But he seemed to
have read my thoughts, for he said:
"You have plenty of time in the air, except when you fight, and
then you have no time at all. I've been brought down six times, and
I always had plenty of time to realize what was happening." And he
laughed his clear, boyish laugh.
As a matter of fact, he has been incredibly lucky. In one fight he
was hit three times, and each time the bullet was deadened by some
unexpected obstacle.
Finally I was shown photographs of himself, chronologically
arranged. Needless to say, it was not he who showed them. There was
the half-nude baby, with eyes already sparkling and eager, then the
schoolboy with the fine carriage of the head, then the lad fresh
from school with a singularly calm expression, and well filled-out
cheeks. A little later the expression appeared more mature and
tense, though still ingenuous. Later again there was a decidedly
stern look, with the face less oval and thinner. The rough fingers
of war had chiseled this face, and sharpened and strengthened it.
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