We have just had the papers with the news of the loss of Kitchener. We got the story by wireless a couple of days ago, but could not believe it until we saw it actually in print. It is a big blow, though probably morally more than in any other way....
Bad news has come through from the wing. Our ten days’ leave will in future be cut down to seven days from time of leaving here; that means five clear days in England. I only know this, that I shall be pleased to have leave in England, however short it is. It is a case of “so near and yet so far.” An hour and a half or two hours’ flying on a clear day would land me at home for tea—always providing I did not miss my way. But we don’t have such a bad time here on the whole, and I am perfectly frank with you in my letters. On carefully analysing my feelings, I believe I am actually enjoying the life, for we certainly do have the best time of any branch of the Army when our job is over.
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Looping the Loop.
I had a job in the morning yesterday. A slight bombardment was on, and the C.O. sent me up to stop it. It was a beastly day—rain stings at seventy miles an hour—and it was cloudy and misty. We stayed a couple of hours, got a few Archies and came home.
The afternoon cleared up, and my Flight Commander suggested I should go up and practise with a camera and some old plates. So up I went, and, with the camera tied on very securely in case I “accidentally” turned upside down, beetled off to a spot behind the lines where I played a delightful game of “make-believe.” Fixing on an innocent little farmhouse as my objective, I dodged imaginary Archies on my way to it, and, regardless of the laws of aerial navigation, put my machine in such postures that the farmhouse was sighted by the camera.
I tried a dozen or so shots at it, and then, as I had reached a height of 6,000 feet, I thought I would try to do my first loop. I shoved the nose down 70—80—90—100 miles per hour. The pitot tube did not register any higher; the liquid went out at the top. Then, when at a speed of approximately a hundred and twenty miles an hour, I pulled the “joy-stick” back into my tummy, and up went the nose—up—up—and there I was, upside down, gazing at the sky. Gee, how slowly she seems to be going! Ah!! she’s over at last. The white blank overhead changes to a black mass of earth rising up at me, and the nose dive part is over too, and a final sweep brings me level.
I glanced at the altimeter. I had lost 400 feet.
Cheer-o! Now I’ll write home and tell them. No, I must do another. If I did only one they would think I had funked it after the first shot.
Down goes the nose, then up—up—and slower—slower. By Jove, she’s going to stick at the top of the loop this time. Too slow; centrifugal force is not great enough. My feet seem to lose their contact with the floor.