Pau, November 22nd, 1917

Dear Mother:--

Have finished here. Pau is delightful. I love it and am awfully sorry to have to go north again. The mountains are beautiful. This view is taken from the boulevard. I have flown very low over the river at just this spot. Was lower than the boulevard, also skimmed the mountain range shown in this picture.

Pau, like everywhere else, is very deserted since the war. Am leaving for Paris and Plessy. Belleville this evening.

Much love,           

HOUSTON

CABLE

Paris, November 24th, 1917

Plessy waiting escadrille.

[The only letters of Houston which were not passed by the censor were those written at this time, and as they were returned to him we have no account of his entering the escadrille nor of his Christmas in France.]

(New Year's Eve tomorrow)
December 30th, 1917

Dear Mother:--

My last two letters to you and Father were returned by the officious new censor. This letter will therefore be stripped of any interesting news.

At last I am at the front, and I find it much more interesting, and am much better treated than when in the schools. Everyone does all he can for you, so life is an agreeable relief from the schools, mixed with chronic boredom when not flying.

Winter is unfavorable flying weather. There are generally clouds, snow, fog or mist, which make us keep to mother earth. It has been so awfully long now since you will have heard from me that I hardly know where to begin. The best thing for me to do is to write a letter nearly each day for some time to make up for lost time, and take up different subjects each time.

First of all, thanks an awful lot for the sweater. I like it just as much as the passe montagne (helmet) and treasure the two above all my other clothes. I have worn the sweater absolutely every day since coming to the front, and probably shall wear it every day in the future until warm spring weather. It is very warm with that lining (a splendid and original idea), very handsome, fits well, and is altogether most agreeable. I sleep in it every night, and wear it flying. It has already traversed a large sector of the lines, and has penetrated on several occasions some kilometres into Bocheland. You didn't know when you made it it was going into German territory. But the Huns didn't get it---and they won't.

We live very well here. All the pilots of the escadrille live in a large barracks, which is divided into chambres, two in each room. We have little gasoline stoves, so are always nice and warm. I had a very comfortable spring bed made, and the food is excellent. Consequently, I am very well off, and quite content. We have electric lights everywhere in the building, coal for the stove in the living room, a bar, reading room and books, a phonograph, lots of dogs, and all other accessories, so are better off than the Parisians.

That's all for tonight. Will write every other day or so for some time.

Lovingly,           

HOUSTON

Escadrille No. 94, S. P. 12, France,
January 5th, 1918

Dear Mother:--

I shall have to hurry up and do something about writing home, for I am way behind.

Life is thrilling enough now-a-days to satisfy even me. The weather has been more favorable for flying during these last ten days than is usual for this time of year. Though there is generally a mist or low clouds to prevent work in the morning, we generally get in from I to 2 hours of flying in the afternoon. I have had fifteen hours over the lines since December 22, which is excellent for the time of year. You probably would like to have just a few words about our work.

Before getting on the "disparible "list, I had to undergo five hours of "patrouilles d'entrainement" just behind the lines. Although I saw several Boches, we had strict orders to avoid unnecessary conflicts on account of my lack of experience. That was rather uninteresting work, but I became very familiar with the secteur, and, of course, with my machine. For over a week now, though, I have been disparible---subject to be called out at any time for special patrol work or for protection.

Today the French made a small attack, and our escadrille sent out two patrols, one to fly low and prevent any Boche from crossing for observation work, the other to do the ceiling work to protect the lower patrol and also prevent Fritz from crossing by the ceiling. I was on the high patrol. There were three of us, and three on the low. For one hour and a half we turned, spiralled, jumped, dove, and hovered over the sector of attack at between 3,500 and 5,400 metres. Not a Boche was in sight---wisely for him, for we were very strong. Besides our Nieuports, there were many Spads on the scene. Fritz never had a chance.

It was so dull, our chef de patrouille started a raid into Bocheland. We penetrated ten kilometres, and then, far below us, at 2,800 metres altitude perhaps, we saw two Rumplers (German bi-planes). I could almost hear our leader whoop as he swooped down on them. I was right beside him, and never was so thrilled with the hunt before in my life. Unfortunately the distance was too great. Fritz saw us, and both dove like frightened birds. There was nothing to do. They had a 1,000-metre lead in the dive, and the archies were barking hot. We straightened out in ligne de vol, made a vertical virage (turn), and started climbing with all the power of our one hundred and twenty-horse-power rotaries back to the lines. The archies were shooting well; we had to alter our course often. I had one scare. A C.A. (contre-avion) broke right under my tail, threw it up, and I found myself in a vertical nose dive with full motor. I was pretty scared, for I thought my tail had been shot away, and I began to wonder what I and my machine would look like buried in the ground after a 4,000-metre plunge. Luckily I was untouched, it had just been the concussion. They're nasty sometimes, those archies. I have been lifted twenty-five or thirty feet in the air by them breaking directly under the fuselage.

Yesterday I was nearly in serious trouble. Two of us were doing the chasse just over in Bocheland. One Albatross (German avion de chasse) was hovering below us, but we were in the sun and he didn't see us. We got into position, then dove. I closed in on him from above, drew a perfect bead, and pulled the trigger. The mitrailleuse fired twice, then jammed solid. Mad? I swore in five languages, for I was in perfect position. C'etait fini. Fritz was warned, I was unarmed, and before my companion could reach him he was vrilleing earthward at a rate which prevented pursuit. Maybe I didn't give the mitrailleur at the escadrille ------. Next time I hope my gun will shoot.

