Those clouds ahead continued from there on. Not again on the flight did we see the ocean. Skippy was right—it was no sea voyage.
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Log Book:
140 m.p.h. now. Wonderful time. Temp. 52. The heater from cockpit warms the cabin too.
Bill says radio is cuckoo. He is calling now.
There is so much to write. I wonder whether ol’ diary will hold out.
I see clouds coming. They lie on the horizon like a long shore line.
I have just uncurled from lying on Major Woolley’s suit for half an hour. I came off this morn with such a headache that I could hardly see. I thought if I put it to sleep it might get lost in the billows of fog we are flying over.
There is nothing to see but churned mist, very white in the afternoon sun. I can’t see an end to it. 3600 ft. temp. 52, 45 degrees outside. I have et a orange, one of the originals. At T. our infrequent oranges came from Spain, under-nourished little bloods.
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