France. Mud. A khaki-clad column of fours slogging along to the rhythm of their own muttered but heart-felt blasphemy--a common enough sight in the winter of 1917-1918. But in one particular this procession of sufferers was unique. On the shoulders of each performer shone bright silver bars, and their more or less manly chests were spanned by Sam Browne belts. A casual observer would have taken them for officers. But no, on each breast was a pair of silver wings, and their uniforms were of well-fitting but variously designed whipcord. The pot-bellied little person in the indecently short yellow serge blouse who led them was an officer; his followers were flying lieutenants.…
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