Back to Duty.

Back to work and my old friend Archie quickly. I was on bombing yesterday, not very far over the lines though, and there were about —— of us. It was a wonderfully pretty sight to see the bombs going down in a string, dwindling, and finally disappearing below. Bags of Archie were flying around, but my “machine” was not hit at all. I was first up to-day and we had a non-stop flight of nearly three hours, ranging some batteries. The weather was pretty dud, but W. and I managed all right. S. is missing, as perhaps you have heard. He was on a long bombing stunt. He is reported unhurt and prisoner of war.

When we were up to-day P. emptied a drum of ammunition from the gun over the lines—not firing at anything in particular, but just to test the gun. The empty cartridges as they were ejected landed with clockwork regularity on the top of my head. I said to myself, “This is some hail.”

Last evening E. and I went in a tender to the battery we had been working with in the morning and saw the wonderful ruins of a town near there. We were really quite close to the lines, but luckily there was no shelling, and we got back O.K.

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.

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.

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.

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. To-day I have done very little else but sleep, and the weather has done very little else but rain. I tried to get my hair cut this morning at a village not far away, but was informed that it was after twelve o’clock. “Surely not,” I said, and the barber said “Si,” and unblushingly produced a watch showing about ten minutes to twelve, and motioned me away. However, I got some magazines, and chocolate, and some new shaving soap and razor blades.

Just now I bid fair to outdo H.’s record of unpleasant stunts, as I nearly had a third within twenty-four hours. The first one was just to whet my appetite, so to speak, but although I only went a few miles over the lines I was Archied the whole blessed time. The Huns must have spent fortunes on Archie in the last week. I hit something with one of my bombs that made a colossal burst—probably some Hun ammunition. Yesterday they started on me just before I got to the lines, and, I think, went on until I was a good ten miles the other side. Then the Archies started from the place I was going to bomb, and clattered away for ages, but they were not nearly so good as those near the lines, as they haven’t got so much practice. There were some wonderfully near shots, and the machine was badly shaken by one which made a most appalling crash just behind the tail. I was horribly scared, of course. I looked round, saw the tail still there, said “Remarkable!” and went on. The Hun aerodrome was a very nice-looking place. It had two landing T’s out—great white strips of sheet, and there was a machine on the ground. I dropped several bombs there, one landing on the road beside the ’drome and one by the landing T. I don’t know if I hit any of the sheds or not, as it was rather cloudy, and I could not see the effect of all my bombs. When I had finished I came back with the wind, nose down, at some pace, and hardly got an Archie at all. I was jolly pleased when it was over, and pleased too (in a way) that I had been, as it really was interesting to be so many miles behind the lines and see their aerodromes, etc.

Well, I went night bombing yesterday—rather an Irish way of putting it, though! I went up after dinner, and as it was a bit misty I signalled down “bad mist.” They signalled to me to come down, but I wasn’t having any, and turned my blind eye to ’em and beetled off. You see, from the ground it didn’t look misty, and so, as I didn’t want any doubts on the subject, I sloped off towards the lines. I soon lost sight of the flares and then became absolutely and completely lost. Everything was inky black and I could only see an occasional thing directly below me. My mapboard was in the way of my compass, so I pulled the map off, chucked the board over the side, and then flew due east for about a quarter of an hour, when I saw some lights fired. I crossed the lines about 4,000 feet up and tried to find my objective, but it was no go. I went about four miles over, and came down to 2,000 feet with my engine throttled down, but could not even recognise what part I was over, owing to the mist. Then, to my surprise, the Huns loosed off some Archie nowhere near me, so I expect they couldn’t see me; but it looked ripping. They got a searchlight going and flashed it all round, passing always over the top of me. Then some more flares went up from the lines, and I could see the ground there beautifully, as clear as day, and some deep craters, but it did not show me sufficient to enable me to recognise what part of the lines I was over. Deciding it was hopeless, I set out for home, flying due west by my compass. It seemed ages before I picked up the aerodrome lights again, and I was afraid I might have drifted away sideways, but I spotted them all right, and just as I was nearing them, passed another of our machines by about 200 yards in the darkness. He was a wee bit lower than I was, and as he passed I could see his instrument lights in his little cabin. I then switched on some little lights I had on the wing tips, and flashed my pocket lamp—you know, the one I had in Germany and at Penlee—and then gave an exhibition of spiralling and banking in the dark. They said it looked topping from the ground. Then I signalled down “N.B.G.” and came in, “perched” (with all my bombs on, of course), and made a perfect dream of a landing.

