I was descending the other side, the next shell crashed in right on the roof of the hospital exactly at the same spot where I had been standing thirty seconds before. Two agonizing shrieks and groans told me that was the end of the two fellows I had just seen lying helplessly there. It was the second time that night I had missed death by thirty seconds. Sorry as I was for those two Algerians, I prayed once again, and thanked God I had gotten out of that hospital before death came hurtling through the roof. During the next seven minutes or so, I flattened myself against the slight bank which marks the difference in elevation between the road and canal tow-path, listening to the shells---they were big ones---come whistling in, and wondering where they would land.

Two days later

 . . . As usual it was impossible to finish. To finish hurriedly, as I have not much time even now, the Americans returned to the hospital before the bombardment was over, and long before any Frenchmen appeared. As a result of the whole affair, our lieutenant had to have both his legs amputated, one at the thigh; one of our boys was wounded in the head and had to have a piece of shell extracted, though he is quite all right now, and another one was wounded slightly in the leg---the second time in the month he had been hit. Both fellows received the anti-tetanus injection and it is said will receive palms on their croix---the first ever given an A. A. man, I think, but couldn't swear to. Our lieutenant received the Legion of Honor, and the croix de guerre with two palms---a magnificent tribute, but a poor substitute for a pair of legs.

Section 13 men are the pride of the A. A. now. Permissionaires said that in Paris a tremendous fuss was made over them, and people could not do enough for them.

June 19th, 1917

Dear Father:--

Don't know how long I will have to write, so will make it brief.

The pictures I took with the camera you thought was so extravagantly bought. It is an excellent camera, as you can see, though these pictures are but a sample of many I have taken. I wish now I had taken a lot more than I did. I had some magnificent opportunities for remarkable photographs, but either did not have my camera with me or it would not be ready, or something else would prevent. I certainly have some very interesting experiences to look back upon.

Life is awfully quiet now. We are in a very quiet sector after our sojourn in the hellish Mt. Cornillet district. Mt. Cornillet is as bad as, if not worse than, Verdun, though, of course, there are not the massed attacks and counter attacks there were at the "gate of France." After the war---a very charming and musical phrase---I can tell you some awfully interesting things about this Mt. Cornillet. At the present time it is rather défendu, though it would be the best thing in the world for America if she could realize a few very unpleasant but important truths.

A tremendous amount rests on America. She is all important. Her importance cannot be over-emphasized. But she has got to go into this war with the same spirit she would have if Germany were attacking her alone with all her strength. This is a very grim business, and it is growing grimmer every day. We shall see one whole year more of this war, and don't you or any one else think we won't. Another winter campaign? Winter be darned. They are going right on with this business for months and months, as people on this side of the water realize. Why? This is a war against the military autocrats of Prussia, and if Germany wins this war,---and believe me, they are by no means half-crushed yet,---good-by forever to peace, quiet, and happiness in this world to the next war, when you will find the world prepared and ready to crush them. Germany has the men. There are more men in her army today than ever before. She has plenty of food to subsist on. She is not short of munitions by any means. She has wonderful officers---is still mighty, mighty strong. And it is going to take every ounce of effort that blind, sleepy, slacking America can muster, to lick the Boches.

You all talk line in America, lots of singing, flag waving, speeches and all that sort of thing. We see your papers---now let's see you get down to work and do something! Words are cheap in this world. For God's sake act, and act quickly, or it will be too late! If only the censor would permit things to be published in America. The United States can't know the truth, the censor won't let it, but I wish I had the power to go to America and let the people know there just how things stand. The things we could tell you, we, who have seen horribly disturbing things here at the front. Sometimes I shudder, and feel it's all up, no use, America is five months too late. And it may yet be too late. Many people depressedly feel so. I know my family is doing its share, but rouse those who aren't. It is a detriment sometimes not to know and be told the truth.

You are very wise growing vegetables in your gardens. Nothing silly or funny about it. Very useful and necessary work. And above all---make and send artillery. Artillery is winning the war for the English. The French lost thousands trying to capture Vimy Ridge. The Canadians walked up the hill with their rifles slung over their backs, and when they got to the top, there was not a Boche apparent in sight. Why?

Artillery for days had pounded the Boche trenches into shapeless mud, artillery had bottled the Boche in their abris, a solid sheet of sleeting steel had prevented ravitaillement and supports from coming up the support roads, and when the Canadians appeared they found only corpses or starved, frightened soldiers.

Days later

I have just read this letter through, and realize I wrote it in a depressed mood about the war. The things are true though, and an awful lot depends on America.

Have to run. Will send pictures later. Received cable, letters, and Mrs. Binney's stockings, which are fine. I am wearing them now, and will write my thanks when I get a chance. Am very well.

Love,              

HOUSTON

July 28th, 1917

Dear Mother:--

This is a most delightful spot. Can't tell you how pretty. There is swimming, golf, tennis, riding, motoring---everything in fact. An awfully smart crowd is here now, so life is very interesting. It's such a relief to get away from the cloud which always hangs over you in the war zone. No guns are heard here, and you can breathe in safety without fearing to be bumped off any minute. I return to Paris today after a four day visit here.

