e three months, and our daily flight over the same area
robbed the view of any scenic interest.

Perhaps, in the clear air of the winter morning, we would see far off
silhouetted against the pale green of the brightening eastern sky, the
dove-like aeroplanes of the enemy moving over the distant forest like
bees above a bush.

Sometimes an "affair of aerial patrols" would result in the exchange of
long shots, but seldom with any effect, for the reason that our enemy
took few risks in the air and, furthermore, we could not pursue, as our
orders were for speedy reconnaissance and early report. This was no easy
matter over a country covered with the snowy quilt of winter, when even
trees were unrecognisable, except at an angle that would show the trunks
beneath: an angle that would call for low flying, bringing us within the
6000 feet range of the enemy's "air-squirts."

By day we "trimmed our ship," examined every screw and bolt and
inspected our bombs and fuses. These "cough drops" were radish-shaped
shells, each weighing thirty-one pounds; and were fired from an
apparatus which could be worked by the pilot and which carried a
regulator showing height and speed of the machine. Fair accuracy could
thus be achieved.

One evening, the commander of the battery to which we were attached came
over to our quarters, the skillion of a wrecked farm house.

He brought word that another Zeppelin had been rammed by one of our
machines. Both machines and their occupants had been smashed.

He spoke in French, and we understood, which explained why we were
stationed so far east on the fighting line.

"Magnificent it must have been," he said, "we groundlarks always have a
fighting chance, but there is no chance for you bird-men. Ah! who can
now say the romance has gone out of war with the improvement in range of
weapons. Time was not long since when the general headed his men with a
waving sword. As your Shakespeare said it--'Once more into the breach,
dear friends.' And my comrades are fighting through this campaign,
banging at an enemy they may never see. But the aeroplane has brought
back the romance again. Ah! it is fine."

When he strolled out Nap ventured his opinion.

"Romance in war! There's not a scrap of it. The fool-flyer who rams a
Zepp. deserves what he gets. It's wasteful for a flyer to so risk his
speedy plane, when he has a better fighting chance of rising and
dropping 'cough-drops' on the slow old 'bus beneath h