Sector——­at the Front, Oct. 12, 1917.—­It’s blowing terrifically, wind and rain.  You can’t imagine how I picture you people at home, warm, happy and safe.  I’ve been out here a week now.  Three days of it has been flying weather.  Up 25,000 feet and ten miles into Germany is my record so far and I’ve actually had one combat with a boche.  He was below me, at first, far in the distance.  I was supposed to be protecting a bombing expedition of ten machines.  I saw this spot, started away from the rest and through excitement, anticipation and the goodness knows what, I climbed, went faster and faster until I had the sun between us and the German below me.  Then I dived; he heard me and “banked”; we both looped and then came head on, firing incessantly.

My machine gun was empty and the boche had more, for he got in behind me and “Putt!  Putt!  Putt!” past my ear he came, so I dove, went into a “vrille” with him on top, came out and squared off, and he let me have it again.  All I could do was to maneuver, for I had no shells left and I did not want to beat it, so I stuck.  We both came head on again and I said a little prayer, but the next time I looked Mr. Boche was going home.  I “peaked” straight down, made my escadrille, accompanied them home and when I got out of my furs I was wringing wet in spite of the fact it was cold as ice where I had done my fighting.

CONSIDERS HIS OWN TACTICS

I looked my machine over and found five holes in it, but nothing serious.  Tomorrow is going to be bad and no one will fly unless they call for volunteers, and then I think most of us will go.  I’d like to figure out what I did wrong.  First of all, I was so excited that I fired all my shots at the German and he maneuvered out of my way and then came at me as I was helpless.  My captain gave me “harkey” for staying when out of bullets, so I guess the rest was O.K., but I’d hate to run from any boche.

MEN DIE IN FAULTY PLANES

The machine I’ve been flying has been condemned, so I expect to be sent back to get another one, a brand new one that has never been on the front.  Twenty-five pilots in the last month have been killed by wings dropping off.  I’ve seen twelve go and it surely takes the old pep out of you.  I was above one and saw his wing crumple, then fall.  A man is so utterly helpless he must merely sit there and wait to be killed, and when you’re flying the same type of machine it doesn’t help your confidence any.  I was glad they condemned mine, for I’ve put my old “cuckoo” through some awful tests and it’s about ready to fall apart.

We expect to change soon and go up to a new offensive in F——.  If I get through that I’m going to change over to the American army.  They have offered me a commission and I think I’ll take it.  My fingers are cramped and my feet have long since been numb.  Now I’m going to wrap up in my fur leathers and go to bed.  This is war.