The short way to the walk led by the big red brick barracks of the
married soldiers. Anita knew many of these soldiers' wives, honest and
hard-working women, doing their duty as if they were themselves
soldiers. As Anita passed along many of them, standing in their
doorways or carrying laundry baskets along the street, gave her a
kindly greeting. In one doorway stood Mrs. Lawrence, tall, young,
darkly beautiful, and looking as if she might have been a C. O.'s
daughter instead of being a private soldier's wife. Mrs. Lawrence was
so at odds with her surroundings that Anita, unconsciously, looked
questioningly at her. She stood, shading her eyes from the glare of
the snow and the sun, gazing anxiously toward the aviation field. It
was a flying day, and the hearts of the women at Fort Blizzard had no
rest or peace on those days. Anita could not but see that Mrs.
Lawrence's hands, browned and hardened with work, were small and
delicately formed, and, that the poise of the head, the fine contours,
were not those of a woman bred to toil.

It was not quite time for the ascent and the officers were not yet on
the field, although there were a dozen or two soldiers and civilian
employes standing about the sheds in the middle of the plain, and
working with the huge machines, dragged from their shelter. Afar off,
the voices of the soldiers, singing a service song, were borne upon the
crystal clear air.

They were trolling out the song as if there were no more risks in
aviation than in tennis.

We don't know what we're here for,
We don't know why we're sent,