I claim no one knows what cold is till they have climbed to above 5,000 metres in a swift chasseur on a biting, way-below freezing January day. Whew! On my feet I wear heavy woollen socks, a pair of slippers, and then the heavy woollen chaussais fourrées the army gives us. Comme ça j'ai assez chaud aux pieds. On my legs I have two pairs woollen underdrawers, heavy breeches, woollen leggings. On my body I wear two undershirts, a jersey, a shirt, a sweater-vest, Mother's sweater, a leather coat, and over everything the excellent heavy fur combinaison the army gives. My gloves I stuff with paper, and my fur helmet keeps my head warm. I don't know exactly what the temperature is up there, but one of the boys has a centigrade thermometer which averages between fifteen and twenty below zero. I don't know just what that is in Fahrenheit, but I know it's cold, especially considering the speed with which we rush through space.

We rule the air in this sector. In some sectors Fritz is king, in some it's a toss-up, but here we are the undisputed bosses of the third element. For several weeks now very few Boches have crossed to our side and gotten back to tell about it. For ten days now I have not seen a Boche the French side of the lines. We hunt over in Bocheland now at will. I'm inclined to think it won't last long. Fritz is thoroughly scared here, and afraid to take the air. That's bad medicine for him. He's going to bring up a few crack escadrilles surely, and then the fur's going to fly. It's a good scrappy crowd in this group, and they're feeling their oats. This free hunting won't go on indefinitely, I'm sure.

Well, I don't dare use any more paper. Thanks a thousand times for the delicious caramels. Christmas box has not yet arrived.

Lots of Love,       

HOUSTON

Escadrille No. 94, S. P. 12,
January 5th, 1918

Dear Father:--

I wrote Mother quite a long letter tonight, but after sealing it I thought I might send you this service du jour, which is posted every night in our barracks. This one is today's list. I was first, but tomorrow I shall be among the last three or four, the next day higher up, according to the missions executed, and so forth.

Trois pilotes de la N. 156 et trois de la N. 94 seront autorisés à prendre le tracteur qui partira demain à 7 h. 30 pour les obsèques du Caporal Nicholas.

Les Soldats Rispal et Prodault seront autorisés à s'y rendre par le même tracteur.

P----- is a very nice, lively, sporty, quick chap. He talks fair English, and is very agreeable and handsome. B----- I don't care for. He's some peasant or farmer, and has never overcome his original disadvantages. Hair awfully long, filthy finger nails, drinks gallons of pinard, and yells when he talks.

O----- is a corker. Nice, quiet, refined little Frenchman very modest, excellent flyer, lots of nerve. Can trust him in a scrap. Very good-natured and likable.

De L----- is of one of the F. F. V., and a prince of a fellow. Used to play golf with him at Pau. Taller than I am, very dark with beautiful blue eyes. Has had three brothers killed, and is the sole survivor of his generation.

Marinovitch. The ace of the escadrille. My best friend, and one of the whitest, cleanest little fellows I have ever met. Father a Serbian, Mother Pole, was born in France, educated in Ireland, has been a French citizen for several years, and talks English, French, German perfectly, and Lord knows how many other languages he has a smattering of. Has the cutest pet of the crowd, a cross between a collie and a monkey it looks like. Superb flyer. Has brought down three Boches since early December, and was the first Frenchman to get a Boche in 1918, bringing one down inside their lines New Year's afternoon early.

C-----, the other American. From New Jersey somewhere. Very nice, quiet fellow, but pretty deaf, and getting deafer every day. His brother :a crack runner at Yale while I was there. Am worried about him because of ears. Doesn't know there are archies till he sees them or feels their concussion. Very dependable. More steady than brilliant.

M------. Pleasant, quiet, retiring, former Zouave. Speaks English some. Don't know him well.

C-----. Wide-awake, energetic, bright little English-speaking Frenchman.

L-----. Quite nice. A bit proud, handsome, nice enough, but not very sure of himself as a flyer, as yet.

B------. Amusing Algerian. Lazy, pleasure-loving. Avoids Boches if he can. Also trouble.

This classification will probably amuse you, but you always seem desirous to know whom I am with. It's a pleasant, likable, good-natured, happy-go-lucky crowd, who have earned an excellent name for No. 94.

The escadrille is a bit short now, as a couple of fellows were killed since Christmas. Rayer was made sick by the cold and fell in a vrille on his way home a day or two after Christmas. Nicholas, a bully little athlete, and very clever boxer, was shot in the arm and chest by an Albatross two or three days ago, and died that night in a field hospital after landing within our lines.

The caramels were most acceptable. Be careful how you send packages. Half, if not more, are lost. The safest way is to give them to some one coming over. The mails here are wretched.

Am going to bed. Sleep every night in my two undershirts, two underdrawers, jersey, shirt, sweater-vest, mother's sweater, breeches, socks, and woollen leggings. Over me I have three blankets, peau de pique coat, overcoat, and combination fourrée. You can't imagine how penetratingly cold it is. And yet in spite of it all, I love the life, and wouldn't care to be anywhere else. I could get a permission home to swank around in my red breeches and black coat with silver trimmings with high boots and carrying a swagger stick, and get the orchestra to play the Marseillaise every time I walked into a hotel, but what's the use? The other boys have done that, some of them, and have enjoyed it tremendously, but I'm too much in love with the life and a few people here. Paris is as good---and better than New York, Philadelphia, or Baltimore for me---and though I would like awfully to see you all again, well, that will have to wait a bit. I may go home between transfers to United States Army. On verra.

The guns are rumbling chronically. There must be a coup de main taking place. Luckily we don't fly at night. I have a mission in the morning if it's good weather, so am going to bed.

Lovingly,             

HOUSTON

P. S.: Speaking of clothes, I put mine on the day I left Paris, and intend to keep them on until I go back. It won't be the first time I've been over a month without a bath.

P. P. S.: There's another I forgot, M------. Machine smashed now. Good flyer. Descended couple of Boches. Wounded in 1915, and was in hospital year and a half. Very swank, nice chap.

