I had another twenty minutes’ night flying a couple of nights ago, and did a good landing. It was almost pitch dark, as there was a long row of clouds at 2,000 feet which hid the moon. We had flares out, and a searchlight lighting up the track; but from the moment you start moving you go out into inky darkness, flying on, seeing nothing till the altimeter tells you that you are high enough to turn. Then round, and the twinkling lights of the Aerodrome beneath. Higher, and gradually, as you become accustomed to the dark, you pick out a road here and a clump of trees there, till finally the picture is complete. At length, you throttle down the engine and glide--keeping a watchful eye on the altimeter, aerodrome, and air speed indicator. When about 400 feet up you open out your engine again, and fly in towards the aerodrome, stopping your engine just outside. Then you glide down and land alongside the flares. As I write, I hear a lively bugle band in the distance on the march. More troops going up to the trenches, I suppose. Our gramophone still plays on, our gardens and flower-beds are blooming, and all is well. * * * * * [Sidenote: Photos.] To-day I went up to take photos, and went over the lines four times, carefully sighting the required trenches, and taking eighteen photos. I spent nearly two and a half hours in the air, and when I got back I found the string that worked the shutter had broken after my third photo, and the rest had not come out. It was disappointing, because my last three journeys over the lines need not have been made, and incidentally it would have saved getting a hole through one of my planes. J. saw a scrap in the air to-day in which one of our machines was brought down. He was too far off to help. The report came in first that it was my ’bus which was down, but neither I nor my escort machine saw the fight, which must have been some distance off. * * * * * [Sidenote: Hide and Seek.]