Squadrons of the Air
I
I HAVE just been made popotier — I don’t know what you call it in English, but it means the individual who attends to the mess: buys provisions, wine, and so forth, makes out menus, keeps accounts, and bosses the cook. A doubtful honor, but one of which I am rather proud when I think that a crowd of French officers have intrusted to me the sacred rites of the table. I was never much of a gourmet, but what little I know stands me in good stead.
To-day was the occasion of the first, considerable feast under my régime — a lunch given by the officers of our squadron to some distinguished French visitors. The cook and I held long and anxious consultations and finally turned out a meal on which everyone complimented us: excellent hors d’œuvres, grilled salmon steaks, roast veal, asparagus, and salad. A dry Chablis with the fish and some really good Burgundy with the roast. Not bad for the front, really.
I give the cook each night enough money for the next day’s marketing. The following evening he tells me the amount of the day’s expenses, which sum I divide by the number present, giving each man’s share for the day. Very simple.
Since I got my new machine I have become a genuine hangar-loafer. It is so delicate and complicated that my unfortunate mechanics have to work practically all the time to keep me going. The only way to get the work done well is to know about it yourself; and so, against my instincts, I have been forced for the first time to study the technical and mechanical side of my bus.
Some say, ‘The pilot should never know too much about his machine — it destroys his dash.’ Perhaps they are right — certainly a plunge into this maze of technicalities destroys his sleep — there is an unwholesome fascination about it: hundreds of delicate and fragile parts, all synchronized as it were and working together, any one of which, by its defection, can upset or even wreck the whole fabric. A simple motor-failure, even in our own lines and at a good altitude, is no joke in the case of the modern single-seater. Small and enormously heavy for its wing-surface, it first touches ground at too high a speed for anything but the longest and smoothest fields. In pannes of this sort, the pilot usually steps out of the most frightful-looking wreck smiling and quite unhurt; but you can scarcely imagine the chagrin and depression one feels at breaking a fine machine. I did it once, and it made me half sick for a week, though it was not really my fault at all.
After lunch, instead of taking a nap as one does when on duty at daybreak, I go to the ‘bar’ to read letters and papers and see friends from the other squadrons. As I go in the door, five friends in flying clothes go out.
‘See you in two hours,’ says Lieutenant D―. ‘Let’s have a poker game; I ’ve got a patrol now.’
‘All right,’I say, ‘I’ll be here’— though I’m not very keen on French poker, which is somewhat different from ours.
The two hours pass in a wink of time as I lie in a steamer-chair, reading and reveling in the warm drowsy May afternoon. A sound of motors, the hollow whistling rush of landing single-seaters, and I glance out of the door. Here they come, lumbering across the field — but only four. I get up hastily and run to where the flight-commander is descending stiffly from his bus. His face is long, as we crowd around.
‘Where’s D―?’ I ask anxiously.
‘Brought down, I’m afraid,’ he answers. ‘We chased some two-seaters twenty-five miles into the Boche lines, and nine Albatrosses dropped on us. Got two of them, I think; but after the first mix-up, I lost track of D―, and he did n’t come back with us.’
A melancholy little procession heads for the bar, and while the affair is being reëxplained, the telephone rings.
‘Lieutenant D― has been found at X―. He was shot through the chest, but managed to regain our lines before he died. He was on the point of landing in a field when he lost consciousness. The machine is not badly smashed.’
At a nearby table, a dice game, which started after lunch and has been interrupted to hear the news, continues. I resume my place in my chair and spread out the Paris Herald—unable to focus my mind on the steamship arrivals or the offensive. Poor old D―!
We have had lovely weather for the past fortnight — long warm days have made the trees burst into leaf and covered the meadows with wild-flowers. The quail have begun to nest — queer little fellows, quite unlike ours, whose love-song is, ‘Whit, twit, whit,’ with a strong emphasis on the first ‘whit.’
Sometimes, at night, a nightingale, on a tree outside my window, charms me to wakefulness with his drippingsweet music.
