I nodded my head. He took his seat, and opened the throttle. The engine leapt into new life. The roar was deafening. The whirring blades flung the air back into my face, cutting it as if with a whip. He dropped his arm. The men drew away the chocks from the wheels, and amid shouts of "Good luck!" from the officers present, the machine sprang forward like a greyhound, bounding over the grass, until at last it rose like a gigantic bird into the air. The earth gradually drew away. Higher and higher we rose, and began to circle round and round to gain height. "We will get up to three thousand feet before we strike towards the coast," he shouted through the telephone. The vibration, now we were in the air, was barely perceptible, at any rate it was not sufficient to affect the taking of my scenes. In case any moisture collected on my lens, I had brought a soft silk pad, to wipe it with occasionally. Higher, still higher, we rose. "What's the height now?" I asked. "Very nearly three thousand feet," he said. "We are now going towards the coast. That's Dunkirk over there." I peered ahead. The port, with its shipping, was clearly discernible. Over the sea hung a dense mist, looking for all the world like a snowfield. Here and there, in clear patches, the sun gleamed upon the water, throwing back its dazzling reflections. As soon as we reached the coast-line, I shouted: "Proceed well along this side, so that I can obtain an oblique view. It looks much better than directly above the object. What's our speed?" "Sixty miles," he said. "I shall keep it up until we reach the German lines." He turned sharp to the right. We are now following the coast-line towards Ostend. How beautiful the sand dunes looked from above. The heavy billows of sea-mist gave it a somewhat mystic appearance. How cold it was. I huddled down close into my seat, my head only above the fuselage. Keeping my eye upon the wonderful panorama unfolding itself out beneath me, I glanced at my camera and tested the socket. Yes, it was quite firm. "We are nearing the lines now," my companion shouted. "Can you see them on your right? That's the Belgium area. Our section, as you know, begins just before Ypres. Will this height suit you? Shall I follow the trenches directly overhead or a little to one side?" "Keep this side, I'll begin taking now." Kneeling up in my seat, I directed my camera downwards and started filming our lines and the German position stretching away in the distance. We were nearing Ypres, that shell-battered city of Flanders. White balls of smoke here and there were bursting among the ruins, showing that the Huns were still shelling it. What a frightful state the earth was in. For miles and miles around it had the appearance of a sieve, with hundreds of thousands of shell-holes, and like a beautiful green ribbon, winding away as far as the eye could see, was that wonderful yet terrible strip of ground between the lines, known as "No Man's Land."