To date, I have never piloted a biplane, but for many nights before I had any thought of writing this book, I dreamed I was sitting in the cockpit of a black biplane. Although I could not see the wings, I just somehow knew it was one. There was a tiny half-moon windshield, an instrument panel with some gauges, and a joystick in front of me. I could feel the wind on my face, icy cold in my bones, vibrations and movements of the aircraft through the seat of my pants, and a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. A few nights later, the silhouetted head and shoulders of a young man started to haunt my dreams instead. Every time I dreamed of him, his face became a little clearer, and I eventually saw he was wearing old-fashioned flying goggles and a leather cap: everything was sepia-colored like an old-fashioned photograph or daguerreotype plate. Silent at first, eventually he said, a trifle forlornly, but not bitterly, “Please, ask them not to forget us. What we fought and died for, was it for nothing?”