II
These are strenuous days — I have done nothing but fly, eat, and sleep for a fortnight. Our ‘traveling circus’ has been living up to its name — going about from place to place with amazing mobility and speed. I have lived for a week with no baggage but the little bag I carry in my plane. It contains one change of light underwear, one pair of socks, tooth-brush, toothpaste, tobacco, sponge, soap, towel, shaving things, mirror, a first-aid kit, and a bottle of eau de cologne. With this I can weather a few days anywhere until the baggage-trucks catch up.
Our mobility is marvelous — we can receive our orders at daybreak, breakfast, and land in a place a hundred miles away in an hour and a half. Then a little oil and petrol, and we are ready to bounce something off the local Boche. I could easily write a large calf-bound volume on nothing but my experiences of the past week — one of the most strangely fascinating (in retrospect) of my life, though saddened by the loss of two of our pilots, one an American.
We had no sooner got to this place than we were sent out on a patrol — six of us, with a French lieutenant, a special friend of mine, as flight-commander. None of us had flown before in this sector, and a young American (S―, of New York) was making his second flight over the lines. The weather was wretched, thick, low-hanging clouds with a fine drizzle of rain — visibility almost zero. While mechanics filled the machine, I pored over my map till I had all necessary landmarks thoroughly in mind. At last the captain glanced at his watch and shouted, ‘En voiture!'
I climbed into my tiny cockpit, loaded my gun with a snap of the lever, wiped the sights free of moisture, and sank back in my seat, while my mechanic adjusted the belt which holds one tight in place. Up went the captain’s hand, and almost with a single roar the six motors started. One after another we rushed across the field, rose to the low ceiling of the clouds, and swept back, bunched like a flock of teal. The flight-commander’s head, a black leather dot in his cockpit, turned swiftly for a glance back. All there and well grouped; so he headed for the lines, flying so low that we seemed to shave the spires of village churches. Soon the houses ceased to have roofs — we were over the front.
A great battle was raging below us — columns of smoke rose from the towns and the air was rocked and torn by the passage of projectiles. Far and near the woods were alive with the winking flash of batteries. Soon we were far into the German lines; deep coughs came from the air about us as patches of black sprang out. But we were too low and our speed was too great to be bothered by the Boche gunners. Suddenly the clouds broke for an instant, and across the blue hole I saw a dozen Albatrosses driving toward us — German single-seaters, dark ugly brutes with broad short wings and pointed snouts. Our leader saw them too, and we bounded upward three hundred feet, turning to meet them. The rest happened so swiftly that I can scarcely describe it coherently. Out of the tail of my eye I saw our leader dive on an Albatross, which plunged spinning to the ground. At the same instant I bounded upward to the clouds and dropped on a Boche who was attacking a comrade. I could see my gun spitting streams of luminous bullets into the German’s fuselage. But suddenly swift incandescent sparks began to pour past me, and a glance backward showed three Albatrosses on my tail. I turned upside down, pulled back, and did a hairpin turn, rising, to get behind them. Not a German machine was in sight — they had melted away as suddenly as they came.
Far off to the south four of our machines were heading back toward the lines. Feeling very lonely and somewhat de trop, I opened the throttle wide and headed after them. Just as I caught up, the leader signaled that he was done for, and glided off, with his propeller stopped. Praying that he might get safely across to our side, I fell in behind the second in command. Only four now — who and where was the other? Anxiously I ranged alongside of each machine for a look at its number. As I had feared, it was the American — a hot-headed, fearless boy, full of courage and confidence, but inexperienced and not a skillful pilot. No word of him since. Did he lose the patrol in a sharp turn and get brought down by a prowling gang of Albatrosses, or did he have motor-trouble which forced him to land in the enemy lines? These are the questions we ask ourselves, hoping for the best.
An hour after we landed at our field, a telephone message came, saying that Lieutenant de G―had landed safely a thousand yards behind the firingline, with three balls in his motor.
The captain sent for me. ‘Take my motor-car,’ he said, ‘and go fetch de G—. The machine is in plain view on a hill. I am giving you two mechanics, so do your best to save the instruments and machine-gun. The Boche artillery will probably drop shells on the machine before nightfall.’