Very lovingly,            

HOUSTON

Deauville-La-Plage-Fleurie

July 25th, 1917

Dear Father:--

I haven't time for a lengthy letter now, but a short one will suffice.

I am now in the Franco-American Aviation Corps, at school in Avord, Cher, France. I was very anxious to get in this corps, but found that if I waited till August 19th before joining I could not get in, as they would already be full. As it was, I was about the last man whose application was accepted by the French Government, so it was a matter of ambulance for three weeks more at the sacrifice of aviation, or aviation at the sacrifice of the A. A. There were thirty-two men in our section at the time, ten more than we carried in the Champagne, and the work was very quiet, so my services were not much needed. We are in the Foreign Legion, aviation branch, regular members of the French Army. There are about one hundred and fifty Americans at the school here now, which is more than they have ever had in before. They are an awfully nice crowd who have joined recently, many of them old ambulance men. I knew a lot before coming down, so feel quite at home already.

Notice my new address and send all mail there. There is talk of the United States Government taking us over soon, but the only advantage I can see is that we will then be given a commission in the American Army and draw good pay. I am here for three or four months, which is less than usual as they are speeding up instruction more than they used to. Charlie Kinsolving is about the only other fellow here you know. There's also quite a Yale representation.

Please send immediately the $1,200 you sold the Stutz for,---that will last easily until next March. There's lots of ways of spending money. The food is miserable, so we usually buy our meals. Uniforms cost something also. Later when I have more time I will write more on this subject.

On a rough guess, I should say I ought to get to the front again---with an aeroplane, not a Ford---in between four and five months.

Don't forget the money for I need it badly.

Hastily,            

HOUSTON

Ecole D'Aviation Militaire,
   Avord, Cher, France

August 6th, 1917

Dear Mother:--

At last I feel I have time to write a letter long enough to let you know a bit about what has been going on recently.

In the first place, I severed diplomatic relations with the A. A. July 23rd, and came to Avord July 24th. I wanted to stay in the section till August 19th, but found that if I did I could not get into French Aviation, so considered it useless and foolish to sacrifice aviation for three weeks of A. A. work in St. Menehould, where there is almost nothing doing, and since there were more than enough men in the section already. Since coming here my only regret has been that I did not leave the ambulance two weeks sooner. Jim Develin will be home about the 1st of September, and he can explain in person much better than I can write the whole state of affairs. I have grown thoroughly disgusted with the ambulance. The crowd who have come over since America declared war are a wretched bunch of embusqués, have disgraced themselves and America in Paris, and are of no account at all. All but a very few of the old Sec. 13 have left, the new crowd doesn't compare with them, and I am extremely glad I am down here.

Maybe you think by this that I regret my A. A. experience. Not a bit of it. I consider the time I served at the front the best I have ever lived. I shall always look back upon my A. A. life with the greatest of pleasure and satisfaction, but it grieves me terribly to see how the A. A. has gone to the dogs, recently. Enough on this subject. Jim Develin can tell you all about it when he returns to America.

And now I come to a subject, which, though not pleasant to talk about, must be met squarely in the face. I am now in aviation and all that that means. You haven't seen for yourself, so don't know, but I have seen and know. I don't want to scare you, and shall be as decent as possible about it, but it is only fair to tell you of the dangers, and after speaking of them this once we won't refer to them again. But just remember this war is the biggest thing so far in history, and no one in the world really has a right to refrain from doing his utmost, down to the giving up of his life. I may live through it all, of course, lots of aviators do, but an aviator's life isn't worth an awful lot the way things are done now. I prefer not to worry you more than I can help, however.

Some day when I am not so hot and sleepy I will write describing the school thoroughly. Just at present I'm getting so sleepy I don't see how I can possibly go on.

I get up at 4:15 every morning, attend flying class from six till eight, drill at 11 :15, and fly again in evening from 6:30 till 8:30. So far I have had about thirty sorties, or flights, in a dual control Caudron bi-plane, and now do all the work myself except the landing, which I will begin on tomorrow.

Am getting so awfully sleepy I can't go on any more, sorry, but will write soon again.

Am very well, but pretty tired owing to exceedingly irregular eating and sleeping hours.

Very lovingly,             

HOUSTON

August 13th, 1917

Dear Father:--

I have gotten yours and Mother's letters all in a bunch lately, and have been surprised to hear you have not received some of my letters, for I wrote more frequently than you indicate.

I am pretty nearly ready to be laché now. Which reminds me, I haven't described the school yet. It is the largest aviation school in the world here at Avord, having about 1,000 machines, representing nearly every type made. There are two courses of instruction, the Bleriot and the Caudron. In the Bleriot the élève pilote is first put on a Penguin, a Bleriot monoplane with its wings so clipped it cannot possibly leave the ground. This machine is very difficult to learn to control, but it teaches the student how to steer on the ground---quite a knack when driving a Nieuport. Next you are laché to the "roller" class. These "rollers" also are Bleriots with their wings partially clipped, permitting the machine to leave the ground only a very few feet. Next one advances to the Decollet class---also partially clipped Bleriots---permitting altitudes of forty feet, then the student is put on a Bleriot monoplane---the most difficult of all machines to fly. When brevetted on a Nieuport he is some pilot after the Bleriot training. The advantages of the Bleriot school are twofold. The pilot always is alone---never goes up with a monitor, and hence is on his own resources and initiative from the beginning---and, second, the Bleriot is the most difficult machine to fly.

