recognized that talk for the real thing. It was on a par with Peter's
doctrine of 'atmosphere' and 'the double bluff' and all the other
principles that his queer old mind had cogitated out of his rackety life.

By the end of August that year Peter's was about the best-known
figure in the Flying Corps. If the reports had mentioned names he
would have been a national hero, but he was only 'Lieutenant
Blank', and the newspapers, which expatiated on his deeds, had to
praise the Service and not the man. That was right enough, for half
the magic of our Flying Corps was its freedom from advertisement.
But the British Army knew all about him, and the men in the
trenches used to discuss him as if he were a crack football-player.
There was a very big German airman called Lensch, one of the
Albatross heroes, who about the end of August claimed to have
destroyed thirty-two Allied machines. Peter had then only seventeen
planes to his credit, but he was rapidly increasing his score. Lensch
was a mighty man of valour and a good sportsman after his fashion.
He was amazingly quick at manoeuvring his machine in the actual
fight, but Peter was supposed to be better at forcing the kind of
fight he wanted. Lensch, if you like, was the tactician and Peter the
strategist. Anyhow the two were out to get each other. There were
plenty of fellows who saw the campaign as a struggle not between
Hun and Briton, but between Lensch and Pienaar.

The 15th September came, and I got knocked out and went to
hospital. When I was fit to read the papers again and receive letters,
I found to my consternation that Peter had been downed. It
happened at the end of October when the southwest gales badly
handicapped our airwork. When our bombing or reconnaissance
jobs behind the enemy lines were completed, instead of being able