From the rest camp, as from many other points behind the line, an aerial combat is no unusual sight. One hears the drone of the aeroplane engines and sees the hostile machine speeding along over the line, while little white puffs, like flakes of cotton-wool, spring suddenly into being all around it, as the shrapnel shells from anti-aircraft batteries, familiarly known always as "Archies," burst. Or perhaps the gunners may favour it with high explosive shells, which leave little black puffs. On a still day the puffs of smoke linger for several minutes in the blue sky like tiny clouds and gradually disperse. The hostile aeroplane darts hither and thither. All eyes are turned skywards, and the following are the type of comments overheard as the shells burst: "Just a bit too low," "Too far ahead," "The next’ll get him," "Got him," "No, he’s only doing a dive down into his own lines." Often the whole path which the aeroplane has taken across the sky is literally covered with these little white puffs of shrapnel smoke. I have counted as many as a hundred and eighty, and even then the aeroplane not infrequently escapes without apparent damage. But the Taube does not have things all its own way, for one or more of our own ’planes rise to attack, and if one is very lucky one sees it descend with a long and rapid dive—nose first, in flames, a tangled mass of framework and burning canvas. An air duel on a clear day is not only wonderful from a spectacular point of view, but the most exciting episode it is possible to witness. If, however, one happens to be directly underneath where the shrapnel shells are bursting and realizes that all that goes up comes down again, one takes more than a spectacular interest in such an incident. By night aviators afford one even greater excitement, trying to spot the hostile machine and locate it by the sound of its engine. Then perhaps a terrific crash as it drops an incendiary bomb, the explosion of which lights up the whole neighbourhood with a dull red glow.