January 9th, 1918

Dear Father:--

Although it is late, and the lights are going out soon, I will have time to write you about the big day I had last Sunday. Sent you a cable saying I had brought down an Albatross, but all communications are so rotten I don't know whether you ever got it, so this may be the first you know of it.

On January 6th three of us were to make a hour morning patrol. One of the Frenchmen had magneto trouble, and couldn't go up, so Lieutenant Parizet and I started off together to patrol the sector. There was nothing doing. Not a Boche in sight. So far as that goes, I haven't seen a Boche our side for two weeks. We crossed the lines a bit at 4,000 metres, and soon saw three Albatross monoplanes sailing along at about 3,300 metres. I didn't wait for Parizet, who was leading, to start for them, but piqued on one of them immediately. Parizet made a slight detour, then dove on one from the side, leaving the third, the leader, free. My Boche made a quick turn, so I redressed and began manoeuvring to get behind and above him.

Finally I got him where I wanted him, and piqued steep, shooting all the time. Parizet was then just ahead of and above me, and I saw him shooting at a Boche who was manoeuvring to attack me. He over-piqued eventually, and the Boche fired about twenty shots at me from the side and a trifle below. He got so close I could see his face, and for a second I hesitated whether to turn on him or continue with the original one. He fell over on his side, though, so I let him go; I put my machine in a vertical nose dive, gaining tremendous speed, then redressed, and quickly overtook my fleeing Boche. Got within one hundred metres of him, and sent in a steady stream of bullets. When I was so close to him that I started to redress to avoid colliding with him, I saw him slowly slip over on the wing, then go into a slow vrille, and after a few manoeuvres to keep him always under fire, I saw he had been hit, and made a vertical spiral to watch him vrille down to the ground. I was now at about 2,500 metres, and the other two Boches about a thousand metres below. Parizet had remained at 3,000 metres, but I decided to take my chances with the other two, so threw my machine over on her side, and dropped seven hundred metres like a plummet in a couple of seconds. Both Albatross immediately continued their piquing. followed one as low as 1,000 metres, but dared go no further after him. Then the fireworks began One thousand metres is extremely low for five kilometres inside the German lines, and the air became black around me with their anti-aircrafts. I couldn't go in a straight line, and, as there was a heavy head wind, it took me ages to get inside our lines again.

That is all the description I can give of my first fight. It was very thrilling, and the most wonderful sport I have ever participated in. I was in danger only the time when the Boche fire at me, and then somehow it seemed so funny I burst out laughing. I had always rather dreaded my first combat, but there's nothing nervous or rattling about it. It was more like practice at target shooting than anything else, the aim has to be very carefully timed and corrected. There is a tremendously exhilarating thrill about it, however, and the passion of the hunt.

Had another scrap in the afternoon, and if had not been so pressed I could have brought him down easily. Was on a rather large patrol in concentrated area, as we had reason to believe the Boches were going to make a coup de main there. Everything was perfectly quiet, however. There wasn't a Boche to be seen in the sky. I got kind of bored at this stupid empty flying, so left the patrol, climbed to 4,400 metres (I was a little sick with the cold) and crossed over to ten kilos in Bocheland. Still nothing to be seen, so I came down to 3,600. At last I saw an avion coming in my direction, so I turned to meet him, both of us climbing at the same time. He looked like a Nieuport, and I was sure he was. When he was eight hundred metres from me he turned, throwing up the bottom of his wings to show, as I thought, that he was French. I made a quarter turn, then decided to follow him, thinking all the time it was a Nieuport. Overtook him, and then pulled what is probably one of the dumbest, biggest bonehead stunts in the war's aviation history. By this time I had taken it for granted he was a Nieuport, so had gotten in position to patrol with him. He apparently was just as positive that I was an Albatross, and I don't wonder, for a Nieuport is practically never seen now, especially alone, so far inside the German lines as I was. Well, for three minutes the two of us made a patrol together, I swerving from side to side and looking keenly above, below, behind, and on both sides for any enemy machines, and all the time I was one hundred and fifty metres behind and fifty metres above one, thinking he was French! Then suddenly I saw the Maltese crosses on his wings, and the sight of them hit me like a blow. I couldn't believe my eyes. For a second I thought I must be in a dream. Then I made in my haste a big mistake. Had I taken my time, I could have closed in, dived beneath his tail, and shot him down from directly underneath. I was a little upset by the startling discovery, however, and acted a little hastily. I immediately piqued on him, firing my gun. At the first shot he glanced back, and immediately dove, then put his machine in a vrille. At first I thought I had hit him, and was feeling pretty jubilant at the thought of bagging two in one day---a rare feat. The beggar had just been too yellow to fight, though, and dove without making any effort to put up a scrap. I saw him redress at about 1,000 metres, and I was pretty sore, for if he had stayed I might have gotten him, as the Albatrosses are too clumsy to manoeuvre well, and I can spin my little Nieuport around into any position like a toy. Fritz is frightened to death in this region, though, and the two of us in the morning were too much for their three.

Had quite a time getting home. The head wind was still blowing hard, I had a long way to buck it, was all alone in enemy territory, and the archies were shooting all around me. I didn't care to zig-zag back, but preferred to take a chance on a more or less straight dash, which would bring me home quicker, but at the same time make me an easier target for the "anties." Got through their fire all right, though it was pretty uncomfortable. Then, just before I had regained the lines, they threw up a perfect barrage directly in front of me. I veered off at right angles just in time. You see, they can get the range almost perfectly, but have difficulty in laying angle of direction. I was feeling perfectly safe now, so near our lines, so decided to have a little fun with them. I made no effort to go through their continued barrage, but commenced a vertical spiral just in back of it. When the first couple of shots broke near me, I made a dart parallel to the lines, then before they could alter their aim, turned sharp, and gave full speed in the opposite direction. Before they could alter, I changed again, and did this six or seven times, laughing at how mixed up they must be. Finally they became so bewildered that they ceased firing altogether, not knowing where to aim. Then was my chance, and giving full juice I dashed back into French territory before they could put up another shell at me. If they had a good telescope, I hope they could see me turn in my seat and thumb my nose at them.

