While Crowe's experiences aren't so remarkably different from the hundreds of others who embarked on this same path, Crowe delivers a well written account from a very American perspective. At some times breezy and at others sentimental, Crowe's writer's instincts never fail him. The reader is treated to a series of vivid impressions of the sights and sounds of wartime France. The author delighted in taking long walks through the local countryside and wasn't at all shy about meeting the peasants in the villages and towns he traveled. Crowe was obviously quite taken with the French people and sometimes overwhelmed with compassion for the hardships they'd endured in the war.
Flying does occupy a good portion of the story, but wartime censorship ensured precious little detailing of the specifics concerning machines and equipment. The reader does get, however, a real sense of the joy Crowe felt when aloft and It seems that the author was a "natural" pilot.
The nature of a book such as this dictates that it will end on a very abrupt note. Crowe's last written words (at least the last ones published in this book) are as follows: "Sometime I am going up alone and perch on the shoulder of one of those gloriously tinted sunset clouds. Until then, I have been too busy".