The other training is the Caudron school. The élève learns to fly on a Caudron bi-plane with a monitor. As this course is much quicker I have chosen it, because I want to return to the front as soon as possible. The first three sorties I was merely observing passenger; then I gradually took over the controls. The air work is very easy; so is leaving the ground and using the throttle. Landing is very difficult to learn. I am now doing all the work myself, but sometimes make pretty poor landings. Of course the monitor is always ready to grab the controls in case I make a mistake. It is surprising how easy single flying is. Flying is the greatest sport in the world. I love it, and think I ought to get away with it pretty well. I am longing for the time when I can drive my own Nieuport and do all the loops, vrilles, spirals, renversements, barrel turns, and other tricks. I went as passenger in a dual-control Nieuport, and never had such thrills in my life. It's the most fascinating sport ever invented. I shall write more of flying from time to time as I progress.

Immediately the war is over I am going to Russia as private secretary to Baron F. and shall act in that capacity for at least a year, maybe many more. I don't believe I have ever mentioned the Baron to you (I have never been able to describe one-tenth of the things I have done here in France); he is a direct nephew or grand nephew or something of Tolstoi, and also of the Count F. Macauley writes of in his "French Revolution." He is the most extraordinary, brilliant, and interesting man I have ever met or "heard tell of." I haven't time now to tell you about him personally. I met him last March, have seen him in Paris, and through him have met two Russian princesses, one of them the most famous portrait painter of Russia, and one of the foremost of the world---a Hindoo princess, an opera composer, one of France's best authors. But these are only the celebrities; in addition I have met the most interesting people imaginable, among them the Russian captain who was in command of the troops guarding the Czar in his palace from the crowds in the early days of the Russian revolution. His account of the revolution was extraordinary. This is uncertain gossip now, and not to be taken too certainly. Russia is pretty sure to be an empire again. No Romanoff will ever be Czar, and even now many people are beginning to look to a certain man who represents the original royal family before the Romanoffs, and who will probably be czar or king modified some day. That isn't too sure, however. Nothing is ever sure in Russia at present.

B. Fersen asked me to be his private secretary. I took a long while in deciding, but am glad I said Yes. I am not going back to America at any rate. Europe has done more for me in education, development, experience, and pleasure in five months than America has in five years. I feel European, and men are needed here now terribly. More of all this later.

Lovingly,             

HOUSTON

August 17th, 1917

Dear Mother:--

Today a lot of mail came in which had been delayed in A. A. section, and inspired me to write, though as usual I haven't much time. This paper comes from an excellent little Y. M. C. A. which has been established here at Avord.

Aviation is the greatest sport in the world. It appeals to me more than anything I have ever attempted. I am now flying myself, always accompanied by a monitor in case something goes wrong. By that I mean I do all the work myself. It's wonderful. Had a great little joy ride the other day, climbing above the clouds and spiralling most the way down in a very small diameter. Am very enthusiastic about it, despite the fact that it is very boring hanging around doing nothing in bad weather, which I fear will hold us all up longer than expected.

Everything is awfully upset now. The American Army is taking over everything, but very few want to be transferred. Thirty fellows left Avord for the training camp for Americans at Tours. They were all in the Bleriot school, but the Bleriot training is being stopped by the French, so the men were sent to the Caudron school at Tours. I want to stay at Avord, as I am nearly ready to be laché (fly alone), but the lieutenant over us said he was afraid I couldn't. We will all be given commissions in the American Army, but I would rather be a sergeant with the French than a first lieutenant with the Americans. However, we will receive much more pay in the United States Army. The Franco-American Aviation Corps ceases to exist from today, and I am very sorry and disappointed. In a few months I suppose I shall be Lieutenant Woodward, U. S. Signal Corps, but I would rather be Sergeant Woodward, pilote, Armée Française. At any event, I shall still be an aviator, and that is the main thing.

I had entertained hopes of getting home for a week or two at Christmas, and then returning to the front, since I would have by then served ten months in the French Army. But the Americans stepping in have gummed the game, so now I fear I can't get home until the end of the war unless I am wounded, which God forbid.

Believe me, I need your prayers now, so don't get discouraged, or think that God is getting tired of keeping my neck safe. I just hope he lets me live through this confounded war, for I am beginning to long for some real work and a more or less settled life now, neither of which I have ever wanted before.

Baron F. has written saying I can visit you a while before going to Russia. I expect to get a tremendous lot out of my position under him. He is an extraordinary man, and I will break my neck to make good with him, so am trying to improve my French, and have sent for a Russian history to study as mere essential preparations. He is going to teach me Russian, and between his personal instructions and constant contact with Russians I ought to pick it up pretty quickly. I get along pretty well in French now, having a pretty good vocabulary---Mais ma prononciation est encore très Americaine. Ce pendant je le sais assez bien pour parler d'aucun sujet, et aussi pour écrire des lettres comme ceci.

