It has been wonderfully clear for the past three nights, and in the
light of a big London raid, the French have been expecting a raid on
Paris. Last night I went to bed early. Thump—thump—boom—boom—boom; I
rolled over to sleep on the other side. Boom—boom—bang—bang—bang; my
ears felt funny and I turned over on my back and looked at the ceiling.
Bang—crash—crash—thunder; something must be wrong. I sat up in bed, to
see figures passing the moonlit windows and voices whispering between
the continuous detonations which jarred the night air. Someone lit a
light, and a hiss went up from the barracks. One heard the words “Boche”
and “bomb” oft repeated. I yawned and pulled on the other sock. We could
hear the hum of motors as we crowded out of the barracks doors, scantily
clad.
The air was crisp and clear. The moon was just rising. It was
twelve-thirty, and there were stars in millions. Now the crashes came
just over our heads. First, over to the east, just behind a clump of
trees not half a mile away we would see a couple of sudden flares; then
came the crash of the report, followed by the receding war song of the
shells as they went up through the darkness; then would come the bright
glare which would blind the sight and scare away the stars, leaving the
sky black; and finally, as we would blink and begin to see the stars
venturing forth again, the great crash of the shell on high would reach
us. Then we would discuss how close they may have come to the place and
whether the falling shells would come near us. But the hum of the planes
came and went in the direction of Paris without our seeing them, for
only the explosion of shells marked their course across the sky. We are
thirty miles from Paris. For fifteen minutes we watched the explosions
of the anti-aircraft shells. Then suddenly there were low grumblings,
booming with increasing rapidity of succession. The groups of lights
signaling in the Paris Guard formation flashed off and on, changing
location with great rapidity. Then came the returning hum of the motors,
the line of shells flaring in the sky, a series of red-rocket signals,
and the raid was over.
Today I had my first rides in the Spad. It is the most wonderful machine
going. It has an eight-cylinder motor, and is built like a bulldog. It
is the finest thing in aeroplanes, and I certainly hope I get one at the
Front.
The first copy of _Life_ came yesterday. Say, you couldn’t have given me
a present that would cause us all more pleasure. I read every word of
it, and now it is going the rounds. Thank you for it ever so much.
Well, we have an _appel_ (roll-call) and I must stop. Love to you all.
Write me when you can.
Your ever lovin’ brother,