I'm having the hut papered, to make it warmer. And canvas curtains, if you please! The R.F.C. people are most hospitable and nice. I like them very much. It's all quite interesting, and the aeroplanes are delicious as they move, buzzing like vast mosquitoes. I go down in a side-car every day (that's the programme) to corps H.Q. to report and get instructions. _February 12._ Something may happen to prevent leave before leave comes. You will understand. I should have to "remain at my post," as novels say. _February 15._ [Sidenote: WITH THE R.F.C.] A very difficult map has just been finished, and is being printed, and here we sit down for a little talk together. The war is for the moment far away. Away anxiety, away nervous apprehension, away fatigue, away responsibility, away Wilhelm! Let the doors be shut, the curtains drawn. Listen. An adventure, amusing, and rather exciting. Would you like to hear about it? Well, I was making a raised map of a particular part of the line for the corps commander. And I go up from time to time to scan the ground, so that it may be very accurate and therefore rather useful. At least that is what I hope. Yesterday, then, up into the blue, piloted by Eric. It was not a good day. In fact, too dud for good observation. But the relief map must be ready quickly. Imagine us, please, robed in leather coats and leather helmets and gauntlets, and with goggles, waiting at the entrance of a hangar while the mechanics bring out the gadfly. They have already looked the creature over with great care. The pale yellow wings glitter against the violet horizon. The sun is shining, but it's freezing hard. Eric climbs in, and then I do. I sit behind with the machine gun. I clasp a sketchbook, to sketch the lie of the land. O my aunt in Jericho! isn't it Arctic! Fingers that feel like ammoniated quinine. You know, a faint unpleasant tingle. They are starting the engines. Difficult this cold weather. The following strange colloquy ensues: _Mechanic:_ "Contact." _Pilot:_ "Contact." _M._ "Switch off." _P._ "Switch off." _M._ "Contact." _P._ "Contact." _M._ "Switch off." _P._ "Suck in." _M._ "Contact." _P._ "Contact." And with a terrific whir the propeller flashes round. The sound increases, and then decreases slightly, and increases again. The gadfly moves. Moves more rapidly. Skims along the ground. Rises, rises, rises. Ah, the beautiful river! Every time I have flown the beauty of that river catches me in the throat. But this featureless waste. Bereft of everything but earth, and a few low shelters and gun-pits, and seamed with trenches. Hideously lonely. Well, anyhow, here we are sailing high above it all, the wind occasionally lifting one of the wings, and then the other, like a sea-gull's. There is a haze, and it's not easy to see. You peer over the edge, and behold at last the desired wood. [Sidenote: A SCRAP IN THE AIR]