His
parents and sisters do not miss a single gesture, a single motion
he makes. They drink in his every word, and his life seems to
absorb them. His laugh echoes in their souls. They believe in him,
are sure of him, sure of his future, and that all will be well.
Noticing this certitude, whether real or assumed, I could not help
stealing a glance at the frail god of aviation, made like the
delicate statuettes that we dread breaking. He talks passionately,
as usual, of his aerial fights. But just now one thought seems to
supersede every other. He is expecting a new machine, a magic
machine which he planned long ago, found difficult to get built,
and with which he must do more damage than ever.
Then he showed us his photographs with the white blotches of
bursting shells, or the gray wings of German airplanes. One of
these is seen as it falls in flames, the pilot falling, too, some
distance away from it. Thus the victim was registered, and the
memory of it made him happy.
I swallowed a question I was going to ask: What about
yourself--some day? because he looked so full of life that the
notion of death could never present itself to him.
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