Well, anyhow, here we are sailing high above it all, the wind occasionally lifting one of the wings, and then the other, like a sea-gull's. There is a haze, and it's not easy to see. You peer over the edge, and behold at last the desired wood.
A wood? That? Good heavens! That poor miserable mess of splinters and gashed soil? Each time I see one of the woods destroyed by this war I thank God that our glorious Cotswold woods are still untouched. Primroses, wood-anemones, squirrels. To think of squirrels!... Not another aeroplane in sight. Neither our own nor Hun machines. Eric circles smoothly round above the wood, and then crosses back over no-man's-land to fly low, so that I can see the wood obliquely. Archie quite wide of his mark. This doubling and circling perplexes him. The sketch progresses. I look round from time to time to see that there are still no Huns about. Eric also looks about. No: nothing in sight. The guns are pooping off, but the noise of the engines makes the guns sound like tiny little "pops." There, now I've nearly done. Lucky I came, because the wood isn't quite what we thought. Yes, that'll do.... We are up at a considerable height....
Suddenly Rat-tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat! above our heads. Three Hun aeroplanes right on top of us; Eric drives headlong in a spiral curve at full speed, smoke trailing out behind. The gun! I fumble. Can't get round to it. Damn!
Rat-tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat! go the Huns. But Eric is faster. Are they all Huns, though? Shall I fire? Yes. No. They daren't come down low over our lines. We are safe. Yes, look, they were all Huns. They hang about far up aloft. The Hun usually hunts in threes. Why, oh why, didn't I fire? Well, it can't be helped now. Eric looks round. We both laugh. "Why didn't you fire?" he shouts. I can't hear what he says, but I know from the shape of his mouth that's what he is saying. I just smile and shake my head. Can't explain now.
Where on earth did they come from? Coasting about very high up, I suppose, and suddenly swooped down at us.
However, the drawing is done. So that's that. Home, John!
One little bullet-hole through one of the wings, no more. Indifferent shooting, my friend Fritz. However, I can't talk, because I never fired at all!