The trip proved rather a thriller, for at this point the old-fashioned picturebook trenchless warfare was in full blast. Picking up de G―, we hid the car in a valley and sneaked forward under an unpleasant fire of shrapnel and high explosives. The unconcerned infantry reserves, chaffing and smoking where they lay hidden in fields of ripe wheat, stiffened our slightly shaky nerves. Poor timid aviators, completely out of their element — I heaved a sigh of relief that came from the very soles of my feet when at last our task was done, and with our cargo safely stowed, we sped out of the valley and back toward the rear. Hats off to the infantry!
Next, day two of us went patrolling with the captain — a famous ‘ace’ whose courage and skillful piloting are proverbial and who never asked one of his men to do a thing he hesitated to do himself. He was particularly fond of Americans (one of Lufbery’s pall-bearers), and on many occasions had done things for me which showed his rare courtesy and thoughtfulness. None of us dreamed, as he laughed and joked with us at the breakfasttable, that it was his last day of life.
The details of this patrol will always be fresh in my mind. We were flying at about 7000 feet, the three of us, I on the captain’s right. At 6000, stretching away into the German lines, there was a beautiful sea of clouds, white and level and limitless. Far back, fifteen miles ‘chez Boche,’ a flight of Albatrosses crawled across the sky — a roughly grouped string of dots, for all the world like migrating wildfowl. Suddenly, about seven or eight miles in, a Hun two-seater poked his nose above the clouds, rose leisurely into view, and dove back. I was quite sure that he had not seen us. The captain began at once to rise, turning at the same time to take advantage of the sun, and for a few minutes we wove back and forth, edging in till we were nearly over the spot where the Boche had appeared. At last our patience was rewarded. The Boche emerged from the clouds, seemed to hesitate an instant like a timid fish rising from a bed of seaweed, and headed for the lines, where doubtless he had some reglage or reconnaissance to do.
Our position was perfect — in the sun and well above the enemy. The captain banked vertically and plunged like a thunderbolt on the German, I following a little behind and to one side. At 150 yards, streaks of fire poured from his two guns, and as he dove under the German’s belly I got into range. Dropping vertically at a speed (I suppose) of 250 miles an hour, with the wind screaming through the wires, I got my sights to bear and pulled the trigger. Faintly above the furious rush of air, I could hear the stutter of my gun and see the bullets streaking to their mark. It was over in a wink of time: as I swerved sharply to the left, I caught a glimpse of the Hun machine-gunner, in a great yellow helmet and round goggles, frantically getting his gun to bear on me. A pullback and I shot up under his tail, tilted up, and gave him another burst.
But what was this — as I opened the throttle, the engine sputtered and died! I dove steeply at once to keep the propeller turning, realizing in a flash of thought that the long fast dive had made the pressure in my gasoline tank go down. A turn of the little lever put her on the small gravity tank called the ‘nurse’; but no luck — something was wrong with the valve. Nothing to do but pump by hand, and I pumped like a madman. Seven miles in the enemy lines and dropping like a stone — I was what the French call très inquiet. Three thousand feet, two thousand, a thousand — and I pumped on, visions of a soup-diet and all the tales I had heard of German scientific food substitutes flashing through my mind. Five hundred; a splutter from the engine, and at two hundred feet above a ruined village she burst into her full roar, and I drew a breath for the first time in the descent. Crossed the lines three hundred feet up with full throttle and the nose down, and did n’t get a bullet-hole!
I was unable to find the others, and as my petrol was low I went home. The rest I have from the other pilot.
The captain apparently had the same trouble as I, for he continued his dive to about 3,000 feet, followed by the other. The German, when last seen, was diving for the ground, so we shall never know whether or not we got him. Rising again above the sea of clouds, the captain attacked the rear man of a patrol of eleven Albatrosses which passed beneath him. Turning over and over aimlessly, the Hun fell out of sight into the clouds. At this moment three Boches dove on the captain from the rear — his machine burst into flames and dove steeply toward our lines. Our remaining pilot, hopelessly outnumbered, extricated himself with difficulty and arrived a few minutes after me, his bus riddled with balls. We found the captain’s body, just behind the firing-line. He had been killed by three bullets, but had retained consciousness long enough to get to friendly ground before he died. A splendid officer and a true friend, whom we all mourn sincerely.
