A mysterious location not permitted to be revealed even to mothers, but you know my squadron number anyway, so do write back to that, somewhere near St Omer.
4 February 1915
Ma chère maman, elegante et magnifique!
You’ll never guess who I’ve run into! I came down in front of the lines – but worry not! It happens all the time and is only to be expected, and I was unharmed, unlike my poor machine, a pretty little Morane-Saulnier whose name was Florence, you may remember, and was immediately shelled to smithereens by Fritz – and I managed to get into one of our trenches, and guess who was in it! I’ll write and tell you tomorrow.
Tomorrow. Same address.
It was Ashbridge Pendennis, he of two doors down when I was little and you were even younger, the American boy with the two brothers who was always mooning around Rosie McCosh, and she around him. He and the aforementioned frères are with the HAC, and he was ‘mighty glad’ to see me after all these years. He tells me that he is engaged to Rosie. This information made me feel very forlorn, I have to tell you, because I rather fancied her for myself. What lovely grey eyes! Or were they blue? Such wondrous cascades of chestnut hair! Such touching freckles and an adorable little nose!
I will tell you of my most recent escapades tomorrow.
Gee, it’s tomorrow already.
I took a potshot at a Taube with my carbine and missed. Couldn’t get close enough to take a hack with my sabre.
We had the most enormous binge in the mess, which was of far greater danger to me than Fritz is ever likely to be. I woke up in a ditch with frost on my beard, if I had had one. We’d been playing Cardinal Puff which is most lethal. Apparently there was a terrific rag after I passed out, and now the mess looks as though a shell has landed in it. Please don’t tell my mother – she would be very shocked. Nay, tell her that I have spent part of my spare time on my knees in church, and the rest reading the work of lady poets!
But why did we binge and rag? Chère maman, it was because a Rumpler flew over the aerodrome yesterday, and dropped some eggs somewhat inaccurately, so yours truly ran outside with the aforementioned carbine, and took a potshot at him. By some miracle I got the pilot in the calf, and he had to land before he passed out. Ergo (and eheu!) one captured intact machine, and two disgruntled Fritz aviators! We packed the pilot off to the casualty clearing station in the tender, but the observer stayed for the binge and rag, and is now in the guardroom with all his regrets and the mother of all hangovers. So, chère maman, behold the hero of the hour!
Heroically yours, grandes bises, je t’embrasse! Any news of Archie?
Ton fils dévoué,
Daniel P.