d patronesses of the undying arts. Before
turning to the latest number of the 'Aeroplane,' our own particular
weekly, one wonders idly how the Lady Helen Toutechose and her
emulators, amid their strenuous quick-change war-work, find time to be
photographed so constantly, assiduously, and distractingly.

We pocket our correspondence and tackle the morning's work. Each pilot
makes sure that his machine is overhauled, and if necessary, he runs the
engine or puts a re-rigged bus through its paces. I am told off to
instruct half a dozen officers newly arrived from the trenches on how to
become a reliable reconnaissance observer in one week. Several of us
perform mysteriously in the workshops, for we are a squadron of many
inventors.

Every other officer has a pet mechanical originality. Marmaduke is
preparing a small gravity tank for his machine, to be used when the
pressure tank is ventilated by a bullet. The Tripehound has a scheme
whereby all the control wires can be duplicated. Some one else has
produced the latest thing in connections between the pilot's joystick
and the Vickers gun. I am making a spade-grip trigger for the Lewis gun,
so that the observer can always have one hand free to manipulate the
movable back-sight. When one of these deathless inventions is completed
the real hard work begins. The new gadget is adopted unanimously by the
inventor himself, but he has a tremendous task in making the rest of the
squadron see its merits.

After lunch we scribble letters, for the post leaves at five. As we
write the peaceful afternoon is disturbed by the roar of five engines. B
Flight is starting up in readiness for an offensive patrol. Ten minutes
later more engines break into song, as three machines of C Flight leave
to photograph some new lines of defence before Bapaume. The overhead hum
dies away, and I allow myself a sleep in payment of the early morning
reconnaissance.

Wearing a dress suit I am seated on the steps of a church. On my knee is
a Lewis gun. An old gentleman, very respectable in dark spats, a black
tie, and shiny top-hat, looks down at me reproachfully.

"Very sad," he murmurs.

"Don't you think this trigger's a damned good idea?" I ask.

"Young man, this is an outrage. As you are not ashamed enough to leave
the churchyard of your own accord, I shall have you turned out."

I laugh and proceed to pass some wire through the pistol-grip. The old
man disappears, but he returns with three grave-d