I was up yesterday afternoon trying to find out a certain T.M. battery, and what should fly by quite close and quite unconcerned but a duck! We were not very high, and it was very misty. The duck just appeared, with his neck stretched out, eager and oblivious. And then vanished into the mist again. I was thinking about that duck too much to find out what I wanted. Anyway, it was a fruitless journey. But flying amongst clouds is very beautiful. Sometimes we got above the clouds, to where the sun was functioning away as efficiently as ever. The clouds looked like millions of feather beds.
March 2.
I have been doing some drawings of R.F.C. officers. They love being "took" out here, and my office is rapidly degenerating into a club, which makes work no easier.
Well, you see from the papers what is happening. The Boche retires to the Hindenburg Line, and we follow.
I should so love to tell you all about it, but Mum's the word. A great moral defeat for poor Fritz, anyway.
The cavalry are sharpening their swords.
The aeroplanes sail high up in the blue, like hungry hawks.
March 5.
I am probably going off to-morrow. Now, where do you think? Paris? Madrid? Anything of that sort?
Wrong again. Shall I tell you?