III
The past fortnight has been rather stirring for us — constant flying, plenty of fights, and the usual moving about. One gets used to it in time, but at first it is a wrench to a man of my conservative nature and sedentary habits. This time we have struck it rich in a village where soldiers are still welcome. I have a really charming room in the house of the principal family — well-to-do people who own the local factory. Great sunny south windows, running water, and a soft snowy bed, scented with lavender! A day of rest to-day, as they are installing a new motor in my ‘taxi’; so I am planted at a little table, looking out through my window on a warm peaceful scene of tiled roofs, rustling leaves, and a delicious sky across which float summery clouds. Not a uniform in sight, not a sound of a cannon — the war seems an impossible dream.
The last day at our old field I had a narrow escape. Two of us were flying together up and down the lines at about 4000 feet. The other chap had allowed me to get pretty far in the lead, when I spied, about 2000 feet below me, a strange-looking two-seater, darkly camouflaged, on which I could see no insignia. I dove on him, but not headlong, as the English have a machine on similar lines, and it was not until I was quite close that I made out two tiny black crosses set in circles of orange. By this time the machine-gunner was on the alert, and just, as I was going to give him a burst, flac, flac, flac, bullets began to pass me from behind. Holes suddenly appeared in my wings; in another moment whoever was shooting would have had me, so I rose steeply in a sharp turn, saw nothing, turned again and again, and finally, disappearing in the distance after the two-seater, I made out two little Pfalz scouts, painted dark green.
My comrade, who was having engine trouble, saw the whole thing. The Boche single-seaters were well behind the larger plane they were protecting, — somehow I missed seeing them,— and when I dove at their pal they rose up under my tail and let me have it with their four guns. Only some rotten shooting saved me from being brought down. The hardest thing for a new pilot to learn is the proper combination of dash and wariness: neither produces results alone; both are absolutely essential. One must bear in mind two axioms: first, bring down the enemy; second, don’t get brought down yourself. A disheartening number of young pilots, full of dash and courage, trained at great expense to their country, get themselves brought down on their first patrol, simply because they lack skill and the necessary dash of wariness. A good general does not ordinarily attack the enemy where he is strongest.
Our field was deserted: the mechanics were packing to leave, and my machine — old Slapping Sally — stood mournfully in the corner of a hangar. I stowed my belongings in the little locker at my side, had her wheeled out, adjusted my maps, and in five minutes was off on my long trip over unknown country. Our maps are really marvelous. With the compass to check up directions of roads, railroads, canals, and rivers, one can travel hundreds of miles over strange country and never miss a crossroad or a village. If, however, you allow yourself to become lost for an instant, you are probably hopelessly lost, with nothing to do but land and locate yourself on the map.
When I left, there was a gale of wind blowing, with spits of rain; and in fifteen minutes, during which I had covered forty miles, the clouds were scudding past at 300 feet off the ground, forcing me at times to jump tall trees on hills. A bit too thick. Seeing a small aerodrome on my right, I buzzed over and landed, getting a great reception from the pilots, who had never exexamined one of the latest single-seaters. It is really comical, with what awe the pilots of slower machines regard a scout. They have been filled full of mechanics’ stories about ‘landing at terrific speed — the slightest false movement means death,’ and the like; whereas in reality our machines are the easiest things in the world to land, once you get the trick.
In a couple of hours the weather showed signs of improvement, so I shook hands all round and strapped myself in. To satisfy their interest and curiosity, I taxied to the far edge of the field, headed into the wind, rose a yard off the ground, gave her full motor, and held her down to within 30 yards of the spectators, grouped before a hangar. By this time Sally was fairly burning the breeze — traveling every yard of her 135 miles an hour; and as my hosts began to scatter, I let her have her head. Up she went in a mighty bound at 45 degrees, 900 feet in the drawing of a breath. There I flattened her, reduced the motor, did a couple of ‘Immelman turns’ (instead of banking, turn upside-down, and pull back), and waved good-bye. Rather childish, but they were good fellows, and really interested in what the bus would do.