That was all for the day. I was awfully sorry I hadn't got my Boche, but I didn't deserve to on account of being so dumb as to mistake him for a Nieuport. The two machines look very much alike, but I should have been more careful. In the evening the commandant of the groupe called me to his office, and after congratulating me for the Boche, said that we had broken an order in crossing the lines with less then three Nieuports, and strictly forbade me to cross alone ever again.

It was foolish of me to do it, but it was the recklessness of ignorance and a little unlooked-for success. I shall be much more prudent in the future.

Unfortunately there was a mist and poor visibility in the morning, so no saucisses were up, and the C. A.'s could not follow the Boche to the ground, so, although my Boche is recognized, it is not "hanologated" and I can't get a citation out of it. These are always rather disappointing. As a rule, on the average, only two thirds or three fourths of the machines descended are hanologated. Thus Guynemer had some twenty-five victims unhanologated. Lufberry has about seven. The eccentric Navarre---greatest flyer who ever lived, unanimously and undisputably so---has some twenty-five unhanologated.

Have to stop.

Attorney's certificate just arrived a couple of days ago. Would have received it much sooner if addressed to Morgan-Harjes instead of Pau.

Did box of Christmas presents arrive all right? Am going to send you my photograph later as a present. Quita's wasn't ready when I left Paris, so will send yours, Q's and Chas. later. Had Mother's kimona made from stuff I thought she would like. S's and G's wallets may seem effeminate to them, but are the smartest things men carry here. Mr. Edmonds still has Christmas box.

Love,              

HOUSTON

Saturday, January 19th, 1918

Dear Father:--

I am terribly tired tonight, but will try to get off a short letter before going to bed.

Today was the first good day since the 13th. Everyone was terribly fed up with the loafing, so very restless. The result is that it has been a very memorable day. Everyone in this group flew, and judging from all the Boche machines I saw, I guess all the Huns were up, too. This morning Winter and Putnam flew with a French Lieutenant. They penetrated the German lines six or seven kilometres, and then things happened so fast that no one can give a clear account. Winter was piqued on by two Boches, probably Fokkers, and threw himself around like a cork on rough water. How he got away he doesn't know, but he did every acrobatic known, and somehow escaped untouched. Belloc attacked a Fokker, then found himself attacked by two, and by jumping around got away. Putnam got separated from the others, attacked two Fokkers and brought one of them down, the Boche plunging into a forest. Unfortunately it was not hanologated.

Put's Boche was hanologated. Some infantry had observed the chute.

This afternoon while piquing on a German observation machine I became separated from my companion. The Hun turned when I was still far from him, and beat it. I chased him. Meanwhile another Nieuport had dropped in on the scene, and suddenly he began shooting towards me. I didn't know what in blazes was the matter till I discovered he was trying to attract my attention to three Boches chasseurs who were approaching. We beat it then. Maybe they can't travel, those German machines. They nearly caught us, and they were four, with ten mitrailleuses, to us two with two mitrailleuses. Then I tried to find my original companion. I found him, but immediately lost him again when I piqued on another Boche. I thought Bessieres had seen him, but learned later he had not. This second Boche also turned and ran, but was immediately joined by two others, so I once again beat a hasty retreat. Several times then I started to return home, but each time saw something which turned me back, once a combat, once two Boches, once anti-aircraft éclats. I was in the air two hours and forty minutes, and the reservoir holds only two hours fifteen minutes' supply, so I reached home with not enough essence to wet the tank. Everyone was terribly worried, for news had been phoned in that a Nieuport had been seen falling loin chez eux at 3:15, and as I had left Bessieres at three, they all were sure it was I. The captain was absolutely pale, and gave me hell for ten minutes straight.

Poor old Variot. He used to be in 94, but was transferred to 156 when that escadrille was formed. He still lived with us however, and everyone liked him. Very good flier, old pilot, and had two Boches to his credit. Loin chez eux he became separated from his two companions, and no one has ever seen him since. It was phoned in that a Nieuport was seen fighting six Albatross for five minutes, and then descended in flames. It was impossible to do otherwise. He should not have tried to fight. If ever I get in a tight place chez eux I am going to pretend I am hit, and drop like lead. When very near the ground I shall redress, and just skin the soil full speed, leaping trees and fences, and thus with comparative safety regain chez nous. I have practiced it, and can get away with it I am sure. This will be a great safeguard, and a pretty sure preventive from joining the daisy pushers. That same day Marinovitch and Crehore together brought down one of the Tangos---Germany's famous circus escadrille. This makes Marinovitch ace, and his third machine within a month.

Lovingly,             

HOUSTON

Friday, January 25th, 1918

Dear Mother:--

After that terrific cold spell, we now have weather almost resembling early summer. With the warmth has come fair weather these last two days, and I do hope it will continue a while to give us a chance to break the monotony by flying.

