In the heat of the Russian summer a sleeping car is the most horrible instrument of martyrdom imaginable.

As a little boy of eleven I entered the Cadet Corps. I was not particularly eager to become a Cadet, but my father wished it. So my wishes were not consulted.

Everything in the air that is beneath me, especially if it is a one seater . . . is lost, for it cannot shoot to the rear.

English had hit upon a splendid joke. The intended to catch me or to bring me down.

Of course, with the increasing number of aeroplanes one gains increased opportunities for shooting down one's enemies, but at the same time, the possibility of being shot down one's self increases.

Everything depends on whether we have for opponents those French tricksters or those daring rascals, the English. I prefer the English. Frequently their daring can only be described as stupidity. In their eyes it may be pluck and daring.

The aggressive spirit, the offensive, is the chief thing everywhere in war, and the air is no exception.