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Nov. 17, 1917.
First rain in 3 months and no flying this Saturday A.M. Hung around the hangar of the 28th air squadron watched my wreck brought in, talked with the major, and took life easy. In the hangar, which is a very modern, concrete floor roomy building with a capacity for [[underlined]] eight [[/underlined]] JN4D machines, the riggers and mechanics were busy assembling, adjusting and repairing.  The riggers and mechanics are familiarly known as "ack emmas" which is is the pronunciation of A.M. (standing for Air Mechanics) in the wireless alphabet which runs ack, beer, c, done, e, f, g, h, i, j, k, l, emma, n, o, pip, q, r, esses, toc, u, vie, w, x, y, zed. How's that for a queer line, resorted to, of course, so that the usual misinterpretation of sound that you undergo telephoning, will be obliterated.  We must be severely apart from these