No aerial adventure is ever recounted (and the array of medal ribbons round their mess table is witness to the quality of these blindfold flights) without its humorous aspect well-nigh obliterating all else. One who fought a Zeppelin single-handed with a Webley-Scott pistol and imprecations found himself immortalised only in the pages of a magazine of Puck-like humour they publish (Fate and funds permitting) monthly. Another, disabled on the water off an enemy’s port, succeeded in getting his engine going as the crew of an armed trawler were leaning over the bows with boat-hooks to secure him. He rose from the water beneath their outstretched hands, and recalled with breathless merriment nothing but the astonishment on their Teutonic faces. A third, similarly disabled, was approached on the surface by a German submarine. He raked her deck with his Lewis gun and kept her at bay--by the simple expedient of picking off every head that appeared above her conning-tower--until she wearied of the sport and withdrew. From a seaplane point of view it was a pretty jest. At the conclusion of a day’s aerial fighting on the Somme front a certain officer of the Navy-that-Flies was asked how he felt about it. “Wa-al ...” he drawled, and paused, groping in his mind for metaphor. “It’s jest like stealing candy from a kid.” Making all allowances for poetic licence, this is a very fair illustration of the spirit in which the Navy-that-Flies went about the business. On the other hand there were a few who took a graver view of their responsibilities. Among the possessions of one of the naval squadrons co-operating with the Army-that-Flies along the front is a foolscap manuscript notebook bearing the superscription _Notes on Aerial Fighting_. The youthful author of these notes will never handle either pen or “joy-stick” again, but he has left behind him a document that is, in its way, one of the epics of war literature. It has since been printed (in expurgated form), and has doubtless found its way into textbooks and treatises on the subject. But to be appreciated to the full it should be read in the original round, rather boyish handwriting, within hearing of the continuous murmur of the British guns and the drone of a scouting fighter passing overhead. It contains ten commandments, which, for a variety of reasons, need not be recapitulated here. But the introduction epitomises the spirit of them all: “The man who gets most Huns in his lifetime is the man who observes these commandments and fights with his head. The others either get killed or get nerves in a very short time and the country does not get the full benefit of having trained them.” The commandments conclude with the following exhortation: “A very pleasant (_sic_) help in time of trouble is to put yourself in the enemy’s place and view the situation from his point of view. If you feel frightened before an attack, _just think how frightened he must be_!”