Three or four days ago we pulled off a nice little stunt. Four of us were sent out to mitrailleuse the Boche trenches in a rather troublesome sector. These mitraillage expeditions do little, if any, actual material harm to the enemy, but they are supposed to be a fine stimulant to the fantassins. It is a very dangerous game. The anti-aircrafts shoot at you, the soldiers shoot at you, the trench mitrailleuses, and now and then the trench artillery shoot at you. It isn't a very friendly reception they hand out. We cruised over to the lines at 3,000 feet, piquing just before we reached them to about 2,400 feet. Then we got in Indian file. The leader crossed No-Man's Land, and when directly over the Hun first line, turned, dove, and shot a steady stream till at about 300 feet when he turned sharp, made quick dash across No-Man's Land to our side, and started climbing to repeat the stunt. Each of us followed exactly the same process, and by the time the last had finished, the first had regained his position, and dove again, followed in regular order by the rest of us. In all, we turned about 1,500 shots on the trenches. It was pretty good sport, though a bit too risky to be very comfortable, and I don't believe it hurt the enemy in the least. It seemed to tickle the poilus, though, for I could see them waving their arms and their casques to us from the second and third lines. We had to make a patrol afterwards, so had to save about a hundred balls apiece in case of a possible party with Fritz. After two dives apiece, therefore, we climbed to about 2,400 feet (very low, as flying goes) and there gave a nice little stunt exhibition in formation. The trenchers must have opened their eyes some. Barrel turns, renversements, vrilles, vertical virages, loops, we ran the whole gamut several times each. It was great. The archies had gotten our range well by now, and were breaking and crashing around us pretty regularly. It got a bit hot, so the leader hauled clear, and we climbed to make our patrol. The clouds were low, 9,000 feet, and we were in them practically all the time. I climbed on up through several times to see if Fritz was lurking in the ceiling, but seeing no one anywhere, stayed on the bottom edge or in the vapor the rest of the time. R. A. S. (rien à signaler). I'm not crazy about clouds chez nous, but they're good friends chez eux. They're a bit wet and cold; it's impossible to see anything; the wind-shield, mirror, and goggles get covered with a thick mist which generally freezes in this weather, and the cold is penetrating. Incidentally, they are in general very rough, and we are tossed all about like a mere feather in a jagged squall.

Had quite a panne yesterday. Started out on a patrol with the captain and another chap. My engine began to growl a bit, and all of a sudden there was a crash, the grinding of metal being torn, grating, and rattling, and I didn't know whether my plane was falling apart, or what had happened. A valve rod and cylinder head had broken, had cut the metal engine covering, and stopped and snapped off short when it hit the mitrailleuse. For a few seconds I thought my last hour had come. I instantaneously cut the contact (shut the switch) then to stop the propeller and engine turning, pulled the machine up as far as possible without tumbling, and by thus decreasing the air resistance, managed to kill the engine. Then I turned and started piquing for home. I was at 6,500 feet, and didn't know what damage had been done, so couldn't be sure whether my machine would hold together or not, which made the volplaning more or less unenjoyable. I was too far away from home to make the piste, so piqued for the aviation field where I knew the Lafayette Escadrille was stationed. It's a bit of a knack landing exactly where you want after planing from far with no motor, but luck was with me and I brought up right in front of the hangars. Telephoned to No. 94, who sent an automobile to fetch me. Today the mechanics brought a new motor to the field, put it on, and this evening I was told my machine was ready. I motor over and fly it back tomorrow morning.

Putnam brought out my field-glasses, your Christmas cards, and the religious books from Paris. The glasses are magnificent. Haven't had a chance to use them in my plane yet, but amused myself all day with them on the piste. They are the admiration of all. It's extraordinary how they help see planes otherwise small and invisible. Thank G, S, C, and Q, for their cards, and also S for his letter dated November 25th.

Stuffy Spencer, Yale 1917 or '18, was killed in a plane accident near Belfort the other day. He was a prince of a fellow, and a very good friend of mine.

Very lovingly,             

HOUSTON

February 6th, 1918

Dear Father:--

I've had my first fling on the front at the enemy, and now I'm going back to the rear for a breather. The first of February our escadrille retired en repos, and also to be transformed into a new groupe. It will be a month anyway, maybe two, before we again resume work on the lines, but when we do, it will be at the hottest part of the whole front, where the expected big German offensive will be staged, or where the French may push a drive. In the meanwhile I'm going on leave to seek sunny climes in the south of France, along the Riviera. I have been able to see every breath taken since coming to the front, only very seldom being in a place heated enough so you couldn't see it. I'm pretty fed up on mud, cold, mud, mud, wet, cold, mud, and if there's any heat and sun left in Europe, I'm going to find it if I have to sneak into Italy to do so. Also it will be great to get up in the morning, knowing for certain you're going to be in that bed again that night. You bet I'm going to be glad when I leave the sound of guns, the black cloud of apprehension, the black anti-aircrafts, the singing bullets, and the cold, and the wet, and the mud behind me. I'm feeling pretty happy now, but why shouldn't I? Tomorrow morning I fly into Paris with my machine, leave it at the G. D. E., then select a brand new Spad two hundred and thirty horse-power, the fastest, strongest, and best machine the French have, and the greatest machine on any front. With it I can climb to 15,000 feet in about fifteen minutes, can race along at one hundred and thirty miles an hour at that height, can pique like a plummet, and with my two Vickers mitrailleuses shooting between the blades, can spit death like sparks from a fire. I shall now be able to overtake Fritz, to out-climb him, out-pique him, out-manoeuver him, and if I don't drive the fear of God into more than one yellow Hun, I deserve to never fly again.

Shall be in Paris some time, as it is only a few miles from the parc, and it will take some days to select my machine and get it running well. After that, ten days permission---not counting travelling time---and me for Nice, the Italian border, Monte Carlo, Cannes, and a few hours in Marseilles just to look the town over. Then Panam (argot for Paris) again, then back to the front.