All went well as far as Paris, where I had one of the classic Paris breakdowns, though genuine enough as it chanced. Landed in the suburbs, got a mechanic to work, and had time for a delicious lunch at a small workmen’s restaurant. Treated myself to a half bottle of sound Medoc and a villainous cigar with the coffee, and got back just in time to find them testing my motor. The rest of the trip was uneventful. I arrived here in the early afternoon and installed myself for the night in these superb quarters.
This is the classic hour for French pilots to foregather in excited groups to expliquer les coups — an expressive phrase for which I can recall no exact equivalent in English. They (or rather we) spend a full hour every evening in telling just, how it was done, or why it was not done, and so on, ad infinitum. Snatches of characteristic talk reach your ears — (I will attempt a rough translation). ‘You poor fish! why did n’t you dive that time they had us bracketed ? — I had to follow you and I got an éclat as big as a dinner-plate within a foot of my back.'
‘Did you see me get that Boche over the wood? I killed the observer at the first rafale, rose over the tail, and must have got the pilot then, for he spun clear down till he crashed.’
‘See the tanks ahead of that wave of assault? Funny big crawling things they looked — that last one must have been en panne — the Boches were certainly bouncing shells off its back! ’
‘Raoul and I found a troop of Boche cavalry on a road — in khaki, I swear. Thought they were English till we were within 100 metres. Then we gave them the spray — funniest thing you ever saw!’
‘Yes — I’ll swear I saw some khaki, too. Saw a big column of Boche infantry and was just going to let ’em have it when I saw horizon-blue guards. Prisoners, of course.’
You can imagine pages of this sort of thing — every night. At the bar we have a big sign: ‘Ici on explique les coups.’ At the mess, another: ‘Defense d’expliquer les coups ici.’ There are limits.
IV
As mess-officer I have been going strong of late — nearly every day one or two or three ‘big guns’ (grosses huiles, the French call them) of aviation drop in to lunch or dinner. Down from a patrol at 10.30, and scarcely out of the machine, when up dashes our cook, knife in one hand and ladle in the other, fairly boiling over with anxiety. ‘Commandant X — and his staff are coming to lunch — I can’t leave the stove — what on earth shall we do?’
An hour and a half. Just time for the cyclist to buzz down to the nearest town for some extra hors d’œuvres, salad, and half a dozen old bottles. In the end everything runs off smoothly, and when the white wine succeeds the red, the usual explication des coups begins — highly entertaining inside stuff, from which one could cull a whole backstairs history of French aviation. It has been my privilege to meet many famous men in this way — great ‘aces’ and great administrators of the flying arm; men whose names are known wherever European aviators gather. I wish I could tell you half the drolleries they recount, or reproduce one quarter of the precise, ironical, story-telling manner of a cultivated Frenchman.
A captain who lunched with us today, bearer of an historic name, was recently decorated (somewhat against his will) for forcing a Boche to land in our lines. The truth is that in the single combat high above the lines, the captain’s motor failed and he coasted for home, manœuvring wildly to escape the pursuing Hun’s bullets. A few kilometres within our lines the German motor failed also, and down they came together — the Boche a prisoner, the Frenchman covered with not particularly welcome glory. Not all our guests knew the story, and one high officer asked the captain how he manœuvred to drive down the Boche. ‘Oh, like this,’ erratically said the captain, illustrating with frantic motions of an imaginary stick and rudder.
‘But the Boche—?' inquired the other, puzzled, ‘how did you get him down — where was he?’
‘ Ah, the Boche; he was behind me,’answered the captain.
