On a stormy day, which loosened the tent poles and slapped the wet canvas, I sat in a mess with a group of flying-officers, drinking tea out of a tin mug. One boy, the youngest of them, had just brought down his first “Hun.” He told me the tale of it with many details, his eyes alight as he described the fight. They had maneuvered round each other for a long time. Then he shot his man en passant. The machine crashed on our side of the lines. He had taken off the iron crosses on the wings, and a bit of the propeller, as mementoes. He showed me these things (while the squadron commander, who had brought down twenty-four Germans, winked at me) and told me he was going to send them home to hang beside his college trophies⁠ ⁠… I guessed he was less than nineteen years old. Such a kid!⁠ ⁠… A few days later, when I went to the tent again, I asked about him. “How’s that boy who brought down his first ‘Hun’?” The squadron commander said:

“Didn’t you hear? He’s gone west. Brought down in a dogfight. He had a chance of escape, but went back to rescue a pal⁠ ⁠… a nice boy.”