Everything continues to go well. Notice changed address and notify Ledger.

Haven't enough money to cable weekly.

Very lovingly,           

HOUSTON

Centre d'aviation Militaire de Juvisy

August 24th, 1917

Dear Mother:--

This is great.

At last we're treated like men, not dogs.

After nearly a month at Avord---which is a name synonymous for boredom, desert, and rotten food---we arrived here today to continue our training on the Caudron. It seems almost too good to be true. Juvisy is only a few moments ride from Paris, we sleep on feather mattresses instead of dirty straw, the food is quite good, this is a very comfortable foyer---bar, piano, and writing facilities---and we get a repos every third seance, with official permission to go to Paris twice every week and unofficially we can go whenever we want and get away with it. We could practically live in Paris and commute for flying, but of course will stick close to business in order to get brevetted and go to the front as soon as possible.

The captain commanding the school is very enthusiastic about America and Americans, so I foresee a very pleasant stay here for a few weeks. Have been to Paris for two twenty-four hour visits within the last week, and enjoyed them magnificently. What is the fascination of that city? It isn't nearly as gay as it was before the war, but I love it more than any United States city, and have enjoyed myself more there than in any other spot in the world. Have never had a dull or bored moment in the town, and now know quite a large collection of people. Yesterday the Baron and I strolled for three hours in the afternoon all through the Bois de Boulogne, he doing nearly all the talking. The more I see of that man the more I admire the extraordinary knowledge, cleverness, and conception of the man. He is the most remarkable and advanced personality I have ever come in contact with. His plans for the future are gigantic, and as the fortune he controls is nearly as large as his plans, and his intellect and ability greater than either, he's going to make something hum in a few years. I expect I shall get more out of three years contact with him than most people learn and experience during their whole existence. It will be awfully hard work, but extremely interesting.

Why don't you tell Stanley to go in aviation if it appeals to him. I have changed my mind about whom I think make the good aviators. I used to think it was the reckless, devil-may-care sort of fellow who was the best, but I have found that it is the cool-headed, cunning type that do good work more than the careless ones. Nerve is the first requisite, brains the second, but if either is lacking, it is impossible to be a good flyer. You have to think and act awfully quickly ---it generally is a matter of life or death in air fighting, who can think quickest---but at the same time keep a cool head and under no circumstances permit yourself to be excited. If Stanley goes into aviation now---there are lots of boys as young and younger than he in it (a German aviator of thirteen years was brought down in the last raid)---he can get to the front. It's the most interesting and only sporty side of the war. The aviators are a privileged class and are the pets of Paris, and can often get repos. Then the result of future fighting will depend more and more on the aviation. If the Boches can be prevented from ever crossing the lines---which is not hard, merely a mathematical problem of numerical superiority at present---or even better, can be kept out of the air altogether, they cannot possibly do efficient fighting. Artillery is everything ---but is rendered blind and useless nearly except in stopping an attack, if their avions can't direct them. And vast numbers are needed. Machines never fly alone any more over the lines. They always go in groups, and attack in combinations. This combination game will be a big part of future fighting. Even now air fights in combinations are rehearsed behind the lines, and think of the future of this air strategy. Thus you see aviators are greatly needed. Piano is banging, men singing and rough-housing, can't concentrate to write more.

Lovingly,            

HOUSTON

September 9th, 1917

Dear Mother:--

Aviation is coming along all right. I am flying alone in a Caudron, Gnome motor, and find it excellent sport as ever. The French lost two hundred and sixty aviators during August, two hundred through accidents at the front, thirty at schools, and thirty brought down by the Boches. Several Americans also were brought down. Julian Biddle was killed and fell into the channel with his Spad. Harold Willis, one of the best in the Lafayette Escadrille, was lost during combat at Verdun in the last great offensive. Doolittle and Reno were brought down badly damaged, but living. Chadwick was killed, while Chatkoff received thirty-six mitrailleuse wounds but retained consciousness long enough to land his machine, and is expected to live.

I put in an application to remain with the French Army, for I wish to go to the front in a French escadrille, get the training there this winter, and transfer over to the United States Army in the spring. I could go over to the American Army now as first lieutenant. Most the boys did, but I have many reasons for wishing to wait. If I make particularly good this winter, I have a chance to go over as a captain in the spring.

Thank Quita for her letter. I have made a will here leaving the shares in the peat company to her in case I am killed by this confounded war, and they will be very valuable some day.

If only Wilson had declared war six months sooner! How badly the American Army is needed now. I am glad we stayed out for two years, but it was a tremendous crime to have played neutral longer. Am still at Juvisy, and am awfully anxious to get to Biarritz for a few days at the end of the month.

Am very well, but a little weak owing to a slight case of malaria I had for three or four days. Don't know how I got it, but the chills and fever were very annoying. Flew as usual, but felt always tired and weak. Am perfectly well again now.