Another officer, recently promoted to a very high position in the aviation, is a genuine character, a numero as they say here. He recently spent many hours in perfecting a trick optical sight, guaranteed to down a Boche at any range, angle, or speed. He adored his invention, which, he admitted, would probably end the war when fully perfected, and grew quite testy when his friends told him the thing was far too complicated for anything but laboratory use. At last, though he had reached a non-flying rank and had not flown for months, he installed the optical wonder on a single-seater and went out over the lines to try it out. As luck would have it, he fell in with a patrol of eight Albatrosses, and the fight that followed has become legendary. Roche after Boche dove on him, riddling his plane with bullets, while the inventor, in a scientific ecstasy, peered this way and that through his sight, adjusting set-screws and making hasty mental notes. By a miracle he was not brought down, and in the end a French patrol came to his rescue. He had not fired a shot! At lunch the other day someone asked what sort of a chap this inventor was, and the answer was so exceedingly French that I will reproduce it word for word: ‘He detests women and dogs; he has a wife he adores, and a dog he can’t let out of his sight.’ A priceless characterization, I think, of a testy yet amiable old martinet.
One of my friends here had the luck, several months ago, to force a Zeppelin to land. A strange and wonderful experience, he says, circling for an hour and a half about the huge air-monster, which seemed to be having trouble with its gas. He poured bullets into it until his supply was exhausted, and headed it off every time it tried to make for the German lines. All the while it was settling, almost insensibly, and finally the Hun crew began to throw things out — machine-guns, long belts of cartridges, provisions, furniture, a motley collection. In the end it landed intact in our lines — a great catch. The size of the thing is simply incredible. This one was at least ninety feet through, and I hesitate to say how many hundred feet long.
Three more of our boys gone, one of them my most particular pal. Strange as it seems, I am one of the oldest members of the squadron left. We buried Harry yesterday. He was the finest type of young French officer — an aviator since 1913; volunteer at the outbreak of war; taken prisoner, badly wounded; fourteen months in a German fortress; escaped, killing three guards, across Germany in the dead of winter, sick and with an unhealed wound; back on the front, after ten days with his family, although he need never have been a combatant again. A charming, cultivated, witty companion, one of the most finished pilots in France, and a soldier whose only thought was of duty, his loss is a heavy one for his friends, his family, and his country. For a day and a night he lay in state in the church of a nearby village, buried in flowers sent by half the squadrons of France; at his feet his tunic ablaze with crosses and orders. It was my turn to stand guard the morning his family arrived, and I was touched by the charming simple piety of the countryfolk, who came in an unending stream to kneel and say a prayer for the soul of the departed soldier. Old women with baskets of bread and cheese on their arms brought pathetic little bouquets; tiny girls of seven or eight came in solemnly alone, dropped a flower on Harry’s coffin, and knelt to pray on their little bare knees. The French peasants get something from their church that most of us at home seem to miss.
At last the family came — worn out with the long sad journey from their château in middle France. Harry’s mother, slender, aristocratic, and courageous, had lost her other son a short time before, and I was nearer tears at her magnificent self-control than if she had broken down like a farmer’s wife. Her bearing throughout the long mass and at the graveside was one of the finest and saddest things I have ever seen in my life. Poor old Harry — I hope he is in a paradise reserved for heroes — for he was one in the truest sense of the word.
v
I got absolutely lost the other day, for the second time since I have been on the front. I was flying at about 19,000 feet, half a mile above a lovely sea of clouds. I supposed I was directly over the front, but in reality there was a gale of wind blowing, drifting me rapidly chez Boche. Three thousand feet below, and miles to the northeast, a patrol of German scouts beat back and forth, a string of dots, appearing and disappearing among the cloudy peaks and cañons. Too strong and too far in their lines to attack, I was alternately watching them and my clock — very cold and bored. Suddenly, straight below me and heading for home at top speed, I saw a big Hun two-seater, with enormous black crosses on his wings. At such a moment — I confess it frankly — there seem to be two individuals in me who in a flash of time conclude a heated argument. Says one, ‘You ’re all alone; no one will ever know it if you sail calmly on, pretending not to see the Boche.’
‘See that Boche; says the other; you ’re here to get Germans — go after him.’
‘See here,’ puts in the first, who is very clever at excuses, ‘time’s nearly up, petrol’s low, and there are five Hun scouts who will drop on you if you dive on the two-seater.’
‘Forget it, you poor weak-kneed boob!’ answers number two heatedly. ‘Dive on that Hun and be quick about it!’