My first spell at the front has been great, and I have really enjoyed it tremendously. I love flying, and enjoy it for its own sake, but when you throw in also the thrill of the hunt, the excitement of the chase, and the game of death, flying becomes the greatest sport of them all. I think I am rather justifiably proud of my first two months (seven weeks to be exact) of work. A newcomer, I was given an antedated machine (the Nieuport) and the old type at that. It was excellent, but not so good as the Spads. I had on it, however, forty hours on the lines, four combats, several protections, none of the reconnaissance machines under my protection ever being attacked even, though made deep into the enemy's territory sometimes, and shot down at least one Boche plane, and maybe two. I think I told you about that. How I piqued three times on the last of three Boche reglage bi-planes, and fired on him each of the first two dives, but didn't even see him the last time. I have no idea what happened to him. I don't think I got him, as I never dared approach nearer than five hundred yards, their three bi-planes being way beyond a match for my single monoplane. It is curious where in thunder he disappeared to so quickly, however.

Received a batch of letters from you and Mother yesterday, many of them written from Augusta. Was very sorry to hear Quita had come down with the chicken-pox.

My Christmas package I hope reached you all right. You certainly should have gotten it long before now, but as I have heard nothing about it, am going to look it up by American Express when I go to Paris. It was sent by them before I came to the front. Tell Mother I've read the book of poems, but I don't think they're very strong or forceful.

I do hope you keep your promise about the candy. I suppose you know of the chronic sugar crisis here. Some boys even receive boxes of sugar from their homes. Candy will certainly go fine. Your caramels were most acceptable. The glasses are superb. I am tickled to pieces with them, and are just exactly what I wanted.

Tell Henry that poor old Phil Benney, who was with him in A. A. Sec. 12, was attacked by several Albatross, shot twice in the thigh, landed just back of the French trenches, was saved and rushed to a hospital by poilus, and had blood transfused from a plucky French sergeant. It was too late. He died in the hospital. It was very near Verdun.

Lovingly,           

HOUSTON

March 12th, 1918

Dear Mother:--

I find to my horror that it is over a month since I last wrote home. It is generally impossible to write during a permission as absolutely every minute of the time is more than taken. I shall now try to make up for lost time, however.

I had a splendid leave. Left the front February 7th to get a new machine. Was at Plessis-Belleville several days training on a Spad, then passed about a week at Bourget getting and trying out my new machine. Bourget is just outside the city walls, so went out from Paris every noon in a taxi, flew a few turns, then went right back to Paris. It was a fine week. Flew over Paris several times, and was surprised to see what an enormous city it is. Had lots of fun picking out the various places, streets, and buildings, with which I am now very familiar. On the 17th of February I flew my machine out to the front, and it was a great little joy ride. Followed the Marne most of the time, and it is the crookedest river I've ever seen. I know the geography of the war pretty well, including that of the battle of the Marne, and it was very interesting to see the whole famous battle-ground spread out beneath.

From my altitude you could see nearly from Meaux to Soissons, and it was very interesting to pick out the ground, the roads even, by which the Boches made their great day-and-a-half retreat from Meaux to the Soissons, Reims, Argonne line. It was like an enormous map spread out beneath your gaze.

The next day, the 18th, I set out for my permission de detente. I was going to Nice, Cannes, Monte Carlo, Marseilles, as I have always longed to visit the Riviera. It would have been bully, and everything was arranged beautifully. Lady Paget had asked me to visit her at Cannes, and I was going to spend four days with her. Then I was going to spend three days with some French friends at Nice and on the way back to Paris was going to spend the night with an awfully nice English family at their place at Avignon. It would have been a delightful leave, but then, the confounded portrait came along and messed up everything. I haven't particularly kind thoughts about that portrait. The rest of the letter I suppose I shall have to spend telling about it.

When I got Father's cable I decided to have my portrait painted, you all seemed so desirous to have it, and then I thought it would be a good souvenir in case anything did happen to me. About the best portrait painter in Europe now, and in France for certain, is the Princess Mary Eristoff, a Russian. She is really a genius. I never saw anybody do work which can begin to compare with her extraordinary portraits. They're not pictures, they're living images. Her price is generally 10,000 francs ($2,000) but not knowing anything about the price of portraits, I didn't know how much you would be willing to pay. Since then I have learned that her prices are very cheap for the work done. Luckily I have known her some time, and she happened to like me a little, so she said she would paint my portrait, and I could give her any price I wanted. I knew she was hard up, for although she makes a lot of money, she is always giving everything away to the needy, so she never has anything herself. She is an extraordinary character, and that is one of her characteristics; 5,000 francs didn't seem too much for you to pay, so I suggested it, and she agreed. Well, I still hoped to go to Nice, and as she is famous also for the rapidity with which she works, I thought I could get down all right. Then there was a delay in getting canvas. You have no idea how hard it is to get things now which aren't connected with the war. Well, we finally got started. Then the princess got so interested in me and the picture that she went into the thing very detailedly, changed the lights several times, put a setting sun shining on my face and clothes, then rubbed out, then found another light. Then she discovered I had an Egyptian face, ancient Egypt, that is, not modern. So the fun she had painting classic mouth, long, straight nose, high cheek bones, and long sphynx eyes! I will admit it was a stunner, and I began to think I was good looking. Then we all decided that the first expression as more characteristic, so encore une fois the whole thing had to be changed. Well, eventually after over-staying my leave two days, it was practically finished. It's a corker. You will be tremendously pleased, I am sure. It's too good to take chances with sending it across, so she is going to keep it for a few months, at least. Any way, the uniform isn't quite finished, so she will have to finish the next time I go in. I'm in a half-sitting posture, supposed to be resting on a ledge high up on a cliff. The background is the sun setting below me, with the sky its typical gold, red, and purple sunset glows. It's magnificently worked out, and makes a stunning background. The cliff is brownish rock. I have my blue uniform, with blue shirt and tie, and blue roll puttees over black shoes. My left hand is resting on the left leg half way between knee and thigh, and the right forearm on the right leg. The expression is splendid and bien moi. The eyes and mouth have a half smile, and also an enigmatic and teasing expression. Everyone thinks it's fine. I shall have a photograph of it sent you.

