As I was going out of the aerodrome I flew over a passing car and we waved merrily to each other. Then I chased the car, slowed my engine and dived at it, and a little later flew after it again. The driver must have been watching me too closely, for he went into the ditch. My passenger was awfully bucked about it.
I suppose you know we have adopted the new time now. It only alters the hour of our meals, however; our work goes on according to the light and the weather.
Cricket is the great “stunt” here in the afternoon and Rugby in the evenings. The mornings are spent in repairing the damage of overnight caused by the Rugger. All this, of course, provided the little incidentals of flying, and so on, do not interfere to excess. The batsman is out-numbered by fielders in the proportion of fifteen to one, and for his further annoyance he may not smite the ball more than quite a moderate distance or it counts as out. Still, the game provides much amusement, and as the batsman generally ignores the boundary rule, and smites at every ball on the principle of a short life and a gay one, it is also conducive to short innings.
* * * * *
Night Flying.
I had another twenty minutes’ night flying a couple of nights ago, and did a good landing. It was almost pitch dark, as there was a long row of clouds at 2,000 feet which hid the moon. We had flares out, and a searchlight lighting up the track; but from the moment you start moving you go out into inky darkness, flying on, seeing nothing till the altimeter tells you that you are high enough to turn. Then round, and the twinkling lights of the Aerodrome beneath. Higher, and gradually, as you become accustomed to the dark, you pick out a road here and a clump of trees there, till finally the picture is complete. At length, you throttle down the engine and glide—keeping a watchful eye on the altimeter, aerodrome, and air speed indicator. When about 400 feet up you open out your engine again, and fly in towards the aerodrome, stopping your engine just outside. Then you glide down and land alongside the flares.
As I write, I hear a lively bugle band in the distance on the march. More troops going up to the trenches, I suppose. Our gramophone still plays on, our gardens and flower-beds are blooming, and all is well.
* * * * *
Photos.
To-day I went up to take photos, and went over the lines four times, carefully sighting the required trenches, and taking eighteen photos. I spent nearly two and a half hours in the air, and when I got back I found the string that worked the shutter had broken after my third photo, and the rest had not come out. It was disappointing, because my last three journeys over the lines need not have been made, and incidentally it would have saved getting a hole through one of my planes.