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._ "Cont