rsued for some seconds by flaming rockets.

The patrol re-forms, and we climb to our original height. One machine
has left for home, with part of a control wire dangling helplessly
beneath it, and a chunk of tail-plane left as a tribute to Archie.

We complete the course and go over it again, with nothing more exciting
than further anti-aircraft fire, a few Huns too low for another dive,
and a sick observer.

Even intrepid birdmen (war correspondentese for flying officers) tire of
trying to be offensive on a patrol, and by now we are varying our
rubber-neck searchings with furtive glances at the time, in the hopes
that the watch-hands may be in the home-to-roost position. At length the
leader heads for the lines, and the lords of the air (more war
correspondentese) forget their high estate and think of tea.

Not yet. Coming south towards Bapaume is a beautiful flock of
black-crossed birds. As often happens, the German biplanes are ranged
one above the other, like the tiers of a dress-circle.

Again the signal to attack, and the flight-commander sweeps at what
seems to be the highest enemy. We are ranging ourselves round him, when
two enemy scouts sweep down from heaven-knows-where, firing as they
come. Several of their bullets enter the engine of our rearmost
rearguard. Finding that the engine is on strike, the pilot detaches his
machine from the confusion and glides across the lines, which are quite
close.

For five minutes there is a medley of swift darts, dives, and cart-wheel
turns, amid the continuous _ta-ta-ta-ta-ta_ of machine-guns. Then a
German machine sways, staggers, noses downward vertically, and rushes
earthward, spinning rhythmically. The other Boches put their noses down
and turn east. We follow until we find it impossible to catch them up,
whereupon we make for home.

The trenches are now passed, and our aerodrome is quite near. The
strained nerve-tension snaps, the air seems intoxicatingly light. Pilots
and observers munch chocolate contentedly or lift up their voices in
songs of Blighty. I tackle "The Right Side of Bond Street," and think of
pleasant places and beings, such as Henley during regatta week, the
Babylon Theatre, and your delightful self.

We land, piece together our report, and count the bullet-holes on the
machine. In ten minutes' time you will find us around the mess-table,
reconstructing the fight over late afternoon tea. In the intervals of
eating cake I shall write you, and t