_January 24._

[Sidenote: BUSY DAYS]

The aeroplanes have brought in the most marvellous photographs, and I am very busy deciphering them and mapping the information on to a map.

_February 8._

After many, many days of incessant work comes a brief interval of repose--till to-morrow morning.

We moved up here yesterday afternoon late.

Well, imagine a lovely large hut.

The room on the left is where all the maps, etc., are made, and the room on the right is my office.

But outsiders can't just barge into my office. Oh no! They must ask one of the orderlies if they can see me. Isn't it ridiculous!

Then there is a tiny bedroom.

The office walls are entirely covered now with aeroplane photos and maps. It is all rather fun, and I think it won't be quite such a strain.

The cold is intense. Hale is functioning with the stove in my room at the moment. I have said once that I don't really need a fire in my bedroom; but he evidently has different views, and is firmly lighting it. He is quite happy here.

I'm having the hut papered, to make it warmer. And canvas curtains, if you please!

The R.F.C. people are most hospitable and nice. I like them very much.

It's all quite interesting, and the aeroplanes are delicious as they move, buzzing like vast mosquitoes.

I go down in a side-car every day (that's the programme) to corps H.Q.

to report and get instructions.

_February 12._

Something may happen to prevent leave before leave comes. You will understand. I should have to "remain at my post," as novels say.

_February 15._

[Sidenote: WITH THE R.F.C.]

A very difficult map has just been finished, and is being printed, and here we sit down for a little talk together. The war is for the moment far away. Away anxiety, away nervous apprehension, away fatigue, away responsibility, away Wilhelm! Let the doors be shut, the curtains drawn.

Listen. An adventure, amusing, and rather exciting. Would you like to hear about it? Well, I was making a raised map of a particular part of the line for the corps commander. And I go up from time to time to scan the ground, so that it may be very accurate and therefore rather useful.

At least that is what I hope. Yesterday, then, up into the blue, piloted by Eric.

It was not a good day. In fact, too dud for good observation. But the relief map must be ready quickly.

Imagine us, please, robed in leather coats and leather helmets and gauntlets, and with goggles, waiting at the entrance of a hangar while the mechanics bring out the gadfly. They have already looked the creature over with great care. The pale yellow wings glitter against the violet horizon. The sun is shining, but it's freezing hard. Eric climbs in, and then I do. I sit behind with the machine gun.

I clasp a sketchbook, to sketch the lie of the land. O my aunt in Jericho! isn't it Arctic! Fingers that feel like ammoniated quinine. You know, a faint unpleasant tingle.

They are starting the engines. Difficult this cold weather. The following strange colloquy ensues:

_Mechanic:_ "Contact."

_Pilot:_ "Contact."

_M._ "Switch off."

_P._ "Switch off."

_M._ "Contact."

_P._ "Contact."

_M._ "Switch off."

_P._ "Suck in."

_M._ "Contact."

_P._ "Contact."

And with a terrific whir the propeller flashes round. The sound increases, and then decreases slightly, and increases again. The gadfly moves. Moves more rapidly. Skims along the ground. Rises, rises, rises.

Ah, the beautiful river! Every time I have flown the beauty of that river catches me in the throat. But this featureless waste. Bereft of everything but earth, and a few low shelters and gun-pits, and seamed with trenches. Hideously lonely.

Well, anyhow, here we are sailing high above it all, the wind occasionally lifting one of the wings, and then the other, like a sea-gull's. There is a haze, and it's not easy to see. You peer over the edge, and behold at last the desired wood.

[Sidenote: A Sc.r.a.p IN THE AIR]

A wood? That? Good heavens! That poor miserable mess of splinters and gashed soil? Each time I see one of the woods destroyed by this war I thank G.o.d that our glorious Cotswold woods are still untouched.

Primroses, wood-anemones, squirrels. To think of squirrels!... Not another aeroplane in sight. Neither our own nor Hun machines. Eric circles smoothly round above the wood, and then crosses back over no-man's-land to fly low, so that I can see the wood obliquely. Archie quite wide of his mark. This doubling and circling perplexes him. The sketch progresses. I look round from time to time to see that there are still no Huns about. Eric also looks about. No: nothing in sight. The guns are p.o.o.ping off, but the noise of the engines makes the guns sound like tiny little "pops." There, now I've nearly done. Lucky I came, because the wood isn't quite what we thought. Yes, that'll do.... We are up at a considerable height....

Suddenly Rat-tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat! above our heads. Three Hun aeroplanes right on top of us; Eric drives headlong in a spiral curve at full speed, smoke trailing out behind. The gun! I fumble.

Can't get round to it. d.a.m.n!

Rat-tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat! go the Huns. But Eric is faster. Are they all Huns, though? Shall I fire? Yes. No. They daren't come down low over our lines. We are safe. Yes, look, they were all Huns. They hang about far up aloft. The Hun usually hunts in threes. Why, oh why, didn't I fire? Well, it can't be helped now. Eric looks round. We both laugh.

"Why didn't you fire?" he shouts. I can't hear what he says, but I know from the shape of his mouth that's what he is saying. I just smile and shake my head. Can't explain now.

Where on earth did they come from? Coasting about very high up, I suppose, and suddenly swooped down at us.

However, the drawing is done. So that's that. Home, John!

One little bullet-hole through one of the wings, no more. Indifferent shooting, my friend Fritz. However, I can't talk, because I never fired at all!

_February 16._

I've never thanked you for the chocolates which arrived two days ago.

But they arrived during one of the avalanches of work, and were all eaten within half an hour or so; not by me, but by various R.F.C. men who are always coming in and out of my office for "the latest."

[Sidenote: TOLL OF WAR]

To-day all frosty and sunny. Think of going on to the terrace at home before breakfast and seeing some jolly little new flower out, with the Golden Valley behind, all grey-blue and woody.

It's all working well here, and, being the representative of the corps, I have a certain status which is pleasant. They think that I may or may not give them a good character to the Powers that be. Quite fun.