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_ III. A BOMB RAID. ... What are your feelings, dear lady, as you watch the airships that pass in the night and hear the explosion of their bombs? At such a time the sensations of most people, I imagine, are a mixture of deep interest, deep anger, excitement, nervousness, and desire for revenge. Certainly they do not include speculation about the men who man the raiders. And for their part, the men who man the raiders certainly do not speculate about you and your state of mind. When back home, some of them may wonder what feelings they have inspired in the people below, but at the time the job's the thing and nothing else matters. Out here we bomb only places of military value, and do it mostly in the daytime, but I should think our experiences must have much in common with those of Zeppelin crews. I can assure you they are far more strenuous than yours on the ground.