Three heavy-eyed mechanics now appeared upon the scene, and, after having been slanged roundly for their late arrival by our cheery Jehu, the engine was started with an alarming whirr. A few preliminaries and she got well away. For a few moments we circled round the neighborhood of the aerodrome, to gain height. Then in the first contact with the icy-cold morning breeze I felt thankful that I had taken the sound advice of clothing myself well. I must have looked for all the world like an Eskimo or an Arctic explorer in my wool-lined leather coat and overall trousers, a knitted Balaclava hat or helmet, and over that again a skull-cap, the whole tied down tightly beneath my chin. A huge woolen muffler round my neck and a pair of unsightly goggles completed the picture. I had treated my hands and face with a generous dose of vaseline, which I had been assured would keep out the cold, and which advice I now gratefully acknowledge to be correct. As we mount higher my perspective extends, and out of the gray mists and the dark shadows land and sea begin to assume their natural form and color. On the former there are now signs of movement; along the roads crawl the ant-like procession of ammunition columns back from their nightly trip to the firing lines. A steaming “Puffing Billy” slowly drags along on a limber, a “grandmother” (naval 15-inch gun) blocking up the whole roadway, which must cause considerable annoyance to the long string of cars and motorbike dispatch riders held up in the rear. On the roadside, by a wood, a company of infantry are falling in for early parade; they look up at us in a half interested sort of way. Some wave their hats and rifles at us. I wave my hand in reply, but know they cannot see us. We keep on climbing steadily. Out at sea are two French torpedo-boats making up the coast towards ----, and a few small trawlers sailing off in the direction of England. Happy thought! Every moment we are getting nearer to the dreaded area. In the far distance I can see the red flashes of the rifles, the smoke clouds of the heavy guns, and the long gray lines of winding trenches. I look at my map, to discover that we are passing over a junction of two main roads, one of which is crossed by a railway, while beneath the other runs a narrow stream. It is ----. Five miles to the firing line. With my glasses I can already pick out several of our own field-artillery emplacements, and a moving up of reinforcements from the rear--I would surmise about two battalions of infantry. I time the observation on my report sheet; also I discover from my wrist compass--my most prized and valued possession--that we are going too much to the north-west and tell the pilot so by means of a written message.