Inasmuch as I was out all yesterday afternoon trying to get my hair cut, I was unable to write to you. Sorry. I was up at 2.45 a.m., and of course it was pitch dark. I left the ground shortly afterwards by flares, and had hardly got up a thousand feet when my engine began to misfire, go “chug-chug,” and lose its revs. I signalled that I was descending, and came down, trying not to come in too low, as I was afraid my engine might not pick up. Result: I came in too high (not having had time to get used to the dark), and had to open up my engine and crawl round again at a couple of hundred feet. Again I essayed to land, but failed, and by this time I was absolutely furious with myself. I gave a glance at the rev. counter, and saw that the engine had found its revs, again and appeared to be running smoothly; so, feeling that fate had willed me to stay up, I sent down “Engine O.K. now,” and went off to the lines. Just after I left the aerodrome, clouds came up, and the C.O. would not let the next pilot go. I found my way quite well (in a blue funk, though, lest my engine should let me down), crossed the lines, picked up the road I was to follow, and finally reached the place I was to bomb. Here I ran into clouds and had to come down to between 1,000 and 2,000 feet. I dropped my bombs all right, and saw them explode—as good as a Brock’s firework display. Moreover, I heard the bangs from them, and felt the machine bumped by the rush of air caused by the explosions. Flying back by compass, I soon picked out some flares which I headed for. Realising that I was over the wrong aerodrome, I looked round, spotted ours, got there, did a good landing, reported, and went to bed again.
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My Flight-Commander has gone home after being out nearly eleven months. We are all sorry to lose him, I am sure there is no better Flight-Commander in all France.
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I have just come down from a long and rather boring job with E., which took us from 1.30 p.m. to 5 p.m. in the upper regions. I had trouble with my engine yesterday, and had a forced landing, managing to get into the aerodrome and land in a cross wind. I had a repetition of the stunt to-day when testing it. We have now solved the trouble—a semi-choked petrol pipe. I am booked for tennis shortly, so will write more another time.
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A Mixed Grill.
Well, I have a little news for you this time. To let you down lightly, I will first tell you that I am having several new walking-sticks made, and with your usual Sherlock Holmes intelligence you will deduce, quite accurately, that I have carefully and conscientiously reduced a B.E.2C. to its molecular constituents—in other words, “crashed it.”
Now don’t worry, as I am perfectly all right and thoroughly enjoying life.
To sum up my work for the last twenty-four hours, I have had three forced landings, four hours’-odd flying, and one night flight, and a crash—not bad, eh?