Much love,              

HOUSTON

September 11th, 1917

Dear Father:---

You and Mother have both told me to have pictures sent. I never had a regular photograph taken, but here are two pictures Charlie took when I was at Deauville with him. We had an awfully good time there; the swimming was wonderful. Biarritz is my next rest objective, and Nice and the Riviera next winter.

Have written Stanley to join aviation.

There is a new rule now by censor that no mail can leave country with address of expediteur on outside, so it is really better to stamp letters.

Aviation is progressing as slow as ever. Between unfavorable weather and French inefficiency one would think we would never get out. It is going unnecessarily slowly. Haven't received letters from home for some time except four in a batch from Mother which had been delayed in the A. A. section. Send mail to Morgan-Harjes Co., Boulevard Haussmann, Paris.

Pictures aren't good, but the best I can offer. Sorry, but when I get brevet I'll have a regular picture taken.

Fellow was killed here day or two ago. Must have fainted in air judging from way machine behaved. Have seen quite a number of fatal accidents now, but it is queer how quickly we mortals forget things. Spend most of my time in Paris with Count F. There are more Americans and Britains than French almost in the capital. Ça va bien, and hope to be brevetted before long.

With much love,             

HOUSTON

October 2, 1917

Brevetted yesterday.

PILOTE WOODWARD

Provins, Sept. 29th, 1917

Dear Mother:--

Flew here from Etampes this morning, on triangle for brevet. Fly back to Juvisy this evening and will try to make altitude test en route (2,000 metres). Very rough trip, air extremely bumpy and clouds very low.

HOUSTON

Provins, Sept. 29th, 1917

Dear Father:--

Flew to Etampes from Juvisy this A. M.---sixty kilometres. Flew from Etampes to here, one hundred and ten kilos. Great sport, but awfully bumpy. Was turned completely over by wind once, on side, that is. Scared me awfully. Clouds at six hundred metres high.

HOUSTON

Bois de Roi,
October 9th, 1917

Dear Mother:--

Am on a permission of twelve days before going to Avord for perfection on a Nieuport. Was very tired and nerves somewhat upset, so wanted to rest a while in the country. Went to a little spot called Bourra on the south edge of the Forêt de Fontainebleau on Saturday afternoon with Count Fersen.

You wouldn't like this place. It's ugly from outside, and too fantastically ornate inside. We walked from Bourra to Bois le Roi during the day, stopping at Fontainebleau for lunch. It was a distance of fifteen miles, and made from one end of the forest to the other. Was just what I needed and feel much better for it.

October 16th, 1917

Dear Mother:--

I can't begin to tell you half the things I have been doing since last writing, but probably you will be interested in hearing a little about my brevet.

Juvisy was such an awfully comfortable and altogether pleasant school, and so very near Paris, that no one was in a hurry to get through, for we all well knew we would be never again so comfortable and enjoy ourselves so much during the rest of the war as while there, so we made the most of it. After spending more time in Paris than at the school, I was eventually laché (flying alone) the 11th of September. One then flies with a seven-cylinder Gnome motor instead of the Anzani. Being a rotative, the avion is consequently much lighter, thus easier to land. Eight tours de piste were necessary before advancing to the next piste. I was very, very careful my first flight alone, you may be sure. It was just like flying with the monitor, however, so it doesn't make one nervous. Strange to say, I think I made the best atterrissage I have ever made on my first laché flight. I soon grew confident and tired of straight, simple work, so stuck in a few changements de direction and hairpins towards my last four or five flights. My last flight I took a little joy ride round a dirigible a few kilos away, and ended in a tight hairpin directly over the piste.

The next piste in advance was to perfect our air work a bit, and make a changement de direction. We didn't stay there long, making seventeen or eighteen flights, then went down to the cuvette for brevet work. The first thing to do was to make three epingles de cheveu (hairpins) and a spiral. These were all easy as they weren't supposed to be a bit tight. All the work hitherto had been more or less monotonous, but now the most interesting part was to begin.

To win the brevet, one has to make two petit voyages, an atterrissage en campagne and two triangles, and an altitude test.

The first petit voyage was very simple. We went up the Seine to a town called Corbeil, turned without landing, and came back. It was very fine weather, so I climbed quite high, and peaked practically all the way home. Peaking means to coast with the motor either cut or reduced. The next day we were to make our second petit voyage to Etampes and back. The weather was unfavorable, misty, and clouds very low, but it was getting near the end of September, and they always want to turn out as many pilots as possible for each month, and we were to try to finish before October 1st. I hung low and followed the railway all the way to Etampes. It was very rough going, and my baragraph looked like the teeth of a saw. Coming back was better. I knew the country then, and always could have the Seine as a landmark, so got up above the clouds, and saw the land quite blurredly and intermittently. It was one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen. The clouds glistened beautifully in the sun and made a marvelous picture in the west with the sinking rays so pink and red. Man has never produced anything which gives the impression of billowy softness those clouds give. I had one thrilling experience. I was peaking down to get below the clouds near home when suddenly a puff struck my left wing and turned me over like a flash. I came bursting out of the clouds in a wing slip, dove into it to get out, and found myself plunging straight for another machine just below me. There really wasn't much danger, for my avion was in control, but the fellow was pretty scared when he saw me diving for him, and I had quite a thrill myself. Clouds are very rough and bumpy affairs.

