The machine soon sank and we were left bobbing about in our life-belts. Things began to look far from bright, especially as my Cockney observer was in a pretty bad way by now. Suddenly the sun broke through the clouds, and the white cliffs of Grisnez, about eight miles away, stood out clearly. "What's them hills, sir?" asked Tommy. "Cape Grisnez, where Burgess landed after his Channel swim," I replied. "Blimey," he said, "if we ever gets out of this perishing mess, and I can't get me old job back after the war, I'll be a blooming Channel swimmer. I know the ruddy way across nah."--_"Pilot R.F.C.," London, W.1._ It _Was_ a Collapsible Boat I was one of the survivors of the transport ship _Leasowe Castle_. Just before she took her final plunge, I was standing on deck when an empty boat was seen drifting near by. Our section officer called for swimmers, and five or six men went overboard in a jiffy and brought the boat alongside. There was a bit of a scuffle to get over the rail and into the boat, and one man jumped straight into her from a height of about thirty feet. To our dismay he went clean through--it was a collapsible boat! No sooner had this happened than a typical Cockney voice said: "Blimey, he's got the anchor in his pocket, I'll bet yer!"--_G. P. Gregory (late 272 M.G. Company), 107 Tunkar Street, Greenwich._ Luck in Odd Numbers We were on board H.M.S. _Sharpshooter_, doing patrol off the Belgian coast. The signalman on watch, who happened to be a Cockney, suddenly yelled out: "Aeroplane on the starboard bow, sir." The "old man," being fairly tired after a night of rain, said: "All right, it's only a friendly going back home." About two minutes later the plane dropped three bombs, the last of which was much too close to be comfortable. After our friend the signalman had wiped the splash off his face he turned round to the First Lieutenant and casually remarked: "Strike! It's a thundering good job he wasn't hostile or he might have hit us."--_R. Walmsley, D.S.M., 47 Watcombe Road, South Norwood, S.E.25._ "Your Barf, Sir!" We were a mixed crowd on board the old _Archangel_ returning "off leave" from Southampton to Havre on the night of January 6, 1917. The sea was calm, and a moon made conditions ideal for Jerry's "skimmers." When we were well under way I chummed up with a typical son of the Mile End Road, one of the Middlesex men, and we talked for some time whilst watching the long, white zig-zag wake. Then he suggested looking for a "kip." After nosing around several dark corners, a strip of carpet along the alley between the first-class cabins appealed to us, and quietly unslinging kit and putting our packs for a pillow, we made ourselves as comfortable as possible. During the process my pal jerked his thumb towards the closed doors and whispered "Orficers."