For my part I compare the party to the ten little nigger boys, and
wonder when the only survivor, apart from our own machine, will leave. I
look towards it anxiously. The wings on one side are much lighter than
those on the other, and I therefore recognise it as the Tripehound's
bus. There is ground for misgiving, for on several occasions during the
past ten minutes it has seemed to fly in an erratic manner. The cause of
this, as we find out on our return, is that for five minutes the
Tripehound has been leaning over the side, with the joystick held
between his knees while attempting to fasten a small door in the cowling
round the engine, left open by a careless mechanic. It is important to
shut the opening, as otherwise the wind may rush inside and tear off
the cowling. Just as a short band of the trench line south of Arras can
be seen through a gap, the Tripehound, having found that he cannot
possibly reach far enough to close the protruding door, signals that he
must go home.

I do not feel altogether sorry to see our last companion leave, as we
have often been told not to cross the lines on a reconnaissance flight
with less than three machines; and with the wind and the low clouds,
which now form an opaque window, perforated here and there by small
holes, a long observation journey over Bocheland by a single aeroplane
does not seem worth while. But the flight-commander, remembering the
recent order about completing a reconnaissance at all costs, thinks
differently and decides to go on. To get our bearings he holds down the
nose of the machine until we have descended beneath the clouds, and into
full view of the open country.

We find ourselves a mile or two beyond Arras. As soon as the bus appears
it is bracketed in front, behind, and on both sides by black
shell-bursts. We swerve aside, but more shells quickly follow. The
shooting is particularly good, for the Archie people have the exact
range of the low clouds slightly above us. Three times we hear the hiss
of flying fragments of high explosive, and the lower left plane is
unevenly punctured. We lose height for a second to gather speed, and
then, to my relief, the pilot zooms up to a cloud. Although the gunners
can no longer see their target, they loose off a few more rounds and
trust to luck that a stray shell may find us. These bursts are mostly
far wide of the mark, although two of them make ugly black blotches
against the whiteness of the vapour through whi