I was up again this morning for two and a half hours with E. The weather was hopeless; our altitude was often under 2,000 feet by the lines. To relieve the monotony E. flew me for about half an hour while I observed—the clouds and mist! Finally, we got up a bit higher, and just before it was time to come home did a beautiful spiral quite close to the lines for the benefit of a few thousand Tommies and Huns in the trenches—just to show there was no ill-feeling, you know.
I had just got my letters to-day when I was sent up, so I had to take them with me, and read them in the air on the way to the lines.
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I took up some chocolate the other day when I was on patrol, and gave some to the observer in the air, and we munched away for some time. He was a sergeant, one of the ancient observers, and he did not know that when I waggled the joy-stick—thus shaking the ’bus from side to side—I wanted him to turn round. I waggled away for about five minutes, and he sat there quite contentedly, thinking to himself (as he afterwards told me) that it was rather a bumpy day. Then I started switch-backing and he endured that, though on what theory I don’t know. Finally I nearly had to loop him to persuade him to turn round, and when he did so he had a grin on his face and a sort of “Think-you-can-frighten-me-with-your-stunts-you-giddy-kipper” look as well.
The newspaper stories of the firing in France being heard in Ireland, the north of Scotland, and Timbuctoo amuse me greatly. Those people must have “some” ears.
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I was most frightfully sorry that you hadn’t received up to Sunday my letter about the postponement of my leave. It must have been a rotten disappointment, and I raged round the camp until I finally simmered down again. Never mind, it won’t be long.... Six people have just invaded my 8 feet by 6 feet hut. That is one of the ways superfine Virginias depart this life quickly. Rescued the inkbottle from an untimely death as a billiard ball, the cue a rolled-up map; violent cussin’, almost worthy of Mother Guttersnipe caused E. to vamoose and the others buzzed off.
My dear old ’bus (or aeroplane as the authorities insist on its being called)[11] has gone under at last. One new pilot too many was called upon to fly it, and I may be bringing home a new walking-stick! I have not been flying it for a week now, as I have a nice new—er—machine to fly. But E. and I did all our “hot-air stuff” on the other ’bus, and I looped it.
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The splendid news has come through that my pal B. is “safe and well though a prisoner.” W., who is on leave, wired us.