The weather is pretty dud. You remember the two games of Patience I used to play--the Four Aces and the Idle Year. They have caught on here tremendously; every one from Flight Commanders down is playing them. I am thinking of sending to Cox’s for my passbook. Four of us played pitch and toss yesterday with pennies for two hours, and I lost sevenpence. The gambling fever has gripped. I took up a Scotch sergeant a couple of days ago. He was a perfect “scream.” “Can you tell me where ahm tae pit ma feet, an’ where ahm no tae pit them.” He quite enjoyed the flight, though, and looked round once with a huge grin, and said “Bon!” By the way, I saw a very curious sight the other day, and a very rare one. I saw two of our shells pass in the air while I was flying. They were not near me, but I just got an impression of them as they went down. You can, I believe, see them go if you are standing behind the guns, but P. is the only one in our Flight who has seen them from the air. I think the idea of dividing R.F.C. Squadrons up by public schools is splendid, but, alas! impossible. * * * * * [Sidenote: An Air Fight.] Yesterday G. and I were doing a big shoot some four miles or so over the lines, and as it was a bit misty we went up to about 6,000 feet and sat right over our target for about a quarter of an hour. There was a Hun patrol of three machines buzzing around that neighbourhood, and when they got within a few hundred yards, I thought it was about time to draw G.’s attention to the matter. He sat up with a jerk, gave a quick glance round, never noticed ’em, and glued himself on his target again. “All right,” I said to myself, “you’ll wake up with a jump in a minute.” To my surprise two of the Huns took no notice of us and went on, while the third circled about very diffidently watching us. Once he passed right over about 200 feet above us, and at that moment G. looked up. You could see the black iron crosses painted on a background of silver on the wings, and at that G. moved, and damn quickly too. I was busy watching the Hun, and didn’t feel a bit excited or nervous. I watched and waited, and then suddenly the Hun stuffed his nose down and swooped behind us, and we heard his machine gun pop-popping away like mad. I waited till he was about a hundred yards away, and then did a vertically banked “about turn” and went slap for him, and let him have about forty rounds rapid at about seventy yards range. G. had his gun ready to fire, when the Hun turned and made for home. We chased him a short way just for moral effect, and then went back to our target and on with our job. We were awfully surprised when he didn’t come back. I suppose we scared him or something. This little chat took place about 7,000 feet up, and five miles on their side of the lines. Was up ’smorning; jolly cold. The guns are going like Rachmaninoff’s Prelude. * * * * *