The next thing to do was to make an atterrissage en campagne. This was easy, for they sent me to Melun, where I picked out a good field and landed without difficulty. Left the appareil in charge of the gendarme, and went to mail the postal to the school and have my papers signed at the Mairie. When I got back I found hundreds of people, mostly children, gathered around my machine, so took their picture. They were pretty much scared of the avion, so after rising and making a turn I dove straight down on top of them, redressing above their heads, and shot up into the air again. Some of them threw themselves on the ground, and I could hear a few scream before I put on the motor again. I turned around and waved in reply to their waves and dropped my handkerchief as a souvenir. The last I saw was a crowd running forward to get it.

The next thing on the program was the first triangle.

(Day later)

Four of us started out together for Etampes. The weather was poor, clouds lying very low. At Etampes we had our papers signed and sat around about three-fourths of an hour eating chocolate and beer. We then started out for Provins, but only two of us got there, one having engine trouble, and the other descending to remain with him. It was much easier than I expected. Owing to low cloud-line I flew all the way at about only 1,000 metres, and had no trouble following roads beyond LaFerté, when I shook off roads and hit across country by compass till I got to the Seine. Struck it at Melun, which was what I aimed for. Had no difficulty in following roads to Provins, but it was 1-1/3 hours trip, and I was very glad to get down, as the rudder post was not built for my long legs, and I was consequently quite cramped. Had an excellent lunch, and we loafed around till five o'clock, when we set out on last leg for Juvisy.

For the altitude test we have to remain above 2,000 metres (6,500 feet) for an hour. If we do it on a triangle in the same day we get twenty-four hours extra permission after being brevetted. As the weather was bad we had decided not to try for height that day, so left quite late. When in the air, though, I thought it would be quite a stunt to do the altitude, so when I almost reached the Seine I climbed immediately from 1,400 to 2,000 metres. It was just a quarter to six when I reached 2,000, so I had to remain there till a quarter of seven. At 2,200 I lost complete sight of the ground, and didn't get a single glimpse of it again for fifty-five minutes. Consequently I had no idea at all where in the world I was, but I didn't care as long as I came down in France. I wanted to climb as high as possible, but it was so damp that the engine did not run as well as it might, so I couldn't climb fast. The clouds were a solid bank of mist far below me, and I couldn't penetrate them once with my eyes. At 6:45 the baragraph touched 3,000 metres (about 10,000 feet) and, although I could have climbed higher, I didn't dare, for the sun set at 6:40, and at seven it would be quite dark. I could still see it, but knew it had set from the ground. There had been a very strong northeast wind blowing, so I had been going back and forth north and south by compass when I judged I had arrived over Juvisy.

I had passed the altitude test, so I reduced the motor all the way and shot down. I came down so fast that my head seemed to have a terrific pressure. My eyes hurt, and I thought the vein in the bridge of my nose would burst, so straightened out in ligne de vol till the pain relented a little. It had gotten pretty dark, and I didn't recognize the country, so came straight down to ask the way. The wind had carried me west of Paris. I landed in a field where some women were working, and found that the Bugue aviation field was not far away,---about ten or eleven miles. They pointed the direction, I set it by compass, and went up to look for the aerodrome, being guided only by compass. It had by now grown dark, but there was a full moon, and I could make out the country by its light when I flew low. Several times while passing over forests I was anxious lest the motor should panne, but it ran splendidly. It was great sport flying by moonlight, but a little mist started to hang over the earth, and I decided to come down before it would be too difficult to find a good landing ground. Just then I saw a Caudron lying smashed on the field below me, so made a quick turn, shut off the gas, and came down. It proved to be a comrade who had become lost and smashed. A truck took his machine back to camp, but I spent the night at a little inn, stopped in for a visit at the Bugue aviation field in the morning, and hastened to Juvisy, whither I arrived without further incident about nine o'clock.

Have to stop. Was highly commended by the commandant for making the altitude so late and in such weather. Am now at Avord, but expect to go to Pau soon.

Lovingly,            

HOUSTON

Avord, October 18th, 1917

Dear Father:--

I might as well continue the last letter I wrote to Mother now. I described everything but the last triangle. As it was the last day of September, and the school wanted to put through as many as possible that month, they sent me away on my last triangle, over exactly the same course as the first one. Consequently it was very easy to follow the country, but the wind was blowing quite a gale from the N. E. The leg from Etampes to Provins took 2-1/2 hours of very hard flying, fighting the rough air every foot of the way. It wasn't so bad going to the Seine, but here I came down to seven hundred or eight hundred metres, and several times I thought I would have to land and wait for the wind to die down a bit. I tried to climb, feeling sure that it would be much smoother above 1,200 metres or 1,300 metres, but I couldn't get up for it was so rough that the wind each time I tried blew me over vertically, and I had to dive hard into the wing slip to regain my ligne de vol. It was very hard, tiring work, no fun at all, and I didn't enjoy it a bit. It was simply a matter of throwing the marsh from one side to the other the entire time, and my arm became awfully tired. When finally I landed I wanted to get down and kiss the ground, and you may be sure I waited till quite late before starting for home. The voyage back was very pleasant; I just hit across country by compass, and it was a great relief to have half-decent weather.

