WAR

Commandant P.
de Bernis.
clung to within fifty feet of Pivolo's tail
so as not to lose him. As much as possible,
Pivolo had been following the railroad tracks, an almost universal method of
navigation that worked well enough, given adequate visibility, for everyone but
the British pilots on their hops across the Channel.
An agglomeration of lights below indicated a town and Pivolo buzzed the
railroad station at a height of about ten feet trying to read its name on the signboard.
This went on until Pivolo ran out of gas and coasted to a landing in a
dimly lit field, Navarre right behind him. Luckily, the field was a smooth one,
and miraculously, both aeroplanes and all four aviators were intact.
"Wait here," said Navarre, a superfluous instruction, "I'll go find you some
juice." Ascertaining the direction in which Brias lay by the excellently simple
but not always practicable method of asking the local peasants, Navarre took off
and located Brias. Thanks to a rough and ready flare system, he landed there
safely. The usual improvised illumination for night landings consisted of oil and
gasoline-soaked rags laid in parallel strips and lit on hearing an aeroplane approach.
Navarre requested the gasoline for Pivolo's aeroplane, but was refused
by the supply sergeant and a lengthy palaver ensued, the supply sergeant insisting
that he had no authorization and Navarre telling him he knew what he could
do with his
authorization. In the end, with the aid of threats and bribery, Navarre
pried twenty litres out of the sergeant. With the gasoline in cans piled in the
front seat, Navarre took off and found the field where Pivolo was waiting and
landed, Pivolo having contrived to outline the field with lanterns borrowed from
the local people.
For the last leg of the trip, Pivolo had to cling to Navarre's tail.
On the morrow, both men wondered if it might have been not worth it,
for they learned that all
flying at Brias was to be done at scheduled times according
to an elaborate system of rotation. For Navarre particularly, this was hard
news; while he would gladly have done any amount of flying, he felt that one
should be left some initiative.
One day while taking off on patrol one of the pilots crashed his machine
accidentally and was killed. The squadron commander raged against the parasol,
calling it a death trap, a flying coffin, and a hazard unfit to fly. While the crash
hurt squadron morale, it was not so serious as the really deleterious effect of the
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