May 1, 1917:
I am still very much in love with my work. Since last writing I have had a few of the usual thrills one always has when doing certain things for the first time. For instance I went over the [Deleted] and got "Archied" (shelled by anti-aircraft guns), which everyone does and thinks nothing of it. Then my engine conked out and I had to have a forced landing. She conked when I was up about 3000 feet so that I had nothing to worry about as I was able to glide about 3 miles without any assistance from the engine. So I got that fixed up and then came home quite safely.

This morning I was on duty on the aerodrome at 4.15. I have to stand by all day or until a job of work turns up. I am expecting a call every minute now. It is 10 A.M. and such a beautiful day, that it will be funny if there isn't a job of some sort. As a rule our work is either an artillery shoot in which we make corrections for the battery by wireless, take photographs of the enemy trenches, fortifications and etc, or go over and drop bombs on their towns and transport. It is all very interesting and sometimes a little excitement mixed in with it.

May 12, 1917:
Yesterday I had a big job on. I started out about half past one to do a shoot with an 8 inch howitzer. My machine was very poor, that is the engine was bad so I had to nurse it along all the time. We did over 100 rounds and it took 3 1/2 hours and it was very hot. In that time I suppose I flew well over 200 miles and twisting and turning all the time. The engine was so bad and the controls were so heavy that my feet and arms ached the whole time. But the annoying part was that we couldn't get above 2500 feet and that is rather a dangerous height. I remember about half way thru the shoot my observer turned around, looking as white as a sheet and shouted something which I could not hear. Just then my machine dropped, like a pancake for about 50 feet and I heard a swish. When we got down he told me that a 12 inch shell had passed just under us. He had seen it coming and wanted me to climb, which I couldn't. The poor beggar must have had a scare. I didn't see it so it didn't disturb my equilibrium. A miss is as good as a mile in a case of that kind.

June 17,1917:
Today has been rather unfortunate for us too, I mean for our squadron. It has been the worst day for fatalities and casualties since I came to the squadron 2 months ago. No one feels very chirpy tonight as a result. However I had a rather amusing experience. I went over to get some rather difficult photographs, at least the fellows who tried to get them before, had had hard luck, with the Huns and Archie and etc. And I am the last man on earth for a job like that as I never know where I am when I take photographs. However I happened to know this particular place very well. So over I went. Before I had gone far I was attacked by a wretched Hun, a scout machine. This time I thought I would change my tactics and instead of turning for home, I went at him. He just fired a few rounds at me and then turned for home himself. Well of course I thought I was very brave, so I continued with my photographs. Then they shot up lots of archie, and I had to do some tall turns to get out of it. Once I felt my belt tighten and when I looked down I saw the sky, so I guess I was a bit upside down, but I was doing 115 miles per hour at the time so gravity didn't have much effect.

Finally I straightened out and finished my photos without any very great mishaps. But the funniest part was that when I got home I found that one of my chums from another squadron, in a fighting machine, who had been in to our mess during the morning and knew I was going over had escorted me, and was sitting just 1000 ft over my head all the time. It was he who chased away the Hun. Then when he came back he couldn't see me, but saw a speck away over in Hunland and concluded that I had gone over and lost my way, and went over after me. Then when he got there, miles over, he found it was a big Hun, who immediately attacked him. But he got out of it O.K. He is an awfully fine chap. When he got down he told me all about it, and thought it one of the best jokes ever. And so it was, what?

July 16, 1917:
I felt quite a novice at flying yesterday. It was nearly two weeks since I had been up in a machine. About 12 days ago while I was on photography I ran into a bunch of three Huns. I missed my escort somehow, or else they failed to show up. Anyway, I had to go over alone. When I got over 3 scouts were there to greet me. Of course, I was scared stiff but it was too late to turn back so I did the unexpected and dived on the nearest one. I took him quite unawares, so I got my old machine going at about 100 or 110 m. p. h. and when within about 100 feet of him I pulled the trigger. But you can imagine how I felt when it didn't work. However, I don't think I felt any worse than he did. I saw his face and it was anything but pleasant. He saw at once that I was helpless so he got ready for a go at me, but just then a gust of wind got under one of his wings and before he had recovered I made a quick turn and my machine gunner in the rear seat got busy, and in less than 15 seconds he had 80 rounds into him and he went down. We saw no more of him. But the other two then came on and by attacking us from both sides at once, they gave us a busy time. My gunner was splendid and kept them off but they certainly got a few shots into the bus. I guess I turned the old machine upside down and into all shapes but it had the right effect anyway.

Early in the scrap I got a bullet into my right leg, but it did not bother me much, and it was not until I was nearly home that my leg felt numb. At any rate we got our photos and landed alright, which are the main things. My gunner worked the camera with his feet while he kept the Huns off with the gun. Quite a stout effort on his part, don't you think? After I had finished lunch I went to the Hospital where I knew all the doctors and had leg dressed and X-rayed. It was in there alright but pretty deep into the flesh so I decided not to have it cut open, so it is still there.

We are all quite depressed tonight as one of our best pilots was brought down today by one of our own shells. It is hard luck to be hit by our own, isn't it? I had a similar experience about two weeks ago. A 6" shell went thru my planes, cutting away my flying wires on one side but it did not explode, so I got down alright. It certainly puts the wind up one at the time, though.

Wilbert Gilroy flew reconnaissance missions for nine months in 1917 before suffering a serious wound in October. This ended his career as a pilot. He finished his service time in England before returning to Canada after the war.