The notes on my work while at the school were very gratifying. They showed them to me, and translated into English they run "very good pilot, very good disposition, excellent brevet, perfect conduct, very plucky." Two days extra were granted me on permission for my record. Thus I had a permission for eleven days, seven regularly given, and two for work on brevet, and two for journey to Biarritz and back and then to Avord. I had originally intended to go to London, but didn't want to bother with all the red tape necessary to get a passport. Then I arranged to go to Biarritz, but had such an awfully good time in Paris that I couldn't tear myself away. I did go to the Forest of Fontainebleau with the Russian, and we passed three very pleasant and very restful days walking through the woods. I feel I have learned more from him already than all the time passed in college---in the literary line, that is.

One day we walked from Bourron to Bois le Roi, traversing the breadth of the whole forest, about fifteen or sixteen miles. At Fontainebleau we went through the chateau and had lunch. There are many junior United States officers studying artillery there.

Have been flying Nieuports. Very fast machines. Two American aviators were killed two days ago. One here and one at Plessy.

Lovingly,            

HOUSTON

American Y. M. C. A., Avord

October 29th, 1917

Dear Mother:--

In the first place let me thank you for the passe montagne, or woolen helmet, as I suppose you would call it. It is absolutely perfect-good looking, warm and a very practical model. It fits my head perfectly, and I like particularly the bit coming down in front, which keeps the chest warm, or at least protected from the wind. I wear it under the cork helmet the French Army makes us wear, and I can assure you it is of the greatest service. Brown is the color probably the most becoming to me, so you showed good taste in that respect, the wool makes it very warm and the shape is the most practical. I am rather curious to know where you got the idea, and how you knew we wore passe montagnes.

Am flying a little Nieuport machine now, and like it tremendously. It is very fast, strongly made, and very sensitive. Some two years ago it was the best machine at the front, but has now been completely replaced by the speedier Spad for over-the-line chasse work, and never crosses the lines any more. It is a since-the-war-machine and though now obsolete at the front, is far superior to any American machine. Such is the progress of aviation depuis la guerre.

Father reproaches me for not having sent any photograph,---I couldn't, for I have never had any taken. Am enclosing one made at the Farman school at Etampes, which was one of the points on our triangle. One of the boys is Alan Winslow, a great friend of mine while at Yale, and one of Charlie Blackwell's room-mates. Charlie, by the way, was sous-chef of the Yale Section, which was in the Vosges and at Verdun. He is now commissioned in a clerk's job in aviation. Poor fellow, he can't fly on account of his eyes and heart, and is very disappointed.

Am beginning to long for a permission home to see you all a little while again, but am not going to take any lengthy leave till after doing something at the front.

Very lovingly,             

HOUSTON

Pau, November 15th, 1917

Dear Father:--

I am terribly ashamed of myself for not writing more often, and have no excuse to offer except unindustrious negligence. Unfortunately, when I do write these spasmodic letters, I can't put in one half of the things I should like to.

My flying has progressed tremendously. I am in no hurry, however, and am taking lots of time in the schools, and just as long permissions as I can between transfers. Then the weather has been extremely unfavorable. Avord is a wretched place. Mud and dreariness everywhere, especially in dull weather. I fared quite well there, though, by hiring a room in a little shed down town which had an excellent bed. The French always have good beds.

Pau is delightful. Situated at the base of the Pyrenees on a little river, it is very pretty. The hotel is ultra modern, the casino---Henry IV's old chateau---is very attractive, but "fermé pendant la guerre." The esplanade makes an extremely beautiful promenade with its mountainous background, and the city itself is quite lively and attractive. There is a very fashionable American colony, and the tourists are beginning to immigrate for the winter season, attracted at present by the horse races. I have been down town quite a lot, and find it quite delightful. On s'amuse très bien à Pau, and we have all grown very fond of it. I like it better than Deauville or Trouville. Much more beautiful, and very bracing air. I am having such an awfully good time here that I am purposely lingering rather than getting back to the cold north and the front.

The first stunt we had to do outside the monotonous tour de piste was the vertical spiral on the eighteen-metre Nieuport. In the vertical spiral the machine is tipped up vertically on the wings, thus the rudder becomes the elevating plane, and the elevating plane becomes the rudder. It is a real sensation, and if prolonged for many turns makes one quite dizzy. I made my three in the eighteen-Nieuport all right, and then two in the fifteen-metre Nieuport, but my third, here I was too ambitious to make it very tight, and consequently shot up in the air each attempt, making a renversement and vrille by mistake. The Nieuports are wonderful machines. For a long while they were the best chasse machine at the front, but have now been completely replaced by the swifter Spads. They literally run themselves. Today I went from 2,500 metres to 4,500 (15,000 feet) without touching the manche à balai (joystick, controller) once, correcting bumps with the rudder. They keep perfect ligne de vol at 1,150 revolutions, and on a still day you can put your hands in your pockets and the machine takes care of itself. You can come out of absolutely everything by merely putting all controls in the middle, peaking into a nose dive, and redressing into ligne de vol. It's all great sport, but not so full of thrills as might be expected---or else we're used to it.