I really had a very pleasant time in the studio, and if it were not for being always a little peeved about giving up the Riviera visit, I should have considered it a perfect permission. There were always a lot of people there. I met many of the Paris American colony, for the princess, like so many cultured Russians, speaks about four or five languages perfectly. She is extremely popular, so the studio always had visitors. There was one young Englishwoman whom I became quite devoted to who came in and spent the whole of every day with us. I used to take her and the princess out for lunch nearly every day, then people would drop in for tea in the studio, and I had dinner and theatre every evening with different friends. The evening of my birthday the English girl gave a dinner for me and I gave a box party afterwards, so it was very pleasantly celebrated. I give all these details because you and Father have spoken lately wondering how I pass my "perms." I have a great many friends in Paris, and they are terribly nice to me whenever I go in. I met many of the artist set this last time, then I see the diplomatic set from time to time, have gotten to know many of the best Paris families, and then of course one always meets those du monde. The only people in Paris I don't know are the Americans. Then there are always lots of my aviation, army, ambulance, business, and casual friends in Paris, so I have my time really too occupied. Life becomes a bit of a strain when one crowds so much into a short fortnight.

The letter will be too fat, I fear, if I write another sheet. Have just lost two of my best friends. Wallace Winter of Chicago was killed when the wings fell off his machine. Thomas Hitchcock of New York crossed the lines and didn't come back. Will write about both boys in another letter.

Thank Quita for her letter.

Love,             

HOUSTON

March 19th, 1918

Dearest Little Quita:--

Thanks so much for your sweet little business letter. There were quite a number of words I was able to read first time with very little trouble.

I don't think you would like to be over here very much. It has been cold and wet and nasty ever since the end of November, but at last the days are almost nice again, and we have made a very pretty garden outside our barracks, where we bask in the good old sun when he is working and we aren't. During the winter I had grown afraid that "Old Sol" had wandered off into other worlds somewhere, had become lost, and could not find his way back.

I shall try to bring down lots of Huns, and if any fall in our lines I'll send you any iron crosses, rings, or things which I can take off them.

I hope you are being a good little girl, going to school, studying hard, and taking a bath from time to time.

Everyone thinks that the picture of you which Mother sent me for Christmas is awfully cute. You look as if you were as full of life, fun, and mischief as ever, and I hope you are taking very good care of yourself.

After seeing these subdued, prim, neat little wax-doll-like children in France, I imagine it will an awful shock to run across a real kid like you again.

Well, Quita, I'm a busy man these days, so have to stop writing and see that my machine is being worked on.

Au revoir ma petite. Tu es mignone, mais sage, et pense de temps en temps à ton frère t'aime.

Do you know enough French to know what it means?

Write again, Quita, I like to get letters from you.

Your brother,            

HOUSTON

Escadrille Spad 94, G. C. 18, S. P. 12, France

March 25th, 1918

Dear Father:--

I don't know what has happened to my letter writing lately; it certainly has gone in fits and bursts, but there's really nothing to write about.

The original Spad they gave me didn't run well, or rather I smashed it up by flopping it over landing in a ploughed field after my motor died at one hundred and fifty altitude. I was climbing full speed, but at fifty metres the motor coughed and quit. Ahead of me was a swamp, stream, trees, and a fence; to my right a marsh and stone wall, to my left a muddy, soft ploughed field. Landing ahead or to the right was beyond all question or possibility, so I dove, threw up my right wings, turned to left and flattened out. Piqued as slowly as I dared without risking wing slip, and pulled stick all the way back before letting the wheels drop. The landing was a beautiful three-pointer, for the bequille struck first. Unfortunately there was an old, rotten stump there. The left wheel struck it, throwing all the weight on the right wheel. The mud was very deep and soft, the wheel sank in a ploughed furrow up to the axle, there was a crash, the running gear gave way, down went the nose, propeller caught, tripped and broke, and up came the tail. She hesitated a few seconds, then flopped. "Encore en assis." I was very humiliated and disappointed. All the time I was in the schools I never broke a thing on any machine, not even a wire. I was very anxious to keep up the record, but here was the whole appareil a wreck. Nobody said anything, for it was really impossible to avoid, just rotten, hard luck. Well I now have a Spad which has given a great deal of motor trouble up to now, but they have just changed motors and today it seemed to run all right. New Spads always give lots of trouble. The adjoining escadrille has now been three months getting their new Spads into shape, and not all of them are running yet. I hope we shall have better luck.

My room-mate has brought down a Rumpler bi-plane this morning five miles chez eux, but unfortunately it was not hanologated, the brume being too heavy to observe the chute. He already has five Boches officially, but several more unofficially. He is the youngest of the French aces, "le Benjamin des As" as the French call him. Marinovitch is his name, about the nicest fellow I have ever met. By the time you get this letter he will probably have several more Boches and I hope I shall, too.

Have you seen the Illustrated London News of February 9th? There is a magnificent picture of a Nieuport bringing down an Albatross in flames. It has been greatly admired by aviators, and I have seen it on several walls. The details are excellent, and the artist knew flying and the two machines. Somehow the picture seems to breathe a bit of the thrill of the hunt, and you can almost see the Boche breaking up before crashing, with the Nieuport following in a vertical plunge, and spitting till the last minute. The whole thing is most realistic.

Col. -----, head of American Aviation in France, landed here today in his little runabout Spad, and I saw the American cocardes for the first time on a plane. A red circle outside a blue circle outside a white centre. The effect is very good, but a bit of care will have to be exercised at first not to mistake the blue ring from a long distance for the dark blotch the iron cross makes. At least, that is what the French say. I don't think there's any danger myself.

