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Field #8

This May Day of 1918 proved to be as far from spring as [[strikethrough]] [[?]] [[/strikethrough]] usual, up to 9 A.M. After that hour the fog cleared rapidly and the ensuing time was a reverie of woods and flowers and fishing days for me. In short my spring fever returned with the periodic regularity of my school days, but unlike the old tearing out to commune with nature when study and people became unbearable [[strikethrough]] was not [[/strikethrough]] what I did under the present unusual circumstances ^[[was a variation in this year's programme.]]

Here at the last field each man has a bus of his own assigned him; if he crashes he must wait for the machine to be  [[strikethroughh]] finished, in short [[/strikethrough]] ^[[fixed]] it is a forerunner of what we'll do for ourselves when we get our very own planes within a short time.