The past fortnight has been rather stirring for us--constant flying, plenty of fights, and the usual moving about. One gets used to it in time, but at first it is a wrench to a man of my conservative nature and sedentary habits. This time we have struck it rich in a village where soldiers are still welcome. I have a really charming room in the house of the principal family--well-to-do people who own the local factory. Great sunny south windows, running water, and a soft snowy bed, scented with lavender! A day of rest to-day, as they are installing a new motor in my "taxi"; so I am planted at a little table, looking out through my window on a warm peaceful scene of tiled roofs, rustling leaves, and a delicious sky across which float summery clouds. Not a uniform in sight, not a sound of a cannon--the war seems an impossible dream. The last day at our old field I had a narrow escape. Two of us were flying together up and down the lines at about four thousand feet. The other chap had allowed me to get pretty far in the lead, when I spied, about two thousand feet below me, a strange-looking two-seater, darkly camouflaged, on which I could see no insignia. I dove on him, but not headlong, as the English have a machine on similar lines, and it was not until I was quite close that I made out two tiny black crosses _set in circles of orange_. By this time the machine-gunner was on the alert, and just as I was going to give him a burst, _flac, flac, flac_, bullets began to pass me from behind. Holes suddenly appeared in my wings; in another moment whoever was shooting would have had me, so I rose steeply in a sharp turn, saw nothing, turned again and again, and finally, disappearing in the distance after the two-seater, I made out two little Pfalz scouts, painted dark green. My comrade, who was having engine trouble, saw the whole thing. The Boche single-seaters were well behind the larger plane they were protecting,--somehow I missed seeing them,--and when I dove at their pal they rose up under my tail and let me have it with their four guns. Only some rotten shooting saved me from being brought down. The hardest thing for a new pilot to learn is the proper combination of dash and wariness: neither produces results alone; both are absolutely essential. One must bear in mind two axioms: first, bring down the enemy; second, don't get brought down yourself. A disheartening number of young pilots, full of dash and courage, trained at great expense to their country, get themselves brought down on their first patrol, simply because they lack skill and the necessary dash of wariness. A good general does not ordinarily attack the enemy where he is strongest.