It seems there's been some sickness at our Brigade Headquarters, which is a château marked large on the map, though out of sight from the Boche line. The sickness among the orderlies was attributed to something queer about the drains, and I suppose the thing was reported on. Anyhow, as the story I heard to-day goes, a tremendous swell arrived in a car to have a look at the place; an Olympian of the first water, you understand. No doubt I should be executed by means of something with boiling oil in it if I mentioned his name. As he stepped from his car outside the château two shells landed, one on the lawn and one in the shrubbery. The Olympian sniffed at Fritz's insolence. Before he got into the doorway another shell landed very near his car, and spattered it with mud from bonnet to differential. The august one is reported to have greeted the Brigadier by saying rather angrily: "This is obviously a most unhealthy spot, sir; most unhealthy. Ought never to have been chosen." But a better yarn was the one a subaltern of the R.E. told me as I was jogging back to the trenches. This was about the sector next but one north of us. It seems a Boche 'plane was being chased by a British 'plane, and making heavy weather of it. The Englishman had perforated the other fellow's wings very badly, and partly knocked out his engine, too. Anyhow, the Boche 'plane was underdog, and descending rapidly midway between our front line and his own, right over the centre of No Man's Land. Naturally the men in the trenches on both sides were wildly excited about it. The story is they forgot everything else and were simply lining the parapets, yelling encouragement to their respective airmen as though they had front seats at Brooklands or the Naval and Military Tournament. Seeing this, a pawky old Scot--it was a Highland regiment on our side--slipped quietly down on the fire-step in the midst of the excitement, and began making accurate but leisurely target practice; carefully picking out Boches forty or fifty yards apart from each other, so as not to give the show away too soon. He did pretty well, but was bitterly disappointed when the Boche's Archibald forced our 'plane to rise, just as the Boche airman managed to jigger his machine somehow into his own support lines, and the spectators took cover. "Och, no a'thegither sae badly, surr," says Scotty to his Platoon Commander. "Ah managed to get nine o' the feckless bodies; but Ah hopet for the roond dizen!" Rather nice, wasn't it?