I am trying to get all my financial accounts exactly systematized so I will know just where I stand. Please send me an account of my annual income, and bonds held. Don't forget, as I want to find just what my position is.

Please send all newspaper clippings concerning my work here. I hate publicity, and am horrified at some of the letters I have received from people I don't know. I shall have to try awful stunts now to try to live up to the reputation you somehow seem to have given me. I beg you to be careful what you publish. Anything really interesting is all right, of course. But anything which seems to be trying to make a sort of hero out of me I hate. Do send every clipping, that of the ALUMNI WEEKLY, and that of the Ledger. I have been rather surprised you haven't sent them already. I am anxious to see them, for I don't remember at all what I wrote.

Thanks for candy and book by Elbert. Just missed him in Paris. I was in on a twelve-hour business visit, and left a note for him at his hotel. He has gone to Talse Bolsena, an Italian hydravion school on a lake in the Apennines, about sixty miles from Rome, but doesn't expect to remain long. Mrs. Dent might like to know.

Will try desperately to write soon.

Lovingly,           

HOUSTON

COMBATTING FLEET NO. I,
COMBATTING GROUP NO. 18,
SPA ESCADRILLE 94.

Postal Division 92, April 9th, 1918

Dear Sir:

I duly received your favor of the 5th inst. and beg to send you at once the information I have on Corporal Pilote Houston Woodward, who has disappeared and is very much regretted by my escadrille.

The first of April, in the afternoon Woodward was sent on patrol in the lines of the enemy; he was seen several times during that patrol by myself. The French patrol having attacked a certain number of enemy aeroplanes, there was a fight after which Corporal Woodward disappeared.

The fight took place in the North and North-West region of Montdidier at a small altitude (about 1,000 metres) and two hypotheses seem possible: Corporal Woodward was brought down during the fight wounded or killed, or else an accident occurred to his apparatus obliging him to land in the lines of the enemy. The thick fog and the clouds which existed on that day prevented us from learning more of him.

Corporal Woodward was on a type Spad apparatus, bearing No. 1419 with a motor No. 10.828.

Thanking you in advance for any inquiries you may wish to make on his account, we beg to remain,

12 rue d'Aguesseau,
Paris, February 12, 1919

My dear Dr. and Mrs. Woodward:--

I have just sent you cable reading as follows:

This is the result of the energy and untiring interest of Lieut. Pierre Marinavitch of Escadrille No. 94, who has been untiring in his efforts to secure satisfactory and positive information for you. I wrote you sometime ago that after Montdidier was recovered from the Germans it was reported that Houston's plane had been found near the roadside, charred as the result of burning. No later report was ever received from the Army, for the region is so much of a desert that but few people have returned. I asked Marinavitch to give me his first free day in Paris for the purpose of prosecuting a personal inquiry and last week he notified me that he would be free today for this purpose. I asked Walter K. Towers who is one of the editors of "The American Boy" and a magazine writer of reputation, to go along with us and to take his camera. We started this morning from Paris on a bleak, rainy and disagreeable day. We reached Montdidier about one p. m. and found this famous town in complete ruins. No one has returned to live there yet except a few policemen and the general condition is as desolate as around Ypres. We made inquiries at Montdidier but nothing has been done yet by the Army authorities looking toward the marking or identification of graves. We then proceeded out from Montdidier on the right to Rubescourt, passing continually through lines of barbed wire, trenches, machine gun emplacements, dug-outs, etc.---the whole surface being littered with German débris including shells, fuses, hand grenades, etc. We stopped at every grave we could see in the hope of obtaining some identifying clue.

About three and a third kilometers from Montdidier, which is one kilometer from Rubescourt on the right hand side of the road going from Montdidier; and perhaps fifty yards from the road we saw the ruins of an aeroplane, and Marinavitch exclaimed at once that it was a Spad. We got out immediately and found the charred remains of a badly battered and burned plane. It had evidently hit the ground with considerable force as it had made quite a little impression. Practically all of the woodwork was burned and the metal was also broken and twisted. Marinavitch at once identified it by the colors painted on the metal as belonging to Escadrille No. 94. By united pulling we turned it over and then scraped the mud and rust from the motor plate, eventually finding the number, 10828 which was the number of Houston's motor which he took out on April 1st. About ten yards from the motor to the right was a long grave which had been dug in a shell pit. It was marked by a small cross consisting of two pieces of charred wood from an aeroplane and at the foot was a small charred piece of the plane painted red and stuck into the grave by its wiring. There was no name but from this identification it seems clear that the aviator who was in the plane when it came down on April 1st was buried here. Marinavitch tells me that it was Houston's practice not to carry a name plate and that is probably the reason why no report has ever been made of his death.

From the condition of the aeroplane it seemed quite clear to Marinavitch, and I accept his opinion, that Houston was shot in mid-Air, that the shot set the machine on fire, that he was probably killed instantly either by the bullet or the fall and that the burning of the plane also caused the destruction of his papers and reports so that it was impossible for the Boche to identify by name the aviator.

I had in my pocket the little Prayer Book for Soldiers and Sailors which the Brotherhood of St. Andrew sent me after I had been over here, and you will be interested to know that we had prayers by the side of the grave, especially the prayers on page 79 and 94 in the book. It was a most desolate scene. The country is flat; it was raining part of the time; everything habitable had been destroyed; trenches abound, running in every direction; the surface is continually pitted with shells and while perhaps the desolation is not quite as great as at Ypres, yet it simply baffles description to anyone who has not seen devastated country. The four of us were the only ones in sight.

After this inquiry we felt reasonably certain that Houston's body is reposing in the land where he fought so well and for which he was content to lay down his young life.

With sincere regards, I am

Dr. George Woodward,
   Chestnut Hill,
     Philadelphia, Pa.