We have a game here now which is something like tennis. Instead of racquets and balls, we use a rope quoit, which must be caught and returned as per tennis, but must not be held in the hand or thrown over-arm. I had a game of solo yesterday with three others, and I have discovered two people who are frightfully keen on “Scramble Patience.” Gee whiz! One of them knows practically all Gilbert and Sullivan by heart as well. Isn’t it extraordinary how “Scramble Patience” and Gilbert and Sullivan always seem to go together? We went for a walk last evening, and sang the Nightmare song through, and several from “Patience” and the “Yeomen,” etc. We are getting a tennis court made after all; it is progressing quite well.
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A Good Story.
Here is a story as it was told to me. One of the best pilots at the front one day crashed on the top of some trees. He got out, and was standing by the remains of his machine when a Staff Officer came up and remarked, “I suppose you’ve had a smash!” “Oh n-no,” stuttered the pilot, who was, to put it mildly, somewhat savage, “I always l-land l-ike this.” The Staff Officer, annoyed in his turn, said, “Do you know whom you are speaking to? What is your name?” To which: “Don’t try to c-come the comic p-policeman over me. Y-You’ll f-find my n-number on my t-tail p-plane.”
I was called at four this morning, and leapt heroically into the air at five. It was confoundedly cold, but I had a thick shirt and vest, a leather waistcoat, double-breasted tunic, the fleece lining from my waterproof and a leather overcoat, so I just managed to keep warm.
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Yesterday I was in the middle of a game of tennis when, with one or two others, I was ordered to fly over to a neighbouring aerodrome to be ready for a special job in the morning. I landed there all right and reported, and went into the mess-room slap into the arms of an old schoolfellow. I was chatting with him when the C.O. sent for me to explain the nature of the work before us. I went into his office, and the other pilots detailed for the work came in, and to my utter astonishment I recognised another old schoolfellow. I had dinner with him and stayed the night there. This morning the weather was too dud for our work and it was washed out, and we returned to our aerodromes. I brought back my bed, valise, pyjamas, etc., with me in the passenger seat of the aeroplane. I had to fly back without my goggles, as I had lost them at the other aerodrome.
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A Fokker’s Flight.
One of our pilots had my machine up to-day and met a Fokker. His (or rather my) machine was damaged, but he spun round and let fly at the Fokker. Then his gun jammed, but to his surprise the Hun went off home “hell for leather.” The R.F.C. have absolutely got the Huns “stiff” in the air, partly owing to our “hot stuff” new machines, and partly to the pilots. But a Fokker running away from the machine L. was flying must have been a comical sight. My machines always seem to be unlucky when in the hands of other pilots.