Presently the captain steps out of his office; the departing one spins about, head back and chest out, cigar hidden in his left hand; "click"--his heels come together magnificently, and up goes his right hand in a rigid salute. Smiling behind his mustache, our extremely attractive captain salutes in return, and shakes Chariot's hand warmly, wishing him a pleasant leave. He is off, and you can picture him to-morrow strolling with princely nonchalance along the boulevards. What if he earns but five cents a day--he saves most of that, and his pilot presents him with a substantial sum every Saturday night, all of which is put away for the grand splurge, three times a year.
In Paris, you will recognize the type--well dressed in neat dark blue, orange collar with the group number on it, fingernails alone showing the unmistakable traces of his trade, face, eyes and manner registering interest and alert intelligence. As likely as not you see him on the terrace of some great café--a wonderfully smart little midinette (his feminine counterpart) beside him, with shining eyes of pride--and at the next table a famous general of division, ablaze with the ribbons of half a dozen orders.
The "mecanos" dress as nearly like pilots as they dare, and after flying is over in the evening are apt to appear about the hangars in the teddy-bear suits and fur boots of the "patron." Some funny things happen at such times. There is a class of officers, called "officers of administration," attached to squadrons and groups of aviation, who do not fly, but look after the office and business end of the équipe. They are worthy men and do absolutely necessary work, but somehow are not very swank.
One day it became known that the revered Guynemer was to visit a certain escadrille, and naturally all the officers were on fire to shake the hero's hand--a reminiscence to hand down to their children's children. The administration officer--a first lieutenant--was late in getting away from the bureau, and when he got to the field, Guynemer had landed, left his machine, and gone to have the sacred apéritif of five o'clock. Meanwhile, the chief comedian of all the mechanics, dressed by chance in his pilot's combination and boots, and proud to tinker (with reverent fingers) the famous Spad, had run out to where it stood, filled it with gas and oil, touched up the magneto, and cleaned a couple of plugs. The officer, as he came to the hangars, perceived the well-known "taxi," with the stork on its side, and a furry figure strolling towards him. A snap of heels, the position of attention, and he was saluting (as he thought) one of the most glorious figures of France. The comedy mechanician--taking in the situation at a glance--strolled magnificently by, with a careless salute and a nod. The officer never inquired who it was he had saluted--but what a tale to pass around the barrack stove on winter evenings! Mistaken for Guynemer! Saluted by a two-striper!