ile, I will try to sketch the daily round
of the squadron in which I am proud to have been an observer.

* * * * *

"Quarter to five, sir, and a fine morning. You're wanted on the
aerodrome at a quarter past."

I sit up. A shiver, and a return beneath the blankets for five minutes'
rumination. Dressing will be dashed unpleasant in the cold of dawn. The
canvas is wet with the night's rain. The reconnaissance is a long one,
and will take fully three hours. The air at 10,000 feet will bite hard.
Must send a field post-card before we start. Not too much time, so out
and on with your clothes. Life is wrotten.

While dressing we analyse the weather, that pivot of our day-to-day
existence. On the weather depends our work and leisure, our comparative
risks and comparative safety. Last thing at night, first thing in the
morning, and throughout the day we search the sky for a sign. And I
cannot deny that on occasions a sea of low clouds, making impossible the
next job, is a pleasant sight.

The pale rose of sunrise is smudging over the last flickerings of the
grey night. Only a few wisps of cloud are about, and they are too high
to bother us. The wind is slight and from the east, for which many
thanks, as it will make easier the return half of the circuit.

We wrap ourselves in flying kit and cross the road to the aerodrome.
There the band of leather-coated officers shiver while discussing their
respective places in the formation. A bus lands and taxies to a shed.
From it descends the Squadron Commander, who, with gum-boots and a warm
coat over his pyjamas, has been "trying the air." "Get into your
machines," he calls. As we obey he enters his hut-office and phones the
wing headquarters.

The major reappears, and the command "Start up!" is passed along the
line of machines. Ten minutes later we head for the trenches, climbing
as we travel.

It was cold on the ground. It was bitter at 5000 feet. It is damnable at
10,000 feet. I lean over the side to look at Arras, but draw back
quickly as the frozen hand of the atmosphere slaps my face. My gloved
hands grow numb, then ache profoundly when the warm blood brings back
their power to feel. I test my gun, and the trigger-pressure is painful.
Life is worse than rotten, it is beastly.

But the cold soon does its worst, and a healthy circulation expels the
numbness from my fingers. Besides, once we are beyond the lines, the
work on hand allows sma