So I dove on him, obeying automatically and almost reluctantly the imperious little voice. With an eye to the machine-gunner in the rear, I drove down on him almost vertically, getting in a burst point-blank at his port bow, so to speak. Pushing still farther forward on the stick, I saw his wheels pass over me like a flash, ten yards up. Pulled the throttle wide open, but the motor was a second late in catching, so that when I did an Immelman turn to come up under his tail, I was too far back and to one side. As I pulled out of the upside-down position, luminous sparks began to drive past me, and a second later I caught a glimpse of the goggled Hun observer leaning intently over his cockpit as he trained his gun on me.
But beside old Slapping Sally his machine was as a buzzard to a falcon; in a breath I was under his tail, had reared almost vertically, and was pouring bullets into his underbody. ‘You will shoot me up, will you?’ I yelled ferociously — just like a bad boy in a back-yard fight. ‘Take that, then —’ at which dramatic instant a quart of scalding oil struck me in the face, half in the eyes, and half in my open mouth. I never saw the Boche again, and five minutes later, when I had cleaned my eyes out enough to see dimly, I was totally lost. Keeping just above the clouds to watch for holes, I was ten long minutes at 130 miles per hour in getting to the lines, at a place I had never seen before.
Landed at a strange aerodrome, filled Sally up, and flew home 75 miles by map. As usual, everyone had begun the old story of how I was not a bad chap at bottom, and had many noble qualities safely hidden away — when I strolled into the bar. Slight sensation as usual, tinged with a suspicion of mild disappointment.
Almost with regret, I have turned faithful old Slapping Sally over to a newly arrived young pilot, and taken a new machine, the last lingering echo of the dernier cri in fighting single-seaters. I had hoped for one for some time, and now the captain has allotted me a brandnew one, fresh from the factory. It is a formidable little monster, squat and broad-winged, armed to the teeth, with the power of two hundred and fifty wild horses bellowing out through its exhausts.
With slight inward trepidations I took it up for a spin after lunch. The thing is terrific — it fairly hurtles its way up through the air, roaring and snorting and trembling with its enormousexcess of power. Not half so pleasant as Sally, but a grimly practical little dragon of immense speed and potential destructiveness. At a couple of thousand feet over the field, I shut off the motor and dove to try it out. It fairly took my breath away — behind my goggles my eyes filled with tears; my body rose up in the safety-belt, refusing to keep pace with the machine’s formidable speed. In a wink, I was close to the ground, straightened out, and rushing low over the blurred grass at a criminal gait — never made a faster landing. It is a tribute to man’s war-time ingenuity, but, for pleasure, give me my old machine.
The psychology of flying would be a curious study, were it not so difficult to get frankly stated data — uninfluenced by pride, self-respect, or sense of morale. I only know my own feelings in so far as they represent the average single-seater pilot. Once in the air, I am perfectly contented and at home, somewhat bored at times on dull days, or when very high and cold. On the other hand, I have never been strapped in a machine to leave the ground, without an underlying slight nervousness and reluctance; no great matter, and only an instant’s mental struggle to overcome, but enough perhaps to prevent me from flying the very small and powerful machines, for pleasure, after the war. I often wonder if other pilots have the same feeling — it’s nothing to be ashamed of, because it does not, in the slightest, prevent one’s doing one’s duty, and disappears the moment one is in the air. I can give you its measure in the fact that I always prefer, when possible, to make a long journey in my machine, to doing it in the deadly slow wartime trains. Still, it’s a choice of evils. It is hard to give reasons, but certainly flying is not an enjoyable sport, like riding or motoring, once the wonder of it has worn off; simply a slightly disagreeable but marvelously fast means of transport. The wind, the noise, the impossibility of conversation, the excessive speed — are all unpleasant features. These are partially redeemed by the never-ceasing wonder of what one sees. One’s other senses are useless in the air, but what a feast for the eyes! Whole fruitful domains spread out beneath one, silvery rivers, smoking cities, perhaps a glimpse of the far-off ragged Alps. And when, at 18,000 or 20,000 feet, above a white endless sea of clouds, you float almost unconscious of time and space in the unearthly sunshine of the Universe, there are moments when infinite things are very close.