—Official Report.

... Much may be read into the ambiguous word "missing." Applied to a wife or an actress's jewellery it can mean anything. Applied to a man on active service it can mean one of three things. He may be dead, he may be a prisoner, he may be wounded and a prisoner. If he be dead he enters Valhalla. If he be a prisoner and a wise man he enters a small cheque for the German Red Cross, as being the quickest way of letting his bankers and relations know he is alive.

A missing aeroplane no longer exists, in nine cases out of ten. Either it is lying in pieces on enemy ground, smashed by an uncontrolled fall, or it was burned by its former tenants when they landed, after finding it impossible to reach safety. Quite recently my pilot and I nearly had to do this, but were just able to glide across a small salient. I am thus qualified to describe a typical series of incidents preceding the announcement, "one of our machines is missing," and I do so in the hope that this may interest you, madam, as you flit from town to country, country to town, and so to bed.

A group of British machines are carrying out a long reconnaissance. So far nothing has happened to divert the observers from their notes and sketches, and a pilot congratulates himself that he is on a joy-ride. Next instant his sixth sense tells him there is something in the air quite foreign to a joy-ride. And there is. A thousand yards ahead some eight to twelve machines have appeared. The reconnaissance birds keep to their course, but all eyes are strained towards the newcomers. Within ten seconds it is established that they are foes. The observers put aside note-books and pencils, and finger their machine-guns expectantly.

On come the Germans to dispute the right of way. On go the British, not seeking a fight, but fully prepared to force a way through. Their job is to complete the reconnaissance, and not to indulge in superfluous air duels, but it will take a very great deal to turn them from their path.

Now the aggressors are within 300 yards, and firing opens. When the fight gets to uncomfortably close quarters the Boches move aside and follow the reconnaissance party, waiting for an opportunity to surround stragglers. Finally, some lucky shots by a British observer cause one of them to land in a damaged condition, whereupon the rest retire. The British machines finish their job and return with useful information.

But the party is no longer complete. The pilot who thought of joy-rides was in the rear machine, and the rear machine has disappeared. Two Huns cut him off when the rest began to follow the British formation.

His observer takes careful aim at the nearest enemy, and rattles through a whole drum as the German sweeps down and past, until he is out of range. The pilot vertical-turns the machine, and makes for the second Boche. But this gentleman, refusing to continue the fight alone, dives to join his companion. The pair of them hover about for a few minutes, and then disappear eastward.The lonely pilot and observer look round and take their bearings.

"Where are the others?" shouts the pilot down the speaking-tube.

"Right away to the north; we are alone in the wicked world." Thus the observer's reply, handed across on a slip of paper.

Hoping to catch sight of the reconnaissance party, my friend the pilot opens his engine full out and begins to follow the course that remained to be covered. For ten minutes he continues the attempt to catch up, but as the only aeroplanes to be seen are coming up from an enemy aerodrome he decides to get back alone as quickly as possible. He turns due west.

The homing bird must fly in the teeth of a strong west wind. It struggles along gamely, and the pilot calculates that he may reach the lines within twenty-five minutes. But he has a queer feeling that trouble is ahead, and, like his observer, he turns his head around the horizon, so as not to be caught unprepared.

All goes well for five minutes, except for some nasty Archie shells. Then the two men see a flock of aircraft at a great height, coming from the north. Although black crosses cannot be spotted at this range, the shape and peculiar whiteness of the wings make it probable that the strangers are hostile. Possibly they are the very people who attacked and followed the reconnaissance formation.

Our pilot puts down the nose of his machine, and races westward. The strangers, making good use of their extra height, turn south-west and try to head him off. They gain quickly, and pilot and observer brace themselves for a fight against odds.

The Germans are now about 700 feet higher than my friends, and directly above them. Four enemies dive, at an average speed of 150 miles an hour, and from all directions the Britishers hear the rattle of machine-guns. The observer engages one of the Huns, and evidently gets in some good shooting, for it swerves away and lets another take its place. Meanwhile enemy bullets have crashed through two spars, shot away a rudder-control, and ripped several parts of the fuselage.The black-crossed hawks cluster all around. There are two on the left, one on the right, one underneath the tail, and two above. A seventh Hun sweeps past in front, about eighty yards ahead. The pilot's gun rakes it from stem to stern as it crosses, and he gives a great shout as its petrol-tank begins to blaze and the enemy craft flings itself down, with a stream of smoke and another flame shooting out behind.

But his own petrol-tank has been plugged from the side, and his observer has a bullet in the left arm. The petrol supply is regulated by pressure, and, the pressure having gone when German bullets opened the tank, the engine gets less and less petrol, and finally ceases work.

To glide fifteen miles to the lines is clearly impossible. There is nothing for it but to accept the inevitable and choose a good landing-ground. The pilot pushes the joystick slowly forward and prepares to land.

The Germans follow their prey down, ready to destroy if by any chance its engine comes back to life, and it stops losing height. The observer tears up papers and maps, performs certain other duties whereby the enemy is cheated of booty, and stuffs all personal possessions into his pocket.

A medley of thoughts race across the observer's mind as the pilot S-turns the machine over the field he has chosen. A prisoner!—damnable luck—all papers destroyed—arm hurting—useless till end of war—how long will it last?—chances of escape—relieve parents' suspense—must write—due for leave—Marjorie—Piccadilly in the sunshine—rotten luck—was to be—make best of it—Kismet!

One duty remains. The observer digs into the petrol tank as they touch earth, and then runs round the machine. In a second the petrol is ablaze and the fuselage and wings are burning merrily. Germans rush up and make vain attempts to put out the fire. Soon nothing remains but charred debris, a discoloured engine, bits of metal and twisted wires.

My friends are seized, searched, and disarmed. They then shake hands with the German pilots, now heatedly discussing who was chiefly responsible for their success. The captive couple are lunched by the enemy airmen, who see that the wounded observer receives proper attention. At the risk of incensing some of your eat-'em-alive civilian friends, I may say we have plenty of evidence that the German Flying Corps includes many gentlemen.

Later my friends are questioned, searched again from head to toe, and packed off to Germany. Just now they are affected with deadly heart-sickness, due to the wearisome inaction of confinement in a hostile land, while we, their friends and brothers, continue to play our tiny parts in Armageddon.

I enclose their names, and that of the prison camp where they are lodged. Perhaps you will find time to send them some of your fast-dwindling luxuries, as you flit from town to country, country to town, and so to bed.

France, July, 1916