Many happy returns. I started writing you last night, so that you might get my letter first thing this morning, but was fated not to finish it.
We had another false alarm and my place was on the 'phones. I didn't get off until 12.30 a.m., so gave it up as a bad job and started afresh this morning.
I expect you will have seen in the papers about the accident last night. Lieut. G—— went up in the Henri Farman, and on coming down made a bad landing—internal injuries—machine absolutely piled up. Nacelle[2] telescoped and the tail somehow right in front of the nacelle. The accident is expected to have rather a bad effect on the moral of the pupils. Personally it doesn't affect me; and anyhow I didn't see G—— at all, as I was bound to the 'phones.
Things are going on much better with me. Yesterday I did five straights [straight flights] alone and managed quite well, having excellent control of the machine, and making good landings, except for the first straights in the morning, when it was rather windy and in consequence the machine was all over the place.
By the way, this is now the third successive night that we have had an alarm. Have not yet been up in the balloon but am looking forward to it. I never thought that we should come down to an old (1902) gas bag.
Heaps of love and don't let Mummie get alarmed. You must bear in mind that night flying is ten times more dangerous than day.
Ever your loving son,
Harold.