" On such lines the talk runs, and
it is over all too soon.
Then we are in the motor again, bound for an aerodrome forty or fifty
miles away. We are late, and the last twenty-seven kilometres fly by in
thirty-two minutes! It is a rolling country, and there are steep
descents and sharp climbs, through the thickly-scattered and
characteristic villages and small old towns of the Nord, villages
crowded all of them with our men. Presently, with a start, we find
ourselves on a road which saw us last spring--a year ago, to the day.
The same blue distances, the same glimpses of old towns in the hollows,
the same touches of snow on the heights. At last, in the cold sunset
light, we draw up at our destination. The wide aerodrome stretches
before us--great hangars coloured so as to escape the notice of a Boche
overhead--with machines of all sizes, rising and landing--coming out of
the hangars, or returning to them for the night. Two of the officers in
charge meet us, and I walk round with them, looking at the various
types--some for fighting, some for observation; and understanding--what
I can! But the spirit of the men--that one can understand.
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