You once asked me my first impressions of flying. I remember all very distinctly. My first three rides in double command with the monitor, I was rather anxious and thought I should never be able to learn to fly. There seemed to be so many things to do, and it was so utterly different from anything else I ever did. I was quite scared when he put it in a steep bank and peaked sharply to the ground. My next three rides in the afternoon I found to my astonishment that I was doing nearly all the air work alone, and flying all of a sudden seemed very easy. Gradually I learned to roll her on the ground, to take off, how to climb, to use the throttle, and then to land. For a beginner the landing is everything. It is quite difficult to master, but once mastered never gives much more trouble. Capotages (summersaults on the ground) are very frequent on the Nieuport, however. You generally see from two to five every day in the schools. I have been very lucky in not having had any so far, but I knock wood violently when I say that.

To continue about impressions. Flying immediately becomes a fascinating sport to the beginner, and he wants to be in the air all the time. Gradually, however, he begins to grow tired of the monotonous tours de piste, and grows weary of having the monitor there scrapping with him and interfering with letting him fly as he wants (generally a very wise interference). Then the Great Day comes, and the pupil is laché, or flies alone. Aviation then suddenly takes on a new life and interest, but the monotonous tours de piste again begin to bore. Then as he masters the rudiments alone he gets freer, does serpentines, hairpins, changes of direction, and then sets out on the brevet test, a sample one of which I described to you in a previous letter. This is generally good fun, especially if the pilot lands now and then in chateaux, where he can spend a day or two as a royal guest, pretending a "panne," or break down. I couldn't go in for this side issue as they were keen on brevetting me by the end of the month, and I considered the extra two days granted in Paris better than two days in a chateau.

The early Nieuport work I found required great care and vigilance, they are so fast and sensitive. One misslip close to the ground is very dangerous. You see the average speed of the machines we drive now is one hundred and twenty-five miles an hour, so one must be very careful. I feel quite at home in one now, but don't risk chances yet. The Spad goes at one hundred and sixty miles an hour, and I suppose that by the end of the war we will have airplanes travelling at the rate of two hundred miles an hour. These are, of course, the monoplace chasse machines, and their drivers are the élite of the French Flying Corps.

My three-hour flight this afternoon was rather interesting owing to the beauty of the Pyrenees. I was 4,000 metres (13,000 feet) skimming the crest of about half the entire range. The tallest peak turned out to be 3,800 metres, so you can see they are pretty respectable mountains. Covered with snow, they are easily the prettiest scenery I have seen since coming to France.

I am quite tired tonight from my five-hours flying, most of it being between ten and fifteen thousand feet. After 3,500 metres one has to breathe through the mouth---or at least it is easier. It is quite cold, but we bundle up well; most of the boys have trouble with their ears after a quick descent from high altitudes, but I have found that holding the nose tight and blowing and also frequent swallowing with the mouth open is a tremendous help. Chasse patrols are kept at the front now at an altitude of 6,000 metres (20,000 feet); remaining at this height for two hours at a stretch is very fatiguing and in the end affects the heart, lungs and nerves. Several battles between isolated chasse machines have taken place at 7,000 metres, but that is unusual. The altitude record is 8,200 metres, but the pilot had to take oxygen in tanks with him to be able to breathe, and then nearly perished with the cold. I don't believe they'll get much above 30,000 feet for some years. I have never been above 15,000 feet in an aeroplane yet, but probably will before I leave here.

I have become quite discouraged about this war. The Germans will without doubt take Petrograd and Venice. Russia is through for good and may even sign a separate peace. Italy's army is permanently crippled, probably. I honestly don't see how the Germans can ever be defeated. They are still very strong militarily, and have a long, long way to retreat. The army will never revolt, but France's and England's? The French are scrapping terribly in politics, several serious scandals have become public, and America---good Lord! the amount of rot we read in the papers! Her "latest" airplane specifications were six months out of date seven months ago. From what French aeronautic experts think, the Liberty motor is useless for a front machine; she took over as chief aviation school in France, Issoudun, previously condemned by the French for their own purposes, and they say the most stupid things over here. "'How to win the war'---by an American" is a sort of byword here. The contingent in the trenches is paying for its swaggering conceit. We all have to learn, I suppose. I've learned an awful lot by just such things in this war.

The caramels reached Knoedler Company all right. Thanks awfully for sending them. Would you and Mother mind giving me a good pair of field-glasses for Christmas. I can't afford to buy a really good pair. They are a marvelous help in aviation. It is very hard to distinguish a German from an Allied plane at a distance. Several aviators have told me how much of their success is due to glasses, as they can see a Boche in time to manoeuvre before Fritz sees him.

It is going to be a terrible winter. There is almost no coal, little sugar, few dairy products. The world here in Europe seems to me to be groaning in agony. Will this war never end? I came here looking for trouble. I found it, but have had my belly full, and will never search it again. How I long for peace and quiet! Must stop.

Very lovingly,            

HOUSTON