Towards the end of 1920 the book was nearing completion. The last chapter was started but had given a lot of trouble. It was a ticklish chapter on the expansion of the air services, and the difficulty was to find the thread of the story. On this he was helped by Sir Sefton Brancker and Sir Hugh Trenchard, whom he always referred to as the General. “I have been in correspondence with Brancker,” he wrote. “He and the General won’t fail us.... I wish I were writing, instead of acting coroner at an inquest where it’s not certain who’s the corpse, and the witnesses won’t talk. But we must do it. We lose a lot by being so near--all the later diaries, lives, etc. Our one advantage is living testimony, and we _must_ get it.” Whilst he was waiting for further light on the problems of the last chapter he went to stay with Mr. Pearsall Smith at Warsash. “I had a good holiday of ten days--it seemed quite long,” he wrote. “I was taught the art of beach-combing. My friend who taught me got thirty-two oysters in three-quarters of an hour on a repulsive tidal beach. I got five in two hours. But I devoted myself mainly to the cockle who (it is not generally known) is as cunning as sin, very mobile, and quick-sighted. There are also occasional hauls from wrecks. August and September have been a stale-mate, and I’m itching to write. I hope to come up on Oct. 19th when the term is started.” When he returned from his holiday he found Oxford busier than ever. The last worrying chapter was put aside for the moment. “Oxford’s worse than ever. Not a bed or a perch anywhere.... I lead the life of a defaulting debtor, chivied by people who behave as if they had lent me money.” And again a little later, “This week is a nightmare, but things will get better soon after they get worse. I allude not to the Coal Strike but to committees, boards, lectures and examinations.” But examinations ended and he got back to the troublous Chapter VIII, and by the middle of December wrote, “I pine to show you what I have written. There’s not very much yet--about twenty-five of my MS. pages.” But he got stuck again at the beginning of January. “Your letter was a comfort. Since you left I have stuck. Partly I got wet and tired on a long walk, but chiefly, I can’t see my way clear. The summaries I have are so full of things too trivial (though I must have them and they are invaluable) ... I think a pæan on the squadron must go into the next (i.e., the fighting) volume. It belongs there. It’s really a short treatise on morale. I think I can end Chapter VIII without it, but we shall see.... Official reports are all packed in wool and won’t cut ice.”