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482

Noon. Sept. 2, 1918.

I feel pretty good, as the saying goes. For the flight had seven machines [[strikethrough]] [[?]] [[/strikethrough]] ^[[ready for big,]] and seven of us got off in apple pie order (although four of us had to return before the patrol made the lines]) and- what's the use of writing any more sentences before I say that I got a crack at another Hun biplane biplane and am awaiting confirmation of its destruction!
We were on 7 am patrol [[striketrhough]] and [[/strikethrough]] ^[[so]] at 5:30 I was awakened by the orderly, and [[strikethrough]] [[?]] [[/strikethrough]] after breakfast Tyndall, Doolin, Jones, Halings, Hassinger, Clapp and I meandered to the [['drone?]] in ample time to leave on the dot. This was the first clear day in many and a patrol from the 49th had already gone aloft when, as is customary when the sun [[strikethrough]] [[?]][[/strikethrough]] ^[[comes]] up on a cloudless day ^[[at this time of year,]] a bleary ground fog out in