Altogether I had really enjoyed myself, and would much rather do night bombing than day bombing. The only thing that annoyed me was that I couldn’t find my target, ’cos the bombs would have looked so pretty exploding in the darkness. I didn’t get up until about twelve o’clock this morning, and I am playing tennis at 5.15, so it has its advantages.

A little red spider has just landed on me and buzzed off again; that’s lucky, ain’t it?

Have just had a forced landing. M. was up with me, and I yelled to him to work the throttle from his compartment. He smiled benignly on me, not understanding or taking much heed. Finally I stood up, waved my arms at him, and shouted. He turned round, and, thinking that I had a mad fit on, put his thumb to his nose and extended his fingers. Finally, realising what I wanted, he tried the throttle, but did not succeed in working it, and in his turn waved his arms. We must have been a comical sight up there, wildly waving our arms at each other. As we couldn’t use the engine and were descending, I warned M. that we were going to have a forced landing. He tumbled to that all right and removed the gun from behind his head and put it on the front mounting, just in case—er—we met a hedge! We reached the aerodrome all right a couple of thousand feet up, and spiralled down. Just as I was coming in to land, another machine cut in ahead of me, but as I had no engine I couldn’t “wai-at” (like Peg), but just perched behind him and dodged him. So all ended well, for I made a perfect landing.

Have just been up with E. We spotted a storm coming up and ran for home. I came down to land, and found myself going too fast, so had to go round again. Great loss of dignity! I came in again, this time right at the end of the aerodrome, and closed the throttle, but the blessed machine went on flying, and I switched off just in time to prevent running out of the aerodrome. The throttle had become incorrectly set and the engine continued to run at half speed, although the throttle was entirely closed. We just got in before the rain came down.

I was up 8,000 feet this morning, but the whole sky was clouded over and one could not see the ground. Flying just above the clouds it was gorgeous; one felt like leaning out and grasping a handful of snow and making snowballs, the clouds were so fluffy and white. I had a splendid game of tennis yesterday, and was in topping form. Lightning services. Swish!

To-day has been “some” day. It started raining in the early hours and is still going strong. We are going to have floats fitted to the machines so as to take off the lakes!

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.

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.

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.

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?

The three forced landings within that short space of time constitute almost a record. It was with my own machine, and each time some trouble with the engine broke out when I had got up 500 feet. Each time that we thought that we had discovered the trouble and I took her up again, she cut out just the same. By great good luck I managed to get back into the aerodrome. On one occasion I had bombs on too! Now the machine is being practically pulled to pieces and altered by almost raving mechanics.

I had, as I wrote you yesterday, a three and a half hours’ non-stop flight, and later was down for night bombing. I was all on my own, and several people said they thought it was too misty. However, the C.O. asked me if I would like to try, and I said I was quite willing, and got ready.

I went up all right, though from the time I passed the last flare I saw absolutely nothing. There was a horrible ground mist, worse than it looked from the ground, and with no moon everything was black as ink. I could not tell whether I was flying upside down or anyway, and the machine was an old one and not very stable. I looked round at the flares and found I was flying all on the skew, left wing down, and I put that right; but not being able to see even a white road directly below me, I knew it was hopeless trying to leave the vicinity of the ’drome, and signalled that I was coming down. So down I came.

I had been told to land down wind, owing to trees being at the other end of the ’drome. Well, there wasn’t much wind, but what little there was I had pushing me on instead of holding me back. Likewise I lit a flare at the end of my wing, and although that enabled me to see the ground directly below me, I couldn’t tell my height. I expected to touch ground by the first flare, but owing to these things and the fact that I was flying a strange machine the engine of which “ticked over” rather fast, I did not touch ground at the first flare—but at the last. The landing was all right, but I plunged merrily on into the pitch darkness until I came to a nice new road and a ditch which pulled up y^e machine with a “crunch”! It at once began to take up peculiar attitudes, similar to those of a stage contortionist, and endeavoured to mix up its tail and rudder with the propeller. At any rate, this is how the machine looked a second afterwards: