«b^ 
 
 A- / % •! 
 
 
 
 c ♦ 
 
 «0v 
 
 
 
 V<V 
 
 . »* A 
 
 
 ++ 
 
 ^0 
 
 
 ,0 
 
 f&>. *♦.,,•- ^ 
 
 
 
 
 v*^^y V^-^^o 
 
 -v « t • 
 
 
 
 %. & 
 
% 
 
 y *& 
 
 
 :• # ^ • 
 
 ~<* ~**T7r«' .g* 
 
 
 
 
 v « * • 
 
 o* ♦•To 9 at 
 ■V ,0* 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 jP^ 
 
 -4<fe 
 
 N " «Q ^ * * / 1 
 
 jP<t\ 
 
 
 ^"^ 
 
 * <& ^ 
 
 
AIR MEN O' WAR 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 BETWEEN THE LINES 
 $1.50 net 
 
 ACTION FRONT 
 $1.50 net 
 
 DOING THEIR BIT 
 $1.2$ net 
 
 GRAPES OF WRATH 
 $1.50 net 
 
 FRONT LINES 
 
 $1.50 net 
 
 E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 
 
AIR MEN O' WAR 
 
 BY 
 
 BOYD CABLE 
 
 AUTHOR OF "BETWEEN THE LINES," " ACTION FRONT' 
 " GRAPES OF WRATH," " FRONT LINES," ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 
 
 68 1 Fifth Avenue 
 
Copyright 1919 
 By E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 ><6 
 
 *\ 
 
 V\ 
 
 '■'■ 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
 ©CI.A515313 
 
 APR 21 I9!9 
 
TO ALL 
 
 AIR MEN 0' WAR 
 
 and especially to those who are or have been 
 
 on the western front, whose hospitality and 
 
 friendship i have enjoyed, and to whose help 
 
 and interest these tales are largely due, this 
 
 book is dedicated as a tribute of admiration 
 
 and a token of cherished friendship by 
 
 The Author. 
 In the Field, 
 September 6th, 1918. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2011 with funding from 
 The Library of Congress 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/airmenowarOOcabl 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 It has been my endeavour throughout these 
 tales not only to chronicle some of the wonderful 
 work done in the air, but also to show the con- 
 nection between it and that of the Armies on 
 the ground, the assistance rendered in so many 
 ways by the air arm, and its value in a battle 
 and in a campaign. I hope that my stories may 
 show something of the skill and daring of the 
 air men and — what is less well known to the 
 public — how much they are doing to save the 
 lives and cut down the casualties of the men on 
 the ground, and to help our arms to victory. 
 
 Already I have been rebuked for exaggerating 
 and making my characters perform impossible 
 feats, so I may forewarn the reader that I have 
 written nothing here for which I cannot find an 
 actual parallel — and in some cases even more 
 wonderful — fact. Practically every incident I 
 have pieced into my tales has, to my own knowl- 
 edge, occurred, and I have left untold many 
 which for sheer sensationalism would beat these 
 hollow. There are many in the Air Force who 
 will recognise incidents and feats, but will not 
 recognise the characters I have attached to them, 
 because — mainly at the urgent wish of the 
 men themselves — I have used entirely fictitious 
 
viii FOREWORD 
 
 characters and names throughout. Because 
 most of the writing was done while the-R.N.A.S. 
 and R.F.C. were still in existence I have left this 
 as written. 
 
 I ask the indulgence of critical readers amongst 
 the air men to any technical errors they may 
 discover (knowing how keenly they will look for 
 them). I make no pretence to being a flying 
 man myself, but because I have done flying 
 enough — or rather have been flown, since I am 
 not a pilot — to know and appreciate some of 
 the dangers and risks and sensations of the work, 
 and have lived for over a year in the Squadrons 
 at the Front, I cherish the hope that I have 
 absorbed enough of the nature and atmosphere 
 of the work to present a true picture of the life. 
 I shall be very well content if I have been able 
 to do this, and, in any slightest degree, make 
 plain how vital to success a strong Air Force is. 
 I have had experience enough of the line, and 
 have gained enough knowledge of the air, to be 
 tremendously impressed with the belief, which 
 I have tried in this book to pass on and spread, 
 that every squadron added, every man trained, 
 every single machine put in the air, helps in its 
 own measure to bring us to final victory, more 
 quickly, and at a less cost in the long and heavy 
 "butcher's bill" of the war. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. Silver Wings 
 II. Bring Home the 'Bus 
 
 III. A Tender Subject . 
 
 IV. A Good Day 
 V. A Rotten Formation 
 
 VI. Quick Work 
 VII. The Air Masters 
 VIII. "The Attack was Broken" 
 
 IX. If They Knew . 
 
 X. The Fo-fum's Reputation 
 XI. Like Gentlemen 
 XII. "Air Activity" . 
 XIII. The Little Butcher 
 
 PAGE 
 1 
 
 14 
 
 32 
 
 46 
 
 57 
 
 68 
 
 80 
 
 94 
 
 107 
 
 120 
 
 131 
 
 146 
 
 164 
 
X 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 
 CHAPTEB 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XIV. 
 
 A Cushy Job . 
 
 178 
 
 XV. 
 
 No Thoroughfare . 
 
 . 185 
 
 XVI. 
 
 
 196 
 
 XVII. 
 
 
 . 212 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 The Raid Killers . 
 
 . 232 
 
AIR MEN O' WAR 
 
 SILVER WINGS 
 
 An old man working in one of the aircraft fac- 
 tories once complained that he was not very- 
 satisfied with his job. "I've got three boys 
 out Front, all in the infantry; and I keep 
 thinkin' to myself, Why shouldn't I be doin' 
 some sort of munition work that 'ud help my 
 own three boys? I don't know a livin' soul 
 in the Flyin' Corpse; why should I be workin' 
 for them, an' not makin* shells or bombs or 
 suthin' that 'ud be helpin' my own three boys?" 
 
 And then somebody told him how he was 
 helping his boys, what the work of the air ser- 
 vices really meant, how the artillery observation, 
 and photographing, and bombing, and directing 
 the guns on to hostile batteries and machine-gun 
 emplacements, and so on, all worked up to the 
 one great end, to making the task easier for 
 the infantry, to saving the lives of the men on 
 the ground ; and told a few stories of some of the 
 ninety and nine ways this help works out. 
 
 The old man was fully satisfied and grateful 
 l 
 
2 SILVER WINGS 
 
 for all that was told him, and declared he'd go 
 back to his job with twice the heart — "just 
 knowin' I'm doin' mebbe the best work I could, 
 and that I'm givin' real help to my own three 
 boys." 
 
 Amongst the tales told him the one of "Silver 
 Wings" perhaps impressed him most, and that, 
 probably because it bore more plainly its own 
 meaning of help to the infantry, was more easy 
 to make clear than the technicalities of artillery 
 observation and the rest. 
 
 And just because it is such a good instance 
 of how, after all, the chief or only end and aim 
 of the air services is the helping to victory of 
 the men on the ground this story of "Silver 
 Wings" may be worth the telling here. 
 
 Hard fighting had been in progress for some 
 days, and the flying men had been kept desper- 
 ately busy from dawn to dark on the various 
 branches of their several works, when a "dud 
 day" — a day of rain and squalls and hurricane 
 winds — gave them a chance to rest. 
 
 Toward afternoon the weather showed signs 
 of abating a little, and word came through to 
 the Squadron to which "Silver Wings" belonged 
 asking if they could get a machine in the air 
 and make a short patrol over the line on a 
 special reconnaissance. A heavy and un- 
 pleasantly gusty wind was still blowing, but a 
 pilot and machine were picked for the job and 
 presently made the attempt. An anxious 
 Squadron Commander and a good many of the 
 pilots watched the trial and saw the quick 
 
SILVER WINGS 3 
 
 result. The machine was brought out with 
 mechanics hanging to the wing-tips to steady 
 her against the gusts, the engine started and 
 given a trial run up; then the pilot eased her 
 off, looked round, felt his controls, ran the 
 engine up again until his machine was throbbing 
 and quivering to the pull of the whirling pro- 
 peller, and waved the signal to haul away the 
 chocks that blocked his wheels. His machine 
 began at once to taxi up into the wind, still 
 swaying and swinging dangerously, and then, 
 in answer to the pilot's touch, lifted clear of 
 the ground, ducked a second, rose again and 
 swooped upward. The watching crowd let go 
 a breath of relief as she rose clear, but before 
 the breath was out it changed to a gasp of 
 horror as the machine, caught by some current 
 or eddy of wind, swerved, heeled, righted under 
 the desperate effort of the pilot, slipped side- 
 ways, and with a sudden swoop plunged and 
 crashed on the ground. The machine was hope- 
 lessly smashed and the pilot was dead when 
 they ran and came to him and picked him up. i 
 
 The Squadron Commander would have aban- 
 doned or postponed the attempt to get a machine 
 up, but the pilot of "Silver Wings" spoke to 
 him and urged that he be allowed to have a try. 
 "I'm sure I can get her off," he said. "I'll 
 take her right over to the far side of the ground 
 clear of the currents round the sheds. I know 
 what she can do, and I'm certain I can make it." 
 
 So the Major gave a reluctant consent, and 
 they all watched breathlessly again while "Silver 
 
4 SILVER WINGS 
 
 Wings" fought her way along the ground against 
 the wind, lifted suddenly, drove level for a 
 hundred feet, swooped sickeningly again until 
 her wheels were a bare six feet off the ground, 
 hoicked up and away. Everyone could see 
 by her dips and dives and sudden heelings and 
 quick righting how bumpy and gusty the air 
 was, and it was not until she was up several 
 hundred feet, and came curving round with the 
 wet light shining on her silvery planes that the 
 watchers on the ground heaved a sigh of relief, 
 watched her streak off down wind, and swing 
 in a climbing turn that lifted her farther and 
 farther into the safety of height. 
 
 "He's all right now," said one. "Only, the 
 Lord help him when he comes to land again." 
 The hum of the engine droned down to them, 
 and the shining wings wheeled again close up 
 against the dark background of the low clouds 
 and shot swiftly down wind towards the lines. 
 
 Over the lines she turned again and began 
 to fight her way across wind and moving slowly 
 north. The wind constantly forced her drifting 
 over Hunland, and in accordance with his 
 orders to hold close along the front, the pilot 
 had to keep making turns that brought him 
 facing back to the west and fighting slowly up 
 wind, edging off a little and slanting north 
 and watching the landscape slide off sideways 
 under him. And so, tacking and manoeuvring 
 buffeted and wind-blown, he edged his way along 
 the front, his eyes alternately on the instrument- 
 board and on the ground and puffing shell smoke 
 
SILVER WINGS 5 
 
 beneath, his ears filled with the roar of his 
 engine and the shriek and boom of the wind 
 beating about him, his hands and feet in con- 
 stant motion, juggling with controls, feeling, 
 balancing, handling the throbbing horse-power 
 and the wind-tossed fabric under him. And 
 so at last, at the end of a hard-fought hour, he 
 came to the spot he sought, circled and "sat 
 over it" for five minutes, and watched and 
 tried to pick up the details of the struggle that 
 spluttered and spat in smoke-puffs and flashing 
 jets of fire and leaping spouts of earth and 
 smoke beneath him. He began to piece to- 
 gether the meaning of what he could see, and 
 of what he had been told before he set out. A 
 body of our infantry in the attack had gone 
 too far, or their supports had not come far 
 enough, with the result that they had been 
 cut off and surrounded and were fighting desper- 
 ately to hold off the infantry attacks that pressed 
 in on them under a heavy supporting artillery 
 fire. The cut-off party were hidden from the 
 view of our front line by a slight ridge and a 
 wrecked and splintered wood, and their desperate 
 straits, the actual fact of their still being in 
 existence, much less their exact location, was 
 unknown to our side. This much the pilot 
 knew or was able to figure out; what he could 
 not know was the surge of hope, the throb of 
 thankfulness that came to the hard-pressed 
 handful below him as they saw the glancing light 
 flash from his hovering "Silver Wings." They 
 made signals to him, waving a dirty flag and 
 
6 SILVER WINGS 
 
 straining their eyes up for any sign that he saw 
 and understood. And with something very 
 near to despair in their hearts they saw the 
 shining wings slant and drive slowly up into 
 the wind and draw away from over their heads. 
 
 "No good, Jones," said a smoke- and dirt- 
 grimed young officer to the man still waving the 
 flag. "He doesn't see us, I'm afraid. Better 
 put that down and go back and help hold off 
 those bombers." 
 
 "Surely he'd hear all this firing, sir," said 
 the man, reluctantly ceasing to wave. 
 
 "I think his engine and the wind drowns any 
 noise down here," said the officer,, "And if he 
 hears anything, there's plenty of heavy gunfire 
 all along the front going up to him." 
 
 "But wouldn't he see the shells falling 
 amongst us, sir, and the bombs bursting, and 
 so on?" said the man. 
 
 "Yes; but he is seeing thousands of shells 
 and bombs along the line from up there," said 
 the officer; "and I suppose he wouldn't know 
 this wasn't just a bit of the ordinary front." 
 
 Another man crawled over the broken debris 
 of the trench to where they stood. "Mister 
 Waller has been hit, sir," he said; "an' he 
 said to tell you it looks like they was musterin' 
 for another rush over where he is." 
 
 "Badly hit?" said the officer anxiously. 
 "All right, I'll come along." 
 
 "He sees us, sir," said the man with the flag, 
 in sudden excitement. "Look, he's fired a 
 light." 
 
SILVER WINGS 7 
 
 "Pity we haven't one to fire," said the officer. 
 "But that might be a signal to anyone rather 
 than to us." 
 
 He turned to crawl after the man who had 
 brought the message, and at the same moment 
 a rising rattle of rifle-fire and the quick follow- 
 ing detonations of bursting bombs gave notice 
 of a fresh attack being begun. Still worse, he 
 heard the unmistakable tat-tat-tat of renewed 
 machine-gun fire, and a stream of bullets began 
 to pour in on them from a group of shell-holes 
 to their right flank, less than a hundred yards 
 from the broken trench they held. Under cover 
 of this pelting fire, that forced the defenders to 
 keep their heads down and cost them half a 
 dozen quick casualties amongst those who tried 
 to answer it, the German bombers crept closer 
 in from shell-hole to shell-hole, and their grenades 
 came over in faster and thicker showers. The 
 little circle of ground held by the group belched 
 spurts of smoke, hummed to the passage of 
 bullets, crackled and snapped under their im- 
 pact, quivered every now and then to the crash 
 and burst of shells. They had been fighting 
 since the night before; they were already 
 running short of ammunition, would have been 
 completely short of bombs but for the fact of 
 the ground they had taken having held a con- 
 creted dug-out with plentiful stores of German 
 bombs and grenades which they used to help 
 out their own supply. The attack pressed 
 savagely; it began to look as if it would be 
 merely a matter of minutes before the Germans 
 
8 SILVER WINGS 
 
 rushed the broken trenches they held, and then, 
 as they knew, they must be overwhelmed by 
 sheer weight of numbers. Waller, the wounded 
 officer, had refused to be moved. "I'll stay 
 here and see it out," he said; "I don't suppose 
 that will be long now;" and the other, the 
 young lieutenant who was the only officer left 
 on his feet by this time, could say no more than 
 a hopeful " Maybe we'll stand 'em off a bit yet," 
 and leave him there to push along the trench 
 to where the fire and bombing were heaviest 
 and where the rush threatened to break in. 
 
 The din was deafening, a confused uproar of 
 rifles and machine-guns cracking and rattling 
 out in front and banging noisily in their own 
 trench, of bombs and grenades crashing sharply 
 on the open or booming heavily in the trench 
 bottom, of shells whooping and shrieking over- 
 head or crumping savagely on the ground, and, 
 as a background of noise to all the other noises, 
 the long rolling, unbroken thunder of the guns 
 on both sides far up and down the lines. 
 
 But above all the other din the lieutenant 
 caught a new sound, a singing, whirring boo- 
 00-oom that rose to a deep-throated roar with 
 a sharp staccato rap-tap-tap-tap running through 
 it. He looked up towards the sound and saw, 
 so close that he half ducked his head, a plunging 
 shape, a flashing streak of silver light that 
 swept over his head and dived straight at the 
 ground beyond his trench, with stabbing jets 
 of orange flame spitting out ahead of it. A bare 
 fifty feet off the ground where the Germans 
 
SILVER WINGS 9 
 
 crouched in their shell-holes "Silver Wings" 
 swooped up sharply, curved over, dived again 
 with the flashes of her gun flickering and stream- 
 ing, and the bullets hailing down on the heads 
 of the attackers. It was more than the Germans, 
 lying open and exposed to the overhead attack, 
 could bear. They scrambled from their holes, 
 floundered and ran crouching back for the 
 shelter of deeper trenches, while the lieutenant, 
 seeing his chance, yelled and yelled again at his 
 men to fire, and seized a rifle himself to help 
 cut down the demoralised attack. He could 
 see now how close a thing it had been for them, 
 the weight of the attack that presently would 
 have swarmed over them. The ground was 
 alive with running, scrambling grey figures, 
 until the bullets pelting amongst them cut 
 them down or drove them headlong to cover 
 again. Then his men stopped firing and watched 
 with hoarse cheering and shouts the dives and 
 upward leaps of the silvery shape, her skimmings 
 along the ground, her upward wheeling climbs 
 followed by the plunging dives with fire spitting 
 and sparkling from her bows. The Germans 
 were firing at her now with rifles and machine- 
 guns until she turned on the spot where these 
 last were nested, drove straight at them and 
 poured long clattering bursts of fire upon them 
 until they were silenced. 
 
 Then she turned and flew over the broken 
 British trenches so close that the men in them 
 could see the leather-clad head and arm of the 
 pilot leaning over the side, could see his wave 
 
10 SILVER WINGS 
 
 to them, the flung packet that dropped with 
 fluttering streamers down amongst them. The 
 packet carried a note jerkingly scribbled in 
 pencil: "Hang on. I'm taking word of where 
 you are, so that they can send help to you. 
 Good luck." 
 
 The lieutenant, when he had read, handed 
 the message to a sergeant and told him to pass 
 it along round the men. And they read and 
 shouted cheers they knew he could not hear 
 to the pilot lifting the " Silver Wings" steadily 
 into the sky and back towards the lines. He 
 was high enough now for the "Archies" to 
 bear on him again, and from their trenches the 
 men watched with anxious hearts and throbs 
 of fear and hope the black puffs of smoke that 
 broke rapidly above, below, and about the 
 glinting silver. He made desperately slow speed 
 against the heavy wind, but fortunately had 
 not far to go before he was far enough back to 
 be over the lines and out of reach of the Archies. 
 Then just when it seemed that he was safe, 
 when the Archie shells had ceased suddenly to 
 puff about him, the watchers saw another 
 machine drop from the cover of a cloud, dive 
 straight down on the little silver shape, saw the 
 silver wings widen as they turned sharply up- 
 ward to face the enemy, wheel and shoot side- 
 ways to avoid the dive. With beating hearts 
 and straining eyes they watched the two dipping 
 and curving, lifting and diving, wheeling and 
 circling about each other. The battle noises 
 drowned all sound of their guns, but they knew 
 
SILVER WINGS 11 
 
 well the rapid rattle of fire that was going on 
 up there, the exchange of shots, the streaming 
 bullets that poured about both, thought at 
 last they could catch the sound of the firing 
 clearly, could see the black cross and circled 
 red, white, blue, that marked enemy and friend 
 as the two machines drifted back in their fight- 
 ing down wind until they were almost overhead. 
 Once the watchers gasped as the enemy dived on 
 "Silver Wings" and she slipped sideways and 
 came down a thousand feet nose first and spinning 
 in dizzy circles. The gasp changed to a cry of 
 relief as the "Silver Wings" righted, zoomed 
 sharply up, whirled round, and in turn dived 
 on the enemy machine, that had overshot his 
 pursuing dive and come below her. And the 
 cry changed again to a yell of applause, a burst 
 of cheers, as the enemy swerved suddenly, slid 
 drunkenly sideways and down, rolled over, and 
 fell away in a spinning dive, swoop after sicken- 
 ing swoop, that ended crashing in a clump of 
 wood half a mile away. A wind-blown torrent 
 of streaming black smoke marked the place of the 
 fall and the fate of the enemy. "Silver Wings" 
 turned again, and fought her way back towards 
 the lines, with the Archie shells puffing and 
 splashing about her. 
 
 Down in their trenches the isolated cluster of 
 men set about strengthening their defences 
 with new heart, made with a new hope prepara- 
 tions to withstand the next attacks. It was 
 not long before they had help — a help that the 
 guns, knowing now exactly where they were 
 
12 SILVER WINGS 
 
 although they could not see, could send in 
 advance of the rescuing attack. A barrage of 
 shells began to pound down beyond them, out 
 to their right and left, and even behind them. 
 "Silver Wings" had dropped her message, and 
 the shells brought the answer plain to the cut-off 
 party. They knew that they were located, that 
 the guns would help out their defence, that rescue 
 would come to them as speedily as might be. 
 
 The actual rescue came presently in the shape 
 of an attack over the ground they had covered 
 the day before. Before it came they had to 
 beat off one or two more enemy rushes, but this 
 time the help of those barraging shells stood 
 them in good stead, the sweeping shrapnel 
 prevented the enemy creeping in to occupy in 
 comparative safety the shell-holes round the 
 position, the steady fall of high explosives broke 
 down the enemy trenches and checked free 
 movement in them. The Germans were badly 
 pounded on that portion of front, so that when 
 the rescuing attack was made, it fought its way 
 rapidly forward, and the isolated party were 
 able to do something to help it merely by hanging 
 to their position, by rear and flanking fire on 
 the Germans who held the ground between 
 them and the attacking line. The attack re- 
 sulted in the whole line being pushed forward 
 to the ridge behind the separated party, holding 
 it, and thrusting forward a little salient which 
 took in the ground the party had hung to so 
 stoutly, consolidated, and held it firm. 
 
 The rescued men were passed back to their 
 
SILVER WINGS 13 
 
 lines, and — most of them — to the casualty- 
 clearing stations. And when the lieutenant 
 brought the remnant of his company back to 
 the battalion, he told the Battalion Commander 
 his end of the story, and heard in return how 
 the message of their whereabouts had been 
 brought back and how it had directed the move- 
 ment that had got them out. The lieutenant 
 wanted to send a word of thanks to " Silver 
 Wings" and her pilot, but this the CO. told him 
 he could not do. "The pilot was lifted out of his 
 machine and taken straight to the CCS., 1 " 
 he said. "He was wounded by rifle-fire from 
 the ground when he first dived to help you beat 
 off that attack. No, not seriously, I'm glad to 
 say, but he'd lost a lot of blood, and he got 
 rather knocked about landing and broke his 
 machine a bit I believe." 
 
 "Wounded," said the lieutenant slowly, "and 
 at that time. So he kept on diving his machine 
 about and fighting after he was wounded; and 
 went through that air fight with his wound, 
 and shot the Hun down, and then came on 
 
 back and gave his message " "Dropped a 
 
 note straight into the signallers at Brigade 
 Headquarters," said the CO. 
 
 The lieutenant drew a deep breath. "We knew 
 we were owing him a lot," he said. "But it 
 seems we were owing even more than we thought." 
 
 "And I'm beginning to think," said the CO., 
 "that all of us here on the ground are owing more 
 than we've known to those fellows in the air." 
 
 1 Casualty Clearing Station. 
 
II 
 
 BRING HOME THE 'BUS 
 
 For ten minutes past the observer had been 
 alternately studying his map and the ground 
 20,000 feet below, and now he leaned forward 
 out of his cockpit, touched the pilot on the 
 shoulder, and made a slight signal with his 
 hand. Immediately the machine began to swing 
 in a wide curve, while the observer busied him- 
 self with his camera and exposed plate after 
 plate. 
 
 He looked up and out a moment as there 
 came to his ear, dully but unmistakably above 
 the roar of the engine, the hoarse "woof" of 
 a bursting anti-aircraft shell. The black smoke 
 offthe burst showed a good hundred yards out 
 to their left and some hundreds of feet above 
 them, and the observer returned to his photo- 
 graphing. 
 
 "Woof" came another shell, and then in 
 quick succession another and another, the last 
 one dead ahead and with such correct elevation 
 that, a second later, the machine flashed through 
 the streaming black smoke of the burst. The 
 pilot looked back inquiringly, and the observer 
 
 14 
 
BRING HOME THE 'BUS 15 
 
 made a sign which meant "Do what you please," 
 and sat back to wait until the pilot took such 
 steps as he thought fit to disarrange the aim of 
 the gunners below. 
 
 The harsh rending cough of another shell 
 came so close beneath the machine that both 
 men felt her distinctly jolt upward, twisting 
 from the wind shock. The pilot waited no 
 more. He jammed the controls hard over and 
 flung the machine out in a vicious side-slip, 
 caught her at the end of it, tipped her nose 
 over and plunged straight down with the engine 
 full on for a thousand feet, banked sharply, 
 pivoting fairly on his wing-tip, and shot off at 
 right angles to his former course for a quarter 
 of a mile; then, climbing slightly as he went, 
 swung hard round again, dipped a little to gather 
 speed, hoicked hard up, and in a few seconds 
 was back somewhere about the position at 
 which he had first departed from the course. 
 
 Back about the point where they had last 
 turned a string of black smoke-puffs flashed out 
 rapidly. The pilot shut his engine off for an 
 instant. "Fooled 'em that time," he yelled 
 back, and grinned gleefully at his observer. 
 The observer peered out carefully and exposed 
 another plate, turned and passed another signal 
 to the pilot. Instantly the engine roared out, 
 and the machine tipped her bows down and 
 went plunging earthward. The observer watched 
 the needle of his height indicator drop back 
 and back through 20,000, 19, 18, 17, 16, hang 
 there an instant, leap up again to 16 and 17. 
 
16 BRING HOME THE 'BUS 
 
 There it stayed quivering for ten seconds, while 
 the machine hurtled forward at a hundred miles 
 an hour on a level keel. There the pilot dropped 
 her nose a little again and went slanting down 
 with the engine full on, and the needle of the 
 speed indicator climbing up and up until the 
 speed touched 140 miles an hour and the height 
 indicator dropped to a 14,000-foot level. 
 
 The Archie shells were spouting and splashing 
 round them in all directions, but their erratic 
 course had sufficiently upset the gunners to bring 
 the bursts well out and clear, and the pilot made 
 the last steep dizzying plunge that brought him 
 to the 10,000-foot height his observer had asked 
 for. But at this height they were well within 
 the range of smaller Archie batteries, and the 
 observer jerked the handle of his camera to 
 and fro at intervals, with the racking cough of 
 the shells sounding perilously close, and the 
 reek of their burst at times swirling past as the 
 machine tore through their smoke. Three times 
 heavy splinters whurred viciously past them, 
 and once a sharp crack and rip left a gaping 
 black rent in the cloth of the body close astern 
 of the observer. 
 
 For a good ten minutes the machine circled 
 and swung and darted to and fro, while the 
 observer hung on and snapped his plates at 
 such objects as he wanted on the ground below; 
 and for all that ten minutes the Archies con- 
 tinued to pitch a stream of shells up round and 
 over and under them. 
 
 Then the observer signalled " finished," and 
 
BRING HOME THE 'BUS 17 
 
 the machine jerked round and streaked off at 
 top speed in a series of curves and zigzags that 
 carried her westward and homeward as straight 
 as the pilot dared drive in avoiding the shells 
 that continued to follow them. The pilot kept 
 her nose down a little as he went, so as to 
 obtain the maximum speed, but when he began 
 to run out of range of the Archies and leave 
 their smoke bursts well astern, he tilted up and 
 pushed straight west at top speed, but on a 
 long climb that brought him up a thousand 
 feet a mile. Presently he felt the signal cord 
 looped about his arm jerk and jerk again, and, 
 tilting the machine's nose slightly downward, 
 he shut off his engine and let her glide and 
 twisted round to the observer. 
 
 "Huns," yelled the observer. "Six of 'em, 
 and coming like stink," and he pointed up and 
 astern to half a dozen dots in the sky. 
 
 "Would you like a scrap, Spotty?" shouted 
 the pilot. " Shall we take 'em on? " 
 
 "Don't ask me," shouted Spotty. "Ask 
 the Hun. He'll scrap if he wants to, and you 
 and your old 'bus can't help it, Barry." 
 
 "Thought you knew the old 'Marah' better," 
 retorted Barry. "You watch"; and he twisted 
 in his seat and opened his engine out. 
 
 Now the "Marah" was the pride of her 
 Squadron, and, most inordinately, of her pilot. 
 Built line by line to the blue-print of her class, 
 fraction by fraction of an inch in curve, straight, 
 and stream-line, to the design of her sisters in 
 the Squadron, differing no hair's-breadth from 
 
18 BRING HOME THE 'BUS 
 
 them in shape, size, engine, or propeller, she 
 yet by some inscrutable decree was the best of 
 them all in every quality that counts for best 
 in a machine. There are theories to account 
 for these not uncommon differences, the most 
 popular and plausible being that the better 
 machine is so merely because of some extra 
 skill and minute care in her and her engine's build- 
 ing, last touches of exactness and perfection in 
 the finish of their parts and their assembling. 
 
 The "Marah" could outclimb anything in 
 the Squadron with the most ridiculous ease, 
 outclimb them in feet per minute, and in final 
 height; she could outfly them on any level from 
 100 to 20,000 feet, could " out-stunt" them— 
 although here perhaps the pilot had as much to 
 say as the machine — in any and every stunt they 
 cared to challenge her on. Barry, her young 
 pilot, literally loved her. He lost no chance of 
 trying her out against other types of machines, 
 and there were few of the fastest and best types 
 even amongst the single-seater scout machines 
 that could beat her on a level fly, or that she 
 could not leave with her nose held slightly 
 down. No two-seater Barry had ever met 
 could come anywhere near the "Marah" in 
 stunting, in the ease and speed at which he 
 could put her through all sorts of fancy spins, 
 loops, side-slips, and all the rest of the bag of 
 air tricks. How much of her superiority was 
 due to her own qualities and how much to her 
 pilot it is hard to say, because certain it is that 
 Barry could climb her nearly a thousand feet 
 
BRING HOME THE 'BUS 19 
 
 higher, and drive her several knots faster, than 
 any other pilot who had flown her. 
 
 It is because of all these things that Barry- 
 had preferred to make this particular photo- 
 graphing trip a lone-hand one. It was a long- 
 distance journey far back behind the German 
 lines, to a spot known to be well protected by 
 long-range Archies, and of such importance 
 that it was certain to order out fast fighting 
 machines to cut off any flight taking back 
 reports or photographs. Barry's arguments for 
 his single-handed trip were simple, and, as the 
 Squadron Commander had to admit, sound. 
 "One machine stands much more chance of 
 sneaking over high up without being spotted 
 than a whole flight," said Barry. "When 
 we're there I can chuck the 'bus about any old 
 how to dodge the Archies, while Spotty snaps 
 his pictures; and if we're tackled by any E.A., 1 
 the old 'Marah' could probably outfly them 
 by herself. And since you're so beastly positive 
 that this isn't a scrapping stunt, I'd sooner be 
 on my own and free to dodge and run and use 
 clouds and so on without having to think of 
 keeping formation. Don't you worry. We'll 
 come through all right." 
 
 The Squadron Commander gave in. "Right 
 oh," he said reluctantly. "And do keep your 
 eyes skinned for Huns and run from 'em if 
 you've a chance. This information is wanted 
 badly, remember, and you mustn't risk getting 
 scuppered with it. And, besides we can't afford 
 1 E.A. Enemy Aircraft. 
 
20 BRING HOME THE 'BUS 
 
 to lose the 'Marah' out of the Squadron. You 
 don't count of course, but the old 'bus is too 
 good to lose." 
 
 He hid a good deal of anxiety under his 
 chaffing, and Barry, reading that and the friend- 
 ship that bred it, laughed and took the same 
 light-hearted tone. "You won't lose her," he 
 said. "If a Hun punctures me and Spotty 
 we'll just jump overboard and tell the old girl 
 to push along home on her own. She's jolly 
 near got sense enough to do it too, I believe." 
 
 Now all this was in Barry's mind when Spotty 
 told him of the pursuing enemy, and so he set 
 himself to take every ounce of advantage he 
 could. The machines behind were travelling 
 faster, because they had sighted him from a 
 much higher level, and had all the additional 
 speed that a downward slant gave them, while 
 the "Marah," still held on a slightly upward 
 incline, lost something of her top speed thereby. 
 
 Barry knew there were Archie batteries to be 
 passed over on the way back, and if he meant 
 to keep a straight course it was necessary that 
 he should be as far above them as possible. 
 He leaned out and peered down at the landscape 
 wheeling and unrolling under them, picked out 
 the spot he was watching for — a village where 
 he knew Archie batteries were located — and 
 altered course slightly to give it a wider berth. 
 In another minute the Archie shells began to 
 bark about them. At the first one that came 
 dangerously close the "Marah" hoicked abruptly 
 upward 500 feet, wheeled sharp south for half 
 
BRING HOME THE 'BUS 21 
 
 a mile, swung again and drove straight west. 
 Twice she had to swerve and dodge in similar 
 fashion before she cleared the zone of the 
 Archies' range, and these swerves and their 
 faster downward passage allowed the enemy 
 craft to overhaul her considerably. Spotty 
 swung his machine-gun round in readiness and 
 trained it aft and up on the hostiles. 
 
 Two single-seaters were half a mile ahead of 
 the other four and looming larger every minute. 
 They were within long range now, and, presently, 
 one of them loosed off a dozen rounds or so at 
 the "Marah." Spotty jerked a signal that he 
 was going to fire, and taking careful sight rapped 
 off about twenty rounds. The range was too 
 great yet for him, and the Huns made no sign 
 of a swerve from their direct path, so Spotty 
 ceased firing and waited, glancing over his sights 
 at one machine that had forged slightly ahead 
 of the other. Barry looked back over his 
 shoulder and up at the two machines. They 
 were still a good thousand feet above the 
 " Marah," but Barry was satisfied enough with 
 the way the game was running, because while 
 they had dropped from perhaps 20,000 feet to 
 15,000, the " Marah" had gained 3,000 to 4,000 
 as she flew. 
 
 The advantage of height was half the battle, 
 and Barry wanted to snatch every inch of it 
 he could gain. For that reason he passed a 
 signal back to Spotty to open fire again, and 
 Spotty obediently began to rip out a series 
 of short bursts. The two men had flown so 
 
22 BRING HOME THE 'BUS 
 
 long together that each knew the other's* dodges 
 and ideas to an extent precious beyond words, and 
 had a code of brief signals in head-noddings and 
 jerkings and hand motions that saved much waste 
 of time and breath in shutting off engine to shout 
 messages or yelling through the communicating 
 'phone. Spotty figured now just the plan Barry 
 had in mind, a plan to hustle the enemy into 
 making his attempt before he was at the closest 
 effective range for a diving attack. The plan 
 succeeded too. His bullets must have been 
 going somewhere close, for Spotty saw the nearest 
 machine swerve ever so slightly, as if her pilot 
 had flinched or ducked instinctively. Then 
 Spotty saw her nose dip slightly until it was 
 pointed straight at the "Marah," the machine- 
 gun firing through her propeller broke out in 
 a long rapid burst of fire, and the " tracer" 
 bullets 1 came flashing and streaming past in thin 
 pencils of flame and smoke. What followed takes 
 a good deal longer in the telling than it did in the 
 happening. All three machines were travelling, 
 remember, at a speed of anything round a 
 hundred knots, a speed that rose at times as 
 they dipped and dived to nearer perhaps a 
 hundred and thirty and forty. While they 
 were flying on the same course with little differ- 
 ence in speed each airman could see the other 
 closely and in detail, could watch each little 
 movement, look over at leisure small items about 
 each other's machines. Mere groundlings cannot 
 
 1 Tracer bullets emit smoke and flame to allow the shooter 
 to follow their flight. 
 
BRING HOME THE 'BUS 23 
 
 get nearer to the sensation than to imagine or 
 remember sitting at the window of a carriage 
 on the slow lumbering sixty-mile-an-hour express, 
 watching the almost equally slow mail rushing 
 over the rails at sixty-five miles on a parallel 
 line, and seeing the passengers at her windows 
 scanning deliberately the shape of your hat or 
 colour of your hair. 
 
 In just such fashion Spotty saw the pilot of 
 the leading machine rise slightly and glance 
 astern at his companion, saw him settle himself 
 in his seat, saw him raise a hand and motion 
 downward. Instantly he jerked the cord fast 
 to Barry's shoulder, signalling "look out," and 
 with swift clockwork motions snatched the 
 almost empty drum of his machine-gun, and 
 replaced it with the full one he held ready 
 clutched between his knees. 
 
 Vaguely in the swift ensuing seconds he felt 
 the machine under him sway and leap and reel; 
 but his whole mind was for that time concen- 
 trated on his gun sights, on keeping them full 
 on the bulk of the machine astern of him, in 
 pressing the trigger at the exact critical second. 
 He saw the round bow of his nearest pursuer 
 lift and for one long breath saw the narrow 
 tapering length of her underbody behind it. 
 That was a chance, and he filled it full and 
 brimming with a fifty-round burst of which he 
 saw the bullets flash and disappear in the 
 fuselage above him. Then in a flash the under- 
 body disappeared, and the rounded bow of the 
 hostile came plunging down on him, growing 
 
24 BRING HOME THE 'BUS 
 
 and widening as it came full power and speed 
 of engine and gravity pull. He was dimly- 
 conscious of her firing as she came, and he 
 kept his own gun going, pumping bullets in a 
 constant stream, his eye glued to the sights, his 
 finger clenched about the trigger. Somehow 
 he knew — just knew, without reasoning or 
 thinking it out — that his bullets were going to 
 their mark, and it gave him no slightest touch 
 of astonishment when he saw his enemy stagger, 
 leap upward, lurch and roll until she stood 
 straight up on her wing-tip, and so, banking 
 and deflecting from the "Marah's" course, flash 
 in a split fraction of a second out of the fight. 
 
 He had no more than a glimpse of a gust of 
 fire and gush of black smoke from somewhere 
 about her before she vanished from his sight, 
 and he was training his sights on a second shape 
 that came swooping and plunging down upon 
 him. This second enemy made better play 
 with her gun. With deadly slowness and per- 
 sistence, as it seemed, she closed, yard by yard. 
 Spotty trained his gun full in the centre of the 
 quivering light rays that marked the circle of 
 her whirling propeller, and poured burst after 
 burst straight at the jerking flashes of the 
 machine-gun that blazed through her propeller. 
 He felt an agonising jar on his ankle . . . but 
 the drum of his machine-gun snapped out its 
 last cartridge, and Spotty smoothly and method- 
 ically whipped off the empty drum, stooped 
 and lifted a full one, fitted it in place, and 
 looking over his sights rapped his gun into action 
 
BRING HOME THE 'BUS 25 
 
 again; while all the time the bullets of his 
 adversary hailed and ripped and tore about 
 and upon the "Marah," riddling the rudder, 
 slashing along the stern, cracking in the whip- 
 like reports of explosive bullets about the 
 observer's cockpit, lifting forward and rap-rap- 
 rapping about the bows and the pilot's stooped 
 head. The " Marah" leaped out suddenly and 
 at full stride in a hundred-foot sideslip, checked, 
 and hurtled upward; and in that breath of 
 time the pursuer flicked past and down and 
 out of the vision of Spotty's sights. 
 
 It was all over so quickly that Spotty, looking 
 overside, could still see the first enemy spinning 
 down jerkily with black smoke whirling up 
 from her fuselage, spinning helplessly down, as 
 he knew, to hit the earth 15,000 feet below. 
 Spotty felt suddenly and surprisingly sick and 
 faint. His particular story blurs somewhat 
 from here on, because he himself was never 
 able to supply it in detail. He was able to 
 answer Barry — Barry turning to shout his 
 question while the "Marah" tore along at her 
 full 110 knots — that he'd been hit somewhere 
 about the foot or leg, and didn't feel much, 
 except sick. This Barry was able to gather 
 with some difficulty, after juggling with the 
 wheel beside him that shifted angles of incidence, 
 and more or less stabilised the "Marah's" 
 flight, abandoning his controlling " joy-stick," 
 clambering up on his seat, and hanging back 
 and over to bring his head into the observer's 
 cockpit and his ear within reach of Spotty's feeble 
 
26 BRING HOME THE BUS 
 
 attempts at a shout. He himself was rather unfit 
 for these acrobatics, owing to certain unpleasant 
 and punishing wounds just received. While he 
 attempted to carry on his laboured inquiries, the 
 "Marah," her engine throttled down and her 
 controls left to look after themselves, swooped 
 gently and leisurely, slid downwards on a gliding 
 slant for a thousand feet, pancaked into an air- 
 pocket, and fell off into a spinning dive. 
 
 While she plunged earthward at a rate of some 
 hundred feet per second Barry finished his in- 
 quiries, dragged or pushed back into his seat — it 
 was really down into his seat, since the "Marah" 
 at the moment was standing on her head and 
 his seat was between the observer's and the 
 bows, but the wind pressure at that speed made 
 it hard work to slide down — took hold of his 
 controls, waited the exact and correct moment, 
 flattened the "Marah" out of her spin, opened 
 the throttle and went booming off again to 
 westward a bare 5,000 feet above ground level. 
 
 He had, it is true, a moment's parley and a 
 swift summing up of the situation before he 
 turned the "Marah's" bows definitely for 
 home. And the situation was ugly enough to 
 be worth considering. Spotty (Barry thought 
 of him first) was in a bad way — leg smashed to 
 flinders — explosive evidently — bleeding like a 
 stuck pig (wonder would the plates be spoiled, 
 or was the camera built water-tight, or blood- 
 tight?) — very doubtful if he'd last out the 
 journey home. Then Barry himself had wounds 
 — the calf of his left leg blown to shreds, and 
 
BRING HOME THE 'BUS 27 
 
 the toes of his left foot gone, and, most up- 
 settingly painful of all, a gaping hole where his 
 left eye should be, a blood-streaming agony 
 that set his senses reeling and wavering and 
 clearing slowly and painfully. This last wound, 
 as it proved, was the result of a ricochetting 
 bullet which, nicking forward as Barry had 
 turned his head, cut his left eye clean from its 
 socket. 
 
 The summing up was very clear and simple. 
 They were a good thirty miles from the 
 lines; Spotty might easily bleed to death in 
 less than that; he, Barry, might do the same, 
 or might faint from pain and exhaustion. In 
 that case done-finish himself, and Spotty, and 
 the "Marah," in a drop of 5,000 feet and a 
 full hundred-mile-an-hour crash below. On the 
 other hand, he had only to move his hand, push 
 the joy-stick out and sweep the "Marah" 
 down, flatten her out and pick a decent field, 
 land, and he and Spotty would be in the doctor's 
 hands in a matter of minutes, both of them safe 
 and certain of their lives at least. In seconds 
 they could be "on the floor" and in safety — and 
 in German hands . . . the two of them and 
 . . . and . . . the "Marah." It was probably 
 the thought of the "Marah" that turned the 
 scale, if ever the scale really hung in doubt. 
 "We can't afford . . ." — what was it the 
 Squadron Commander had said? — "can't afford 
 to lose the old 'Marah' from the Squadron." 
 No (Barry's vision cleared mentally and physic- 
 ally at the thought), — no, and, by the Lord, the 
 
28 BRING HOME THE 'BUS 
 
 Squadron wasn't going to lose the "Marah," 
 not if it was in him to bring the old 'bus home. 
 
 He knew it was going to be a close thing, 
 for himself and for the "Marah"; and care- 
 fully he set himself to take the last and least 
 ounce of the chances in favour of his getting 
 the " Marah" across the line. It would be 
 safer to climb high and cross the fire of the 
 Archies that waited him on the line; safer so 
 far as dodging the shells went, but cutting down 
 the limit set to his strength and endurance by 
 the passing minutes. On the level, or with her 
 nose a little down, the " Marah" would make 
 the most of the time left her, or rather left him. 
 His senses blurred and swam again; he felt 
 himself lurching forward in his seat, knew that 
 this was pushing the joy-stick forward and the 
 "Marah's" nose to earth, shoved himself back 
 in his seat and clutched the stick desperately 
 to him . . . and woke slowly a minute after 
 to find the "Marah's" bows pointed almost 
 straight up, her engine struggling to lift her, his 
 machine on the very verge of stalling and falling 
 back into the gulf. He flung her nose down 
 and forward hastily, and the "Marah" ducked 
 gracefully over like a hunter taking an easy 
 fence, steadied and lunged forward in arrow- 
 straight flight. 
 
 After this Barry concentrated on the faces 
 of the clock, the height and the speed indi- 
 cators. Once or twice he tried to look over- 
 side to locate his position, but the tearing 
 hurricane wind of the "Marah's" passage 
 
BRING HOME THE 'BUS 29 
 
 so savaged his torn face and eye that he was 
 forced back into the cover of his windscreen. 
 Five minutes went. Over, well over a hundred 
 the speed indicator said the "Marah" was 
 doing. Nearly 5,000 up the height indicator 
 said (must have climbed a lump in that minute's 
 haziness, concluded Barry), and, reckoning to 
 cross the line somewhere inside the 500 up — 
 which after all would risk machine-gun and 
 rifle fire, but spare them the Archies — would 
 allow him to slant the "Marah" down a trifle 
 and get a little more speed out of her. He tilted 
 her carefully and watched the speed indicator 
 climb slowly and hang steady. 
 
 And so another five minutes went. Two 
 thousand up said the indicator; and "woof, 
 woof, woof" grunted a string of Archie shells. 
 "Getting near the line," said Barry, and pushed 
 the joy-stick steadily forward. The "Marah" 
 hurtled downward on a forty-five degree slant, 
 her engine full out, the wind screaming and shriek- 
 ing about her. Fifteen hundred, a thousand, 
 five hundred pointed the needle of the height 
 indicator, and slowly and carefully Barry pulled 
 the "MarahV head up and held her racing at 
 her top speed on the level. 
 
 Fifteen minutes gone. They must be near 
 the lines now. He could catch, faint and far 
 off through the booming roar of his engine, 
 the rattle of rifle fire, and a faint surprise took 
 him at the sound of two strange raps, and 
 the sight of two- neat little round holes in the 
 instrument board and map in front of him. He 
 
30 BRING HOME THE 'BUS 
 
 looked out, carefully holding the joy-stick steady 
 in one hand and covering his torn eye with the 
 other, and saw the wriggling white lines of 
 trenches flashing past close below. Then from 
 the cockpit behind him broke out a steady 
 clatter and jar of the observer's machine-gun. 
 Barry looked round to see Spotty, chalk-faced 
 and tight-lipped, leaning over the side with 
 arms thrust out and pointing his gun straight 
 to earth with a stream of flashes pouring from 
 the muzzle. "Good man," murmured Barry, 
 "oh, good man," and made the "Marah" 
 wriggle in her flight as a signal. 
 
 Spotty looked round, loosened his lips in a 
 ghastly grin, and waved an arm signalling to 
 turn at right angles. "Nothin' doin', my son," 
 said Barry grinning back. "It's 'Home, John' 
 for us this time. But fancy the priceless old 
 fellow wanting to go touring their front line 
 spraying lead on 'em. Good lad, Spotty." 
 
 A minute later he felt his senses reel, and his 
 sight blacken again, but he gripped his teeth on 
 his lip and steered for the clump of wood that 
 hid his own Squadron's landing ground. 
 
 He made his landing there too; made it a 
 trifle badly, because when he came to put 
 rudder on he found that his left leg refused its 
 proper work. And so he crashed at the last, 
 crashed very mildly it is true, but enough to 
 skew the wheels and twist the frame of the 
 under-carriage a little. 
 
 And as Spotty's first words when he was 
 lifted from his cockpit were of the crash — 
 
BRING HOME THE 'BUS 31 
 
 "Barry, you blighter, if you've crashed those 
 plates of mine I'll never forgive you. . . . 
 You'll find all the plates exposed, Major, 
 and notes of the bearing and observations in 
 my pocket-book" — so also were Barry's last 
 of the same thing. He didn't speak till near 
 the end. Then he opened his one eye to the 
 Squadron Commander waiting at his bedside 
 and made an apology . . . ("An apology . . . 
 Good Lord! ..." as the Major said after). 
 "Did I crash her badly, Major?" And when 
 the Major assured him No, nothing that wouldn't 
 repair in a day, and that the "Marah" would 
 be ready for him when he came back to them, he 
 shook his head faintly. "But it doesn't matter," 
 he said. "Anyhow, I got her home. . . . And 
 if I'm 'going West,' the old 'Marah' will go 
 East again . . . and get some more Huns for 
 you." He ceased, and was silent a minute. 
 Then "I'm sorry I crashed her, Major . . . but 
 y'see, . . . my leg . . . was a bit numb." 
 He closed his eye; and died. 
 
 A pilot lost doesn't very much count. 
 
 (But don't tell his girl or his mater this!) 
 There's always another to take his mount, 
 
 And push the old 'bus where the Archies miss. 
 But a 'bus that's lost you can't renew, 
 For where one works there's the want of two 
 And all they can make are still too few, 
 
 So we must bring home the 'bus. 
 
Ill 
 
 A TENDER SUBJECT 
 
 The telling of this tale in the Squadron Mess 
 came about through (1) a mishap, (2) a joke, 
 and (3) an argument. The mishap was to 
 a fighting two-seater, which landed on the 
 Squadron's 'drome with a dud engine. The 
 pilot and observer made their way to the Squad- 
 ron office and, after a brief 'phone talk to their 
 own CO., borrowed a tender and pushed 
 off for their own 'drome. The leader of "A" 
 Flight walked down to the tender, chatting 
 to them, and four of the Squadron's pilots 
 took advantage of the chance of a lift in to 
 a town the tender had to pass on the journey. 
 All of them heard and all were a little sur- 
 prised at "A" Commander's parting word to 
 the two visitors. " I've told the driver to go slow 
 and careful," he said. "You fellows just watch 
 he does it, will you?" 
 
 The joke began to dawn on the four just 
 after the tender had carefully cleared the first 
 bend of the road from the 'drome and the driver 
 began to open her up and let her rip. The 
 joke grew with the journey, and the four on 
 their return to the Squadron that afternoon 
 
 32 
 
A TENDER SUBJECT 33 
 
 burst into the full ante-room and, announcing 
 it "Such a joke, oh, such a joke!" went on to 
 tell it in competing quartette to a thoroughly- 
 appreciative audience. It appeared that one 
 passenger — "the pale-faced nervy-looking little 
 'un with pink eye-rims" — had showed distinct 
 uneasiness when the tender rushed a dip-and- 
 rise at top speed, and his observer— "a reg'lar 
 Pickwick Fat Boy, quakin' like a jelly" — com- 
 plained openly and bitterly when the tender 
 took a corner on the two outside wheels and 
 missed a country cart with six inches and a 
 following gust of French oaths to spare. 
 
 When, by the grace o' God, and by a bare 
 hand's-breadth, they shaved past a lumbering 
 M.T. lorry, "Pink Eye" and "Fat Boy" clung 
 dumb to each other and plainly devoted them- 
 selves to silent prayer. The dumbness deserted 
 them and they made up all arrears of speech, 
 and to spare, when the tender took four heaps 
 of road-metal by the wayside in a series of 
 switch-backing hand-springs. "'Course we 
 twigged your joke by then," said the four to 
 "A" leader. "I suppose you delivered the 
 driver his go-slow order with a large-sized wink 
 and he savvied what you meant." It appeared 
 that Pink Eye had asked the four to make 
 the driver slow down, or to kill him or some- 
 thing. They pretended innocence and said he 
 was a most careful man, and so on. Fat 
 Boy nearly wept when they met a Staff car 
 travelling fast and, never slacking an ounce, 
 whooped past with a roar; and after a hairpin 
 
34 A TENDER SUBJECT 
 
 bend, which the tender took like a fancy skater 
 doing the figure-of-eight, Pink Eye completely 
 broke up and swore that he was going to get 
 off and walk. "He'd have done it too," 
 said the four delightedly, "if we hadn't eased 
 her up. But you never saw such a state of 
 funk as those two were in. Kept moppin' 
 their brows, and apologisin' for their nerves, 
 and fidgetin' and shiverin' like wet kittens every . 
 time we took a corner or met a cart. It was 
 too funny — really funny." i 
 
 This led to the argument — whether men with 
 nerves of that sort could be any good in air 
 work. "I know I'd hate to be a pilot with 
 an observer of that kind watching my tail, 
 almost as much as I'd hate to be an observer 
 with Pink Eye for a pilot," said one, and most 
 there agreed. A few argued that it was possible 
 for men to be brave enough in one kind of show 
 and the very opposite in another — that one 
 fellow could do the V.C. act seven days a week 
 under fire and take every sort of risk in action 
 without turning a hair, and yet go goosey- 
 fleshed on a Channel crossing in a choppy sea, 
 while another man might enjoy sailing a boat 
 single-handed in a boiling white sea, and yet 
 be genuinely nervous about dodging across the 
 full traffic-tide of a London thoroughfare. Most 
 of those present declined to believe these theories, 
 maintaining stoutly that a good plucked 'un 
 was always such, and that an obvious funk 
 couldn't be anything else — except in novelettes 
 and melodrama. Then came the story. 
 
A TENDER SUBJECT 35 
 
 "Did y'ever hear of 'Charger' Wicks?" said 
 the Captain of "A." "No? Well, you're 
 rather recently out, so you mightn't, but — well, 
 he's fairly well known out here. He's rather a 
 case in point " 
 
 Being told by an expert to an audience of 
 experts, his tale was put more briefly, technically, 
 and air-slangily than I may hope to do, but 
 here is the sense of it. 
 
 "Charger" Wicks was a pilot in a well-known 
 fighting squadron, and was so called from 
 a favourite tactic of his in air fighting and 
 his insistent advice to the rest of the Flight 
 he came to command to follow his plan of 
 attack. "Always charge straight at your Hun 
 if you get a chance," he would say. "Drive 
 straight and hard nose-on at him, keeping your 
 gun going hot. If you keep straight, he'll 
 flinch — every time; and as he turns up, down, 
 or out, you get a full-length target underneath, 
 topside, or broadside. If you keep on and 
 shoot straight, you're bound to get a hatful of 
 bullets into him somewhere." 
 
 The plan certainly seemed to work, and 
 Charger notched up a good tally of crashed 
 Huns, but others in the Squadron warned him 
 he'd try it once too often. " Charge straight 
 at him, and he'll dodge," said Charger. 
 "Wait," said the others. "Some day you'll 
 meet a Hun who works on the same rule; then 
 where'll you be?" "Yes," said Billy Bones, 
 Charger's observer, "and where'll I be?" 
 But although he pretended to grumble, Billy 
 
36 A TENDER SUBJECT 
 
 Bones was, as a matter of fact, quite in agree- 
 ment on the nose-on charging stunt and be- 
 lieved in it as firmly as Charger himself. It 
 took nerve, he admitted, but if you had that 
 — and Charger certainly had — it worked all 
 right. As it happened, the nerves of both were 
 to be "put through it" rather severely. 
 
 They were up with the Flight one day, 
 Charger with Billy Bones leading in their 
 pet 'bus Y221. They ran into a scrap with odds 
 of about two to one against them, and in the 
 course of it Charger got a chance to put his 
 old tactic to the proof. The moment he swung 
 Y221 and headed her straight at a Hun scout, 
 Billy knew what was coming, and heaved 
 his gun round ready for any shot that offered 
 as the Hun flinched past. But this time it 
 looked as if the Squadron's old warning was 
 going to be fulfilled and that Charger had 
 met the Hun with the same rule as himself. 
 Charger's gun began to rattle at about one 
 hundred yards' range, and the Hun opened 
 at the same moment. Billy, crouching with 
 his gun at the ready and his eyes glued on a 
 scarlet boss in the centre of the Hun's propeller, 
 saw and heard the bullets stream smoking and 
 cracking past and on their machine. It does 
 not take long for two machines travelling about 
 a hundred miles per hour to cover a hundred 
 yards, but to Billy, staring tense at that grow- 
 ing scarlet blot, each split fraction of a second 
 was an age, and as the shape of the Hun grew 
 but showed no sign of a changing outline, 
 
A TENDER SUBJECT 37 
 
 Billy's thoughts raced. Charger, he knew, 
 wouldn't budge an inch from his line; if the 
 Hun also held straight ... he still held straight 
 . . . the slightest deviation up or down would 
 show instantly in the wings, seen edgeways in 
 thin lines, thickening and widening. The bullets 
 were coming deadly close . . . and the red 
 boss grew and grew. If the Hun didn't give 
 now — this instant — it would be too late . . . 
 they must collide. The approaching wing- 
 edges still showed their thin straight line, and 
 Billy, with a mental "Too late now!" gasped 
 and gripped his gun and waited the crash. 
 
 Then, at the last possible instant, the Hun's 
 nerve gave — or, rather, it gave just an instant 
 too late. Billy had a momentary vision of the 
 thin wing-edges flashing wide, of the black 
 crosses on the under side, of a long narrow 
 strip of underbody and tail suddenly appearing 
 below the line of the planes; and then, before 
 he could move or think, he felt the Y221 jar 
 violently, heard horrible sounds of splintering, 
 cracking, tearing, had a terrifying vision of a 
 great green mass with splashed ugly yellow 
 spots rearing up over the top plane before his 
 startled eyes, plunging past over his ducking 
 head with splintering wreckage and flapping 
 streamers of fabric whizzing and rushing about 
 his ears. Y221 — whirling, jolting, twisting all 
 ways and every way at once apparently — fell 
 away in a series of sickening jerks that threatened 
 to wrench her joint from joint. Billy's thoughts 
 raced down ahead of them to where they would 
 
38 A TENDER SUBJECT 
 
 hit the ground 15,000 feet below . . . how long 
 would it take . . . would they hit nose-first 
 or how . . . was there anything he could do? 
 — and before his mind shaped the question he 
 had answered it — No, nothing ! Dully he noticed 
 that their engine had stopped, that Charger 
 apparently was busy at the controls; then — 
 with a gleam of wondering hope, dismissed at 
 first, but returning and growing — that the lurch- 
 ing and rolling was steadying, that they were 
 coming back on an even keel, were . . . yes, 
 actually, were gliding smoothly down. 
 
 Charger twisted and looked down over- 
 side, then back at Billy and yelled, "D'ye see 
 him?" Billy looked over, and next instant 
 saw a vanishing shape with one wing folded back, 
 saw another wing that had torn clear floating 
 and " leafing" away on its own. The shape 
 plunged plummet-wise until it was lost in the 
 haze below. Billy turned inboard. " Broken 
 in air," he shouted, and Charger nodded and 
 turned again to his controls. Billy saw that 
 their propeller was gone, only one jagged splinter 
 of a blade remaining. 
 
 They made a long glide back and a good 
 landing well behind the lines on a grass field. 
 "What happened?" said Billy the moment 
 they had come to rest. "He flinched, of course," 
 said Charger. "Ran it a bit fine, and our 
 prop caught his tail and tore it up some. I 
 dunno that we're much hurt, except for the 
 prop and that broken strut." 
 
 And, amazingly enough, they were not. The 
 
A TENDER SUBJECT 39 
 
 leading edge of a top plane was broken and 
 cracked along its length, one strut was snapped, 
 the propeller gone, a few jagged holes from bullets 
 and Hun splinters ripped in their fabric. "God 
 bless the people who built her!" said Charger 
 piously. "Good stuff and good work in that 
 old 'bus, Billy. That's all that brought us 
 through." 
 
 Billy mopped his brow. "Hope we don't 
 meet any more of that breed of Hun," he said. 
 "I find I don't like collisions — not one little 
 bit." 
 
 "He flinched at the finish, though," said 
 Charger simply. "They all do." 
 
 When they got Y221 back to the 'drome and 
 overhauled her they found her wrenched a bit, 
 but in a couple of days she was tautened up 
 into trim and in the air again. 
 
 And the very next morning, as if this weren't 
 enough, Charger and Billy had another 
 nerve-testing. They were up about 12,000 and 
 well over Hunland when they ran into a patch 
 of Archies, and Charger turned and led the 
 formation straight towards a bank of white 
 cloud that loomed up, solid looking as a huge 
 bolster, before them. The sun was dead be- 
 hind them, so Billy at first sat looking over the 
 tail on the watch for any Huns who might try 
 to attack "out of the sun" and its blinding 
 glare. But as it was dead astern over the tail 
 Billy could see clearly above and behind him, 
 so that there was no chance of a Hun diving 
 unseen from a height, and they were moving 
 
40 A TENDER SUBJECT 
 
 too fast to be overtaken on the level "out of 
 the sun." Billy turned round and watched the 
 cloud they were driving at. The sun was full 
 on it, and it rose white and glistening like a 
 
 chalk cliff — no, more like a — like a Billy 
 
 was idly searching his mind for a fitting simile, 
 when his thoughts broke and he yelled fiercely 
 and instinctively in warning to Charger. 
 But Charger had seen too, as Billy knew from 
 his quick movement and sudden alert sit- 
 up. The cloud was anything round a hundred 
 yards from them, and they could just see the 
 slow curling twisting movement of its face. 
 And — what had suddenly startled them — they 
 could see another machine, still buried back 
 in the cloud, and looming large and distorted 
 by the mist, but plainly flying out of it and 
 straight at them. 
 
 What followed was over and done in the space 
 of seconds, although it may seem long in the 
 telling, as it certainly was age-long in the sus- 
 pense of the happening and waiting for the 
 worst of it. Billy perhaps, powerless to act, 
 able only to sit tense and staring, felt the strain 
 the worst, although it must have been bad 
 enough for Charger, knowing that their slen- 
 der hope of escape hung on his quick think- 
 ing and action. This was no clear case of 
 following his simple plan of charging and waiting 
 for the Hun to flinch. The whole success of 
 the plan depended on the Hun seeing and 
 knowing the charge was coming — on his nerve 
 failing to meet it. Charger didn't even know 
 
A TENDER SUBJECT 41 
 
 this was a Hun. He might be one of ours. 
 He might have seen them, and at that very 
 second be swerving to miss them. He might 
 be blinded in the cloud and know nothing of 
 them driving full-on into him. All this 
 went through Charger's mind in a flash, and 
 almost in that same flash he had decided on 
 his action and taken it. He thrust the nose 
 of Y221 steeply down. Even in the fraction 
 of time it took for him to decide and his hand 
 to move the control lever he could see the 
 difference in the misty shape before him, could 
 judge by the darkening, hardening and solidi- 
 fying outline the speed of their approach. And 
 then, exactly as his bows plunged down, he saw 
 and knew that what he feared had happened — 
 the other pilot had seen him, had thought and 
 acted exactly as he had. Charger saw the 
 thin line of the edge-on wings broaden, the 
 shadowy shape of the tail appear above them, 
 just as he had seen it so often when the Hun 
 he charged had flinched and ducked. But then 
 the flinching had meant safety to him driving 
 straight ahead— now it meant disaster, dipping 
 as he was fairly to meet the other. 
 
 Again for the fraction of a second he hesitated 
 — should he push on down, or turn up? Which 
 would the other do? And again before the 
 thought was well framed it was decided and acted 
 on. He pulled the stick hard in, zoomed up, and 
 held his breath, waiting. The shape was clearer 
 and harder, must be almost out of the cloud-^- 
 doubtful even now if Y221 had time and room 
 
42 A TENDER SUBJECT 
 
 to rise clear — all right if the other held on down, 
 but 
 
 The nose of his machine swooped up, and 
 as it did, and before it shut out his view ahead, 
 Charger, with a cold sinking inside him, 
 saw the outline ahead flash through changing 
 shapes again, the wings narrow and close to 
 edge-on view, open and widen again with the 
 tail dropping below. Again the other man's 
 thought and action had exactly followed his 
 own. No time to do more; by the solid appear- 
 ance he knew the other machine must be just 
 on the edge of the cloud, and they were almost 
 into it, its face already stirring and twisting to 
 the propeller rush. Charger's one thought at 
 the moment was to see his opponent's nose 
 thrust out — to know was it a Hun or one of 
 ours. 
 
 Billy Bones, sitting tight with fingers locked 
 on the cockpit edge, had seen, followed and 
 understood every movement they had made, 
 the full meaning of that changing outline before 
 them, the final nearness shown by the solidity 
 of the approaching grey shape; and the one 
 thought in his mind was a memory of two 
 men meeting face to face on a pavement, both 
 stepping sideways in the same direction, stepping 
 back, hesitating and stepping aside again, halt- 
 ing, still face to face, and glaring or grinning at 
 each other. Here they were doing just the 
 same, only up and down instead of sideways 
 — and here there was no stopping. 
 
 He too saw the spread of wings loom up and 
 
A TENDER SUBJECT 43 
 
 out of either side of them, rushing up to meet 
 them. The spread almost matched and measured 
 their own — which meant a nose-to-nose crash. 
 The cloud face was stirring, swirling, tearing 
 open from the rush of their opposing windage. 
 Had Charger time to — no, no time. They 
 must be just ... it would be on the very 
 cloud edge they would meet — were meeting 
 (why didn't Charger turn, push her down, do 
 something — anything) . . . meeting . . . (no 
 escape after this collision — end on!) . . . now! 
 
 Next instant they were in darkness — thick, 
 wet, clammy darkness. No shock and crash 
 of collision yet ... or yet. Billy didn't under- 
 stand. Was he dead? Could you be killed so 
 instantaneously you didn't feel it? It wasn't 
 quite dark — and he could feel the cockpit rim 
 under his hands — and 
 
 They burst clear of the cloud, with trailing 
 wisps sucking astern after them. He was be- 
 wildered. Then, even as Charger turned and 
 shouted the explanation, he guessed at it. 
 " Shadow — our own shadow," yelled Charger, 
 and Billy, nodding in answer, could only curse 
 himself for a fool not to have noticed (as he 
 had noticed really without reasoning why) that 
 the blurred, misty shape had grown smaller 
 as well as sharper as they approached. "I 
 didn't think of it either," Charger confessed 
 after they were back on the 'drome, "and it 
 scared me stiff. Looked just like a machine 
 in thick cloud — blurred, sort of, and getting 
 clearer as it came out to the edge." 
 
44 A TENDER SUBJECT 
 
 "It was as bad as that beastly Hun," said 
 Billy, "or worse"; and Charger agreed. 
 
 Now two experiences of that sort might easily 
 break any man's nerve, and most men would 
 need a spell off after an episode like the collision 
 one. But Charger's nerve was none the 
 worse, and although Billy swore his never 
 really recovered, the two of them soon after put 
 through another nose-on charge at a Hun, in 
 which Charger went straight as ever, and when 
 the Hun zoomed up and over, Billy had kept 
 his nerve enough to have his gun ready and 
 to jjput a burst of bullets up and into him 
 from stem to stern and send him down in 
 flames. \ 
 
 Everyone in the Mess agreed here that the 
 two were good stout men and had nothing 
 wrong with their nerves. 
 
 "Not much," said the narrator, "and they're 
 still goin' strong. But you remember what 
 started me to tell you about them?" 
 
 "Let's see — yes," said one or two. "We 
 were talking about the joke of that couple to- 
 day being so scared by a bit of fast driving on 
 a clear road." 
 
 "Right," said the other, and laughed. 
 "Heaps of people out here know those two, 
 and it's a standing joke that you can't hire 
 them to sit on the front seat of a car or a tender 
 or travel anything over fifteen miles an hour in 
 anything on wheels." 
 
 He waited a moment for some jests and 
 chuckles to subside, and finished, grinning 
 
A TENDER SUBJECT 45 
 
 openly. "They are the two I told you about 
 — Charger Wicks and Billy Bones!" 
 
 There was dead silence for a minute. Then, 
 "Good Lord!" said one of the quartette faintly, 
 and "Wh — which was Charger?" faltered 
 another. "In their flying kit we couldn't " 
 
 "The smallest — the one you called the pale- 
 faced, nervy-looking little 'un," said "A" Flight 
 Commander. 
 
 "Help!" said the other weakly. "And I — I 
 recommended him 'Sulphurine Pills for Shaken 
 Nerves.' Oh, help!" 
 
 "Yes," said the last of the demoralised 
 quartette miserably, "and he thanked us, and 
 said he'd write it down the minute he got back." 
 
 There was another pause. Then, "Such a 
 joke!" said someone, quoting from the open- 
 ing chapter of the quartette's story — "such a 
 joke!" And the Mess broke in a yell of up- 
 roarious laughter. 
 
 The quartette did not laugh. 
 
IV 
 
 A GOOD DAY 
 
 Half an hour before there was a hint of dawn 
 in the sky the Flight was out with the machines 
 lined up on the grass, the mechanics busy about 
 them, the pilots giving preliminary tests and 
 runs to their engines. There had been showers 
 of rain during the night, welcome rain which 
 had laid the dust on the roads and washed it off 
 the hedges and trees — rain just sufficient to 
 slake the thirst of the parched ground and 
 grass, without bringing all the discomfort of 
 mud and mire which as a rule comes instantly 
 to mind when one speaks of "rain" at the 
 Front. 
 
 It was a summer dawn, fresh, and' cool, and 
 clean, with the raindrops still gemming the 
 grass and leaves, a delicious scent of moist 
 earth in the balmy air, a happy chorus of chirp- 
 ing, twittering birds everywhere, a "great," 
 a "gorgeous," a "perfect" morning, as the 
 pilots told each other. 
 
 A beautiful Sabbath stillness, a gentle calm 
 hung over the aerodrome until the machines 
 were run out and the engines began to tune up. 
 But even in their humming, thrumming, boom- 
 
 46 
 
A GOOD DAY 47 
 
 ing notes there was nothing harsh or discordant 
 or greatly out of keeping with the air of peace 
 and happiness. And neither, if one had not 
 known what it was, would the long heavy 
 rumble that beat down wind have wakened 
 any but peaceful thoughts. It might have 
 been the long lazy boom of the surf beating in 
 on a sandy beach, the song of leaping water- 
 falls, the distant rumble of summer thunder 
 . . . except perhaps for the quicker drum-like 
 roll that rose swelling every now and then 
 through it, the sharper, yet dull and flat, thudding 
 bumps and thumps that to any understanding 
 ear marked the sound for what it was — the roar 
 of the guns. 
 
 Already the guns were hard at it; had been 
 for days and nights past, in fact; would be 
 harder at it than ever as the light grew on this 
 summer morning, for this was the day set for 
 the great battle, was within an hour or two of 
 the moment marked for the attack to begin. 
 
 The Squadron Commander was out long 
 before the time detailed for the Flight to start. 
 He spoke to some of the pilots, looked round, 
 evidently missed someone, and was just be- 
 ginning "Where is " when he caught sight 
 
 of a figure in flying clothes hurrying out from 
 the huts. The figure halted to speak to a 
 pilot and the Major called impatiently, "Come 
 along, boy. Waiting for you." "Right, sir," 
 called the other, and then laughingly to his 
 companion, "Worst of having a brother for 
 CO. Always privileged to chase you." 
 
48 A GOOD DAY 
 
 "Flight Leader ought to be first, Sonny, not 
 last," said the Major as the boy came up. 
 "Sorry, Jim," said the boy, "I'm all ready," 
 and ran on to his waiting machine. 
 
 One by one the pilots clambered aboard and 
 settled themselves in their seats, and one after 
 another the engines were started, sputtering 
 and banging and misbehaving noisily at first 
 in some cases, but quickly steadying, and, after 
 a few grunts and throaty whurrumphs, picking 
 up their beat, droning out the deep note that 
 rises tone by tone to the full long roaring song 
 of perfect power. 
 
 The Major walked along the line, halted at 
 each machine, and spoke a word or two to each 
 pilot. He stood a little longer at the end 
 machine until the pilot eased his engine down 
 and its roar dropped droning to a quiet "tick- 
 ing over." 
 
 "All right and all ready, Sonny?" said the 
 Major. 
 
 "All correct, sir," said Sonny laughingly, 
 and with a half-joking salute. "Feel fine, 
 Jim, and the old bus is in perfect trim." 
 
 "Think the rain has gone," said the Major. 
 "It's going to be a fine day, I fancy." 
 
 "It's just topping," cried Sonny, wrinkling> 
 his nose and sniffing luxuriously. "Air's as 
 full of sweet scent as a hay meadow at home." 
 
 "Flight, got your orders all clear to start?" 
 
 Sonny nodded. "Yes, we'll show you the 
 usual star turn take-off all right. You watch 
 us." 
 
A GOOD DAY 49 
 
 The Major glanced at his wrist- watch and at 
 the paling sky. "Almost time. Well, take 
 care of yourself, Sonny." He put his hand up 
 on the edge of the cockpit, and Sonny slid his 
 glove off, and gave an affectionate little squeeze 
 to the fingers that came over the edge. 
 
 "I'll be all right, Jim, boy. We're going to 
 have a good day. Wish you were coming with 
 us." ' 
 
 "Wish I were," said the Major. "Good 
 luck," and he stepped and walked out in front 
 of the line of machines, halted, and glanced at 
 his watch and up at the sky again. 
 
 The half-dozen machines, too, stood waiting 
 and motionless, except for the answering quiver 
 that ran through them to their engines' beat. 
 Down from the line the throbbing roll of the 
 gunfire rose louder and heavier, with a new, 
 an ugly and sinister snarling note running 
 through it. The flat thudding reports of the 
 nearer Heavies came at quicker and closer in- 
 tervals, the rumble of the further and smaller 
 pieces ran up to the steady unbroken roar of 
 drum-fire. 
 
 The wind was coming from the line and the 
 machines were lined up facing into it, so that 
 the pilots had before them the jumping, flickering 
 lights which flamed up across the sky from the 
 guns' discharge. Earlier, these flashes had blazed 
 up in broad sheets of yellow- and orange-tinted 
 light from the horizon to half way up the height 
 of the sky, leaped and sank, leaped again and 
 beat throbbing and pulsing wave on wave, or 
 
50 A GOOD DAY 
 
 flickering and quivering jerkily for seconds on 
 end, dying down, and immediately flaring up 
 in wide sheet-lightning glows. Now, in the 
 growing light the gun-flashes showed more and 
 more faintly, in sickly pallid flashes. There 
 was no halt or pause between the jumping 
 lights now; they trembled and flickered un- 
 ceasingly, with every now and then a broader, 
 brighter glare wiping out the lesser lights. 
 
 The pilots sat watching the battle lights, 
 listening to the shaking battle thunder, and 
 waiting the Squadron Commander's signal to 
 go. The birds were chattering happily and 
 noisily, and a lark climbed, pouring out long 
 shrill bursts of joyful song; somewhere over 
 in the farmyard beside the 'drome a cock crowed 
 shrilly, and from one of the workshops came 
 the cheerful clink-link, clink-link of hammers 
 on an anvil. 
 
 It was all very happy and peaceful — except 
 for the jumping gun-flashes and rolling gun-fire; 
 life was very sweet and pleasant — unless one 
 thought of life over there in the trenches, and 
 what the next hour or two would bring. Every- 
 one knew there was "dirty work" ahead. It 
 was the first really big "show" the Squadron 
 had been in; they had been in plenty of the 
 ordinary O.P.'s (Offensive Patrols) and air- 
 scraps, but this was the real big thing, a great 
 battle on the ground, and a planned attack on 
 the grand scale in the air, which was to sweep 
 the sky of Huns . . . and the gunfire was still 
 growing . . . and the lark up there was burst- 
 
A GOOD DAY 51 
 
 ing his throat to tell them what a pleasant 
 place the world was on this summer morning, 
 with the raindrops fresh on the grass and the 
 breeze cool in the trees. 
 
 Nearly time! The Flight Leader ran his 
 engine up again, its humming drone rising to a 
 full deep-chested roar. The other pilots followed 
 suit, engine after engine picking up the chorus 
 and filling the air with deafening and yet har- 
 monious sound. A man stood just clear of the 
 wing-tips to either side of each machine holding 
 a cord fast to the wood blocks chocked under 
 the wheels; another man or two clung to each 
 tail, holding it down against the pull of the 
 propeller, their sleeves, jacket tails, and trouser 
 legs fluttering wildly in the gales which poured 
 aft from the whirling screws and sent twigs 
 and leaves and dust flying and dancing back 
 in a rushing stream. So the pilots sat for 
 a minute, their faces intent and earnest, lis- 
 tening to the hum and beat of their engines 
 and note of their propellers' roar, watching the 
 Flight Leader's movements out of the tail of 
 their eyes. He eased his engine down; and 
 promptly every other engine eased. He waved 
 his hand to right and left, and the waiting men 
 jerked the chocks clear of his wheels; and five 
 other hands waved and five other pairs of 
 chocks jerked clear. He moved forward, swung 
 to the right with a man to each wing tip to help 
 swing him, and rolled steadily out into the 
 pen; and five other machines moved forward, 
 swung right, and followed in line astern of him. 
 
52 A GOOD DAY 
 
 He wheeled to the left, moved more quickly, 
 opened his engine up, ran forward at gathering 
 speed. Moving slowly his machine had looked 
 like a lumbering big fat beetle; skimming rapidly 
 across the grass, with its nose down and its tail 
 up, it changed to an excited hen racing with 
 outstretched head and spread wings; then — a 
 lift — an upward "swoop and rush — and she 
 was ... a swallow, an eagle, a soaring gull — 
 any of these you like as symbols of speed and 
 power and grace, but best symbol of all perhaps, 
 just herself, for what she was — a clean-built, 
 stream-lined, hundred-and-umpty horse, fast, 
 fighting-scout aeroplane. 
 
 The Squadron Commander stood watching 
 the take-off of the Flight with a thrill of pride, 
 and truly it was a sight to gladden the heart 
 of any enthusiast. As the Flight Leader's 
 machine tucked up her tail and raced to pick 
 up speed, the second machine had followed 
 her round her curve, steadied, and began to 
 move forward, gathering way in her very wheel- 
 tracks. As the Leader hoicked up and away, 
 the second machine was picking up her skirts 
 and making her starting rush; and the third 
 machine was steadying round the turn to fol- 
 low. As the second left the ground, the third 
 began to make her run, and the fourth was 
 round the turn and ready to follow. So they 
 followed, machine by machine, evenly spaced in 
 distance apart, running each other's tracks 
 down, leaping off within yards of the same 
 point, each following the other into the air as 
 
A GOOD DAY 53 
 
 if they were tied on lengths of a string. It was 
 a perfect exhibition of Flight Leadership — and 
 following. One turn round the 'drome they 
 made, and the Flight was in perfect formation 
 and sailing off to the east, climbing as it went. 
 The Commander stood and watched them gain 
 their height in one more wide sweeping turn 
 and head due east, then moved towards the 
 huts. 
 
 The hammers were still beating out their 
 cheery clink-link, the birds chirping and twitter- 
 ing; the lark, silenced or driven from the sky 
 by these strange monster invaders, took up 
 his song again and shrilled out to all the world 
 that it was a joy to live — to live — to live — this 
 perfect summer morning. 
 
 And the guns replied in sullen rolling thunder. 
 
 The last red glow of sunset was fading out 
 of the square of sky seen through the open 
 Squadron-office window. The Major sat in his 
 own place at the centre of the table, and his 
 Colonel, with the dust of motor travel still 
 thick on his cap and coat, sat by the empty 
 fire-place listening and saying nothing. A young 
 lad, with leather coat thrown open and leather 
 helmet pushed back on his head, stood by the 
 table and spoke rapidly and eagerly. He was 
 one of the Patrol that had left at dawn, had made 
 a forced landing, had only just reached the 
 'drome, and had come straight to the office 
 to report and tell his tale. 
 
 "I have the Combat Report, of course," said 
 
54 A GOOD DAY 
 
 the Major; "ymi might read it first — and I've 
 some other details; but I'd like to know any- 
 thing further you can tell." 
 
 The lad read the Report, a bare dozen lines, 
 of which two and a half told the full tale of a 
 brave man's death — "as he went down out 
 of control he signalled to break off the fight and 
 return, and then for the Deputy to take command. 
 He was seen to crash.' " 
 
 "That's true, sir," said the lad, "but d'you 
 know — d'you see what it — all it meant? We'd 
 been scrappin' half an hour. We were on our 
 last rounds and our last pints of petrol . . . 
 against seventeen Huns, and we'd crashed 
 four and put three down out of control . . . 
 they were beat, and we knew it, and meant to 
 chase 'em off." 
 
 He had been speaking rapidly, almost inco- 
 herently, but now he steadied himself and spoke 
 carefully. 
 
 "Then he saw their reinforcements comin' 
 up, one lot from north, t'other from south. 
 They'd have cut us off. We were too busy 
 scrappin' to watch. They had us cold, with us 
 on our last rounds and nearly out of petrol. 
 But he saw them. He was shot down then — I 
 dunno whether it was before or after it that he 
 saw them; but he was goin' down right out of 
 control — dead-leafing, then a spin, then leafing 
 
 again. And he signalled " The boy gulped, 
 
 caught and steadied his voice again, and went 
 on quietly. "You know; there's half a dozen 
 coloured lights stuck in the dash-board in front 
 
A GOOD DAY 55 
 
 of him — and his Verey pistol in the rack be- 
 side him. He picked out the proper coloured 
 light — goin' down helplessly out of control — 
 and took his pistol out of the rack . . . and 
 loaded it . . . and put it over the side and 
 fired his signal, 'Get back to the 'drome — 
 return home/ whatever it is exactly — we all 
 knew it meant to break off the scrap and clear 
 out, anyway. But he wasn't done yet. He 
 picked another light — the proper coloured light 
 again . . . and still knowin' he'd crash in the 
 next few seconds . . . and loaded and fired, 
 'I am out of action. Deputy Flight Leader 
 carry on.' . . . Then ... he crashed. ..." 
 
 The boy gulped again and stopped, and for a 
 space there was dead silence. 
 
 " Thank you," said the Squadron Commander 
 at last, very quietly, "I won't ask you for more 
 now." 
 
 The boy saluted and turned, but the Major 
 spoke again. " There's a message here I've 
 just had. You might like to read it." 
 
 The pilot took it and read a message of con- 
 gratulations and thanks from Headquarters on 
 the work of the Air Services that day, saying 
 how the Huns had been driven out of the air, 
 how so many of them had been crashed, so many 
 driven down out of control, with slight losses 
 of so many machines to us. "On all the fronts 
 engaged," the message finished, "the Squadrons 
 have done well, and the Corps has had a good 
 day." 
 
 "A good day," said the boy bitterly, and 
 
56 A GOOD DAY 
 
 spat a gust of oaths. "I — pardon, sir," he said, 
 catching the Major's eye and the Colonel's quick 
 glance. "But — Sonny was my pal; I was his 
 
 chum, the best chum he had " He checked 
 
 himself again, and after a pause, "No, sir," he 
 said humbly, "I beg your pardon. You were 
 always that to Sonny." He saluted again, very 
 gravely and exactly, turned, and went. 
 
 The Colonel rose. "It's true, too," said the 
 Major, "I was; and he was the dearest chum 
 to me. I fathered him since he was ten, when 
 our Pater died. I taught him to fly — took him up 
 dual myself, and I remember he was quick as a 
 monkey in learning. I watched his first solo, 
 with my heart in my mouth; and I had ten 
 times the pride he had himself when he put his 
 first wings up. And now . . . he's gone." 
 
 "He saved his Flight," said the Colonel 
 softly. "You heard. It's him and his like 
 that make the Corps what it is. They show 
 the way, and the others carry on. They go 
 down, but" — he tapped his finger slowly on the 
 message lying on the table, "but . . : the Corps 
 'has had A Good Day.'" 
 
 (To the tune of "John Brown's Body.") 
 
 Half the Flight may crash to-day and t'other half to-night, 
 But the Flight does dawn patrol, before to-morrow's light, 
 And if we live or if we die, the Corps still wins the fight, 
 4nd the war goes rolling on. 
 
A ROTTEN FORMATION 
 
 The Major lifted his head from the pile of papers 
 he was reading and signing, and listened to the 
 hum of an engine passing over the office and 
 circling down to the 'drome. "One of ours," 
 he said. "Flight coming down, I suppose. 
 They're rather late." 
 
 An officer lounging on a blanket-covered 
 truckle bed murmured something in reply and 
 returned to the sixpenny magazine he was de- 
 vouring. The noise of the engine droned down 
 to the ground level, ceased, stuttered, and rose, 
 sank again, and finally stopped. The CO. 
 hurried on with his papers, knowing the pilots 
 of the Flight would be in presently to make their 
 reports. 
 
 In three minutes the door banged open 
 noisily, and the Flight Leader clumped heavily 
 in. Such of his features as could be seen for a 
 leather helmet coming low on his forehead and 
 close round his cheeks, and a deep collar turned 
 up about his chin, disclosed an expression of bad 
 temper and dissatisfaction. 
 
 "Hullo, Blanky," said the Major cheer- 
 fully. "Made rather a long job of it, didn't 
 you? Any Huns about? " 
 
 57 
 
58 A ROTTEN FORMATION 
 
 Now Blanky had an established and well- 
 deserved reputation for bad language, and 
 although usually a pilot is expected more or less 
 to modify any pronounced features in language 
 in addressing his CO., there are times when 
 he fails to do so, and times when the CO. wisely 
 ignores the failure. This apparently was one 
 of the times, and the Major listened without 
 remark to a stream of angry and sulphurous 
 revilings of the luck, the Huns, the fight the 
 Flight had just come through, and finally — or one 
 might say firstly, at intervals throughout, and 
 finally — the Flight itself. 
 
 "Three blessed quarters of a bloomin' hour 
 we were scrappin'," said Blanky savagely, 
 "and I suppose half the blistering machines in 
 the blinking Flight are shot up to everlastin' 
 glory. I know half the flamin' controls and 
 flyin' wires are blanky well cut on my goldarn 
 bus. And two confounded Huns' brimstone 
 near got me, because the cock-eyed idiot who 
 should have been watching my plurry tail went 
 harein' off to heaven and the Hot Place. But 
 no-dash-body watched any-darn-body's tail. 
 Went split-armin' around the ruddy sky like 
 a lot of runaway racin' million-horse-power 
 comets. Flight! Dot, dash, asterisk! For- 
 mation! Stars, stripes, and spangles " 
 
 He broke off with a gesture of despair and 
 disgust. None of this harangue was very in- 
 forming, except it made clear that the Flight had 
 been in a fight, and that Blanky was not 
 pleased with the result or the Flight. The Major 
 
A ROTTEN FORMATION 59 
 
 questioned gently for further details, but hearing 
 the note of another descending engine Blanky 
 went off at a tangent again. Here one of them 
 came . . . about half an hour after him . . . wait 
 till he saw them . . . he'd tell them all about it 
 . . . and so on. 
 
 "Did you down any Huns?" asked the 
 Major, and Blanky told him No, not one sin- 
 gle, solitary, stream-line Hun crashed, and 
 couldn't even swear to any out of control. Before 
 the Major could say more, the office door opened 
 to admit a leather-clad pilot grinning cheerfully 
 all over his face. Blanky whirled and burst 
 out on him, calling him this, that, and the other, 
 demanding to know what the, where the, why 
 the, advising him to go'n learn to drive a beastly 
 wheel-barrow, and buy a toy gun with a cork 
 on a string to shoot with. The bewildered pilot 
 strove to make some explanation, to get a word 
 in edgeways, but he hadn't a hope until Blanky 
 paused for breath. "I didn't break formation 
 
 for more'n a minute " he began, when 
 
 Blanky interrupted explosively, " Break for- 
 mation — no, 'cos there wasn't a frescoed for- 
 mation left to break. It had gone to gilt- 
 edged glory, and never came back. But I was 
 there, and your purple place was behind me. 
 Why the which did you leave there?" 
 
 "Because I'd winged the Hun that was sitting 
 on your tail," said the other indignantly. "I 
 had to go after him to get him." 
 
 "Get him," said Blanky contemptuously. 
 "Well, why didn't you?" 
 
60 A ROTTEN FORMATION 
 
 "I did," said the pilot complacently. At that 
 Blanky broke loose and cried aloud for the 
 wrath to descend and annihilate any man who 
 could stand there and deliberately murder the 
 truth. "But I did get him. I watched him 
 crash right enough," retorted the maligned one. 
 Blanky was still yelling at him, when in came 
 another couple talking eagerly and also with 
 faces wreathed in smiles, and evidently well 
 pleased with the world. " Hullo, Blanky," said 
 the first. " Pretty good show, eh?" 
 
 Blanky wheeled and stared at him as if 
 in dumb amazement. "Blanky doesn't think 
 so," said the Major softly. "He's complaining a 
 good deal that your formation wasn't very good." 
 
 "Good, Major," exploded Blanky again. 
 "It was worse than very beastly bad. I never 
 adverbed saw such an adjectived rank bad 
 formation. It was a rotten formation. And 
 then Billie tells me — has the crimson cheek to 
 say he crashed a constellation Hun." 
 
 "Ask Tom there," said Billie. "Tom, didn't 
 you see me put one down?" 
 
 Tom couldn't be sure. He'd been too busy 
 with a Hun himself. He and the Diver had one 
 fellow between them, and both shootin' like stink 
 at him, and were watching after to see if he 
 crashed 
 
 "Crashed," burst in Blanky. "My sainted 
 sacred aunt. Another fellow walking in his sleep 
 and killing criss-cross Huns in his dithering 
 dreams. Any imagining more of you get a 
 fabulous freak Hun? " 
 
A ROTTEN FORMATION 61 
 
 The Diver said mildly, "Yes," he'd got one — 
 not counting the one between him and Tom, 
 which might have been either's. Blanky was 
 beginning again, when the Major stopped him. 
 "This is getting too complicated," he said. 
 "Let's get the lot together — observers and 
 all — and see if we can make anything of this 
 business." 
 
 A babble of voices was heard outside, the door 
 banged open, and in jostled another batch of 
 pilots and observers talking at the pitch of their 
 voices, laughing, shouting questioning, answer- 
 ing, trampling their heavy flying boots noisily 
 on the bare wood floor, turning the little office 
 hut into a regular bear-garden. Their leather 
 coats were unbuttoned and flapping, their long 
 boots hung wrinkled about their knees or were 
 pulled thigh-high, scarves swathed their throats 
 or dangled down their chests, enormous furry 
 gauntletted gloves hid their hands. Some still 
 wore their leather helmets with goggles pushed 
 up over their foreheads; others had taken them 
 off, and looked like some strange pantomime 
 monsters with funnily disproportionate faces 
 and heads emerging from the huge leather collars. 
 For minutes the room was a hopeless bedlam of 
 noise. Everyone talked at once: all, slightly 
 deaf perhaps from the long-endured roar of the 
 engines, and rush of the wind, talked their loud- 
 est. They compared notes of flashing incidents 
 seen for a fraction of a second in the fighting, tried 
 to piece together each others' seeings and doings, 
 told what had happened to them and their 
 
62 A ROTTEN FORMATION 
 
 engines and machines, asked questions, and, 
 without waiting for an answer, asked another, or 
 answered somebody else's. 
 
 The voice of Blanky haranguing some of 
 ' the last-comers, calling down curses on their 
 misdeeds, rose through any break in the hubbub. 
 The Major sat for some minutes listening to the 
 uproar, catching beginnings and middles and 
 loose ends of sentences here and there from one 
 or another: "Gave him a good half drum." . . . 
 "Shot away my left aileron control." . . . 
 "Went hareing off over Hunland at his hardest," 
 . . . "Pulled everything in sight and pushed the 
 others, but couldn't get her straightened." . . . 
 "A two-inch tear in my radiator, an' spoutin' 
 steam like an old steam laundry." . . . And then 
 the voice of Blanky spitting oaths and "It 
 was the rottenest formation I ever saw, abso- 
 blanky-lutely rotten." His sentence was swamped 
 again in the flood of talk and fragments of 
 sentences. "Then it jammed — number three 
 stoppage and" . . . "yellin' myself black in the 
 face, but couldn't make him hear." ... "I hate 
 those filthy explosive bullets of theirs." . . . 
 "Chucked her into a spin." . . . "Missing every 
 other stroke, fizzing and spitting like a crazy Tom 
 cat." ... "I ask you now, I ask you what could 
 I do?" . . . "Down flamin' like a disembowelled 
 volcano." 
 
 The Major called, called again, raised his 
 voice and shouted, and gradually the noise died 
 down. 
 
 "Now, let's get to business," he said. "I 
 
A ROTTEN FORMATION 63 
 
 want to know what happened. Blanky, let's 
 hear you first." 
 
 Blanky told his story briefly. The for- 
 mation of six machines had run into twenty-two 
 Huns — four two-seaters, the rest fighting scouts 
 — and had promptly closed with and engaged 
 them. Blanky here threw in a few brief but 
 pungent criticisms on the Flight's behaviour and 
 " rotten formation" during the fight, mentioned 
 baldly that they had scrapped for about three- 
 quarters of an hour, and although there were 
 certainly fewer Huns in at the finish than had 
 begun, none, so far as he knew, had been crashed. 
 All the Flight had returned, mostly with a good 
 few minor damages to machines, but no casual- 
 ties to men. 
 
 "Now," said the Major, "some of you claim 
 Huns crashed, don't you? Let 'em alone, 
 Blanky, to tell their own yarns." 
 
 The first pilot told of running fights, said he 
 had sent at least one down out of control, and 
 saw one crash. His observer corroborated the 
 account; Blanky pooh-poohed it scornfully. 
 He contradicted flatly and hotly another pilot 
 who said he had crashed his Hun, and in 
 the middle of the argument the last pilot 
 came in. 
 
 "Here's Dicky. Ask him. He was close up, 
 and saw me get 'im," said the denied victor. 
 
 "Dicky," cried Blanky, "I've been wait- 
 ing for — here, you cock-eyed quirk, what in the 
 Hot Place did you mean by bargin' across the 
 nose of my bus when I'd just got a sanguinary 
 
64 A ROTTEN FORMATION 
 
 Hun in my ensanguined sights. You blind, 
 blithering no-good. ..." 
 
 "What's that, Blanky? What d'you say? 
 remarked Dicky cheerfully. "Wait a bit. My 
 ears ..." He gripped his nose and violently 
 "blew through his ears" to remove the deaf- 
 ness that comes to a man who has descended too 
 quickly from a height. "Didn't you see me get 
 that Hun, Dicky?" demanded the Diver. 
 "Why didn't you keep formation? Served you 
 something well otherthing right if I'd shot you, 
 blinding across under my gory prop. ..." 
 
 Dicky gripped his nose and blew again. 
 "Wait a minute — can't hear right. ..." 
 
 The talk was boiling up all round them 
 again, in claims of a kill, counter-claims, corrob- 
 orations, and denials, and the Major sat back 
 and let it run for a bit. Blanky, the Diver, 
 and Dicky held a three-cornered duel, Blanky 
 strafing wildly, the Diver demanding evidence of 
 his kill and Dicky holding his nose and blowing, 
 and returning utterly misfitting answers to both. 
 He caught a word of Blanky's tirade at last, 
 something about "silly yahoo bashing around," 
 misinterpreted it evidently, and, still holding his 
 nose, grinned cheerfully and nodded. "Did 
 I crash a Hun?" he said. "Sure thing I did. 
 Put 'im down in flames." 
 
 The Diver leaned close and yelled in Dicky's 
 ear: "Didn't I crash — one — too?" Dicky 
 blew again. "No, I didn't crash two," he said. 
 "Only one, I saw, though there was another 
 blighter " 
 
A ROTTEN FORMATION 85 
 
 Blanky turned disgustedly to the Major. 
 " They're crazy," he said. "I know I didn't 
 see one single unholy Hun crashed in the whole 
 sinful show. 
 
 "Between them they claim five," said the 
 Major, "and you say none. What about your- 
 self? Didn't you get any?" 
 
 "No," said Blanky shortly. "One or two 
 down out of control, but I didn't watch 'em, 
 and they probably straightened out lower down." 
 (Blanky, it may be mentioned, has a record 
 of never having claimed a single Hun crashed, 
 but is credited, nevertheless, with a round dozen 
 from entirely outside evidence.) 
 
 The Major spent another noisy three minutes 
 trying to sift the tangled evidence and claims 
 of crashes, then gave it up. "Write your re- 
 ports," he said, "and we'll have to wait and see 
 if any confirmation comes in of any crashes. You 
 were near enough to the line for crashes to be 
 seen, weren't you?" 
 
 "Near enough?" said Blanky. "Too dis- 
 gustingly near. I suppose anyone that knows a 
 bus from a banana would recognise the make of 
 ours, and I'm rank ashamed to imagine what 
 the whole blinking line must have thought of the 
 Squadron and the paralysed performance." 
 
 The bir-r-r of the telephone bell cut sharply 
 through the noisy talk, and the Major shouted 
 for silence. He got it at last, and the room 
 listened to the one-sided conversation that fol- 
 lowed. Some of the men continued their talk 
 in whispers, Blanky fumbled out and lit a 
 
66 A ROTTEN FORMATION 
 
 cigarette, Dicky dropped on the bed beside the 
 man with the book, who, through all the uproar, 
 had kept his eyes glued to the magazine pages. 
 "What you got there?" asked Dicky conver- 
 sationally. "Any good?" 
 
 "Good enough for me to want to read," 
 snapped the other. "But a man couldn't read 
 in this row if he was stone deaf." 
 
 "Well, y'see, they're all a bit bucked with the 
 scrap," said Dicky apologetically. 
 
 "Oh, bust the scrap," said the reader. "I'm 
 sick of scraps and Huns. Do dry up and let 
 me read," and he buried himself again in the 
 fiction that to him at least was stranger than the 
 naked truth that rioted about his unheeding ears. 
 
 The Major's end of the talk consisted at first 
 of "Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . . oh, yes," and then, 
 more intelligibly, "Yes, pretty good scrap 
 evidently. . . . No, they're all back, thanks. . . . 
 Thanks, I'm glad you think — what? . . . Are you 
 sure? . . . Quite sure? Good. There's been 
 rather an argument. . . . Six? Quite certain? 
 . . . Thanks very much. ... I suppose you'll send 
 a report confirming . . . Right. Thanks. . . . 
 Good-bye." 
 
 He put the receiver down on the stand and 
 turned to Blanky with a smile twitching his 
 lips. "Our Archies," he explained, "rang up to 
 
 tell me they'd watched the whole show " 
 
 "Pretty sight, too," growled Blanky. The 
 Major went on: "and to congratulate the 
 Squadron on a first-class fight. And they posi- 
 tively confirm six crashes, Blanky; saw them 
 
A ROTTEN FORMATION 67 
 
 hit the ground and smash. Some others seen 
 low down out of control, and could hardly 
 recover, but weren't seen actually to crash. So 
 we only get six — and as the others only claim 
 five, you must have got yours after all." 
 
 " Course he got it," struck in Blanky's 
 observer; "only I knew he'd argue me down if 
 
 "Oh, shut up," said Blanky. "How could 
 you see? You were looking over the tail, any- 
 way." 
 
 "Well, I knew I got mine," said Dicky. 
 
 "Me, too" . . . "And I was sure " . . . "And 
 
 I saw mine." jfr ■ 
 
 "For the love of Christmas, dry up," stormed 
 Blanky. "If you could only fly as well as 
 you can talk, you might make a half-baked 
 blistering Flight. As it is you're more like a fat- 
 headed flock o' incarnadined crows split-armin' 
 over a furrow in a ploughed field. Of all the 
 dazzling dud formations I ever saw " 
 
 "Never mind, Blanky," said the Major. 
 "You got six confirmed crashes amongst you, 
 so it wasn't too dud a show." 
 
 "I don't care," said Blanky, tramping to 
 the door and jerking it open. "I don't care a 
 tuppenny tinker's dash what Huns we got." He 
 swung through, and, turning in the doorway 
 with his hand on the knob, shouted back with 
 all the emphasis of last- word finality: "I tell 
 you it was a rotten formation, anyway." 
 
 Behind him the door slammed tremendously. 
 
VI 
 
 QUICK WORK 
 
 It is difficult, if not indeed impossible, to convey- 
 in words what is perhaps the most breath- 
 catching wonder of air-fighting work, the furious 
 speed, the whirling rush, the sheer rapidity of 
 movement of the fighting machines, and the 
 incredible quickness of a pilot's brain, hand, and 
 eye to handle and manoeuvre a machine, and 
 aim and shoot a gun under these speed con- 
 ditions. I can only ask you to try to remember 
 that a modern fast scout is capable of flying at 
 well over a hundred miles an hour on the level, 
 and at double that (one may not be too exact) 
 in certain circumstances, and that in such a 
 fight as I am going to try to describe here the 
 machines were moving at anything between these 
 speeds. If you can bear this in mind, or even 
 realise it — I am speaking to the non-flying reader 
 — you will begin to understand what air men-o-' 
 war work is, to believe what a pilot once said 
 of air fighting: "You don't get time to think. 
 If you stop to think, you're dead." 
 
 When the Flight of half a dozen scout machines 
 was getting ready to start on the usual " offensive 
 
 68 
 
QUICK WORK 69 
 
 patrol" over Hunland, one of the pilots, "Ricky- 
 Ticky" by popular name, had some slight 
 trouble with his engine. It was nothing much, a 
 mere reluctance to start up easily, and since he 
 did get her going before the Flight was ready 
 to take off he naturally went up with it. He 
 had a little more trouble in the upward climb to 
 gain a height sufficient for the patrol when it 
 crossed the line to stand the usual respectable 
 chance of successfully dodging the usual Archie 
 shells. Ricky, however, managed to nurse her 
 up well enough to keep his place in the for- 
 mation, and was still in place when they started 
 across the lines. Before they were far over 
 Hunland he knew that his engine was missing 
 again occasionally and was not pulling as she 
 ought to, and from a glance at his indicators and 
 a figuring of speed, height, and engine revolutions 
 was fairly certain that he was going almost 
 full out to keep up with the other machines, 
 which were flying easily and well within their 
 speed. 
 
 This was where he would perhaps have been 
 wise to have thrown up and returned to his 
 'drome. He hung on in the hope that the 
 engine would pick up again — as engines have an 
 unaccountable way of doing — and even when he 
 found himself dropping back out of place in the 
 formation he still stuck to it and followed on. 
 He knew the risk of this, knew that the straggler, 
 the lame duck, the unsupported machine, is just 
 exactly what the Hun flyer is always on the 
 look out for; knew, too, that his Flight Com- 
 
.70 QUICK WORK 
 
 mander before they had started had warned him 
 (seeing the trouble he was having to start up) 
 that if he had any bother in the air or could not 
 keep place in the formation to pull out and 
 return. Altogether, then, the trouble that 
 swooped down on him was his own fault, and you 
 can blame him for it if you like. But if you do 
 you'll have to blame a good many other pilots 
 who carry on, and, in spite of the risk, do their 
 best to put through the job' they are on. He 
 finally decided — he looked at the clock fixed in 
 front of him to set a time and found it showed 
 just over one minute to twelve — in one minute 
 atfnoon exactly, if his engine had not steadied 
 down to work, he would turn back for home. 
 
 At that precise moment — and this was the first 
 warning he had that there were Huns about — 
 he heard a ferocious rattle of machine-gun fire, 
 and got a glimpse of streaking flame and smoke 
 from the tracer bullets whipping past him. The 
 Huns, three of them and all fast fighting scouts, 
 had seen him coming, had probably watched him 
 drop back out of place in the Flight, had kept 
 carefully between him and the sun so that his 
 glances round and back had failed to spot them 
 in the glare, and had then dived headlong on 
 him, firing as they came. They were coming 
 down on him from astern and on his right side, 
 or, as the Navals would put it, on his starboard 
 quarter, and they were perhaps a hundred to a 
 hundred and fifty yards off when Ricky first 
 looked round and saw them. 
 
 His first and most natural impulse was to get 
 
QUICK WORK 71 
 
 clear of the bullets that were spitting round and 
 over him, and in two swift motions he had opened 
 his engine full out and thrust his nose a little 
 down and was off full pelt. Promptly the three 
 astern swung a little, opened out as they wheeled, 
 dropped their noses, and came after Ricky, still 
 a little above him, and so fairly astern that only 
 the centre one could keep a sustained accurate 
 fire on him. (A scout's gun being fixed and 
 shooting between the blades of the propeller — 
 gun and engine being synchronised so as to 
 allow the bullet to pass out as the blade is clear 
 of the muzzle — means that the machine itself 
 must be aimed at the target for the bullets to 
 hit, and the two outer machines of the three 
 could only so aim their machines by pointing 
 their noses to converge on the centre one — a 
 risky manoeuvre with machines travelling at 
 somewhere about a hundred miles an hour.) 
 
 But the fire of that centre one was too horribly 
 close for endurance, and Ricky knew that 
 although his being end-on made him the smaller 
 target, it also made his machine the more vul- 
 nerable to a raking shot which, piercing him 
 fore and aft, could not well fail to hit petrol 
 tank, or engine, or some other vital spot. He 
 could do nothing in the way of shooting back, 
 because, being a single-seater scout himself, his 
 two guns were trained one to shoot straight for- 
 ward through the propeller, the other, mounted 
 on the top plane on a curved mount which 
 allowed the gun to be grasped by the handle 
 above his head and pulled back and down, to 
 
72 QUICK WORK 
 
 shoot from direct ahead to straight up. Neither 
 could shoot backward. 
 
 Ricky, the first shock of his surprise over, 
 had gauged the situation, and this, it must be 
 admitted, was dangerous, if not desperate. He 
 had dropped back and back from the Flight, 
 until now they were something like a mile ahead 
 of him. A mile, it is true, does not take a modern 
 machine long to cover, but then, on the other 
 hand, neither does an air battle take long to 
 fight, especially with odds of three to one. With 
 those bullets sheeting past him and already be- 
 ginning to rip and crack through his wings, any 
 second might see the end of Ricky. It was no 
 use thinking longer of running away, and even 
 a straight-down nose-dive offered no chance of 
 escape, both because the Huns could nose-dive 
 after him and continue to keep him under fire, 
 and because he was well over Hunland, and the 
 nearer he went to the ground the better target 
 he would make for the anti-aircraft gunners 
 below. He must act, and act quickly. 
 
 A thousand feet down and a quarter of a 
 mile away was a little patch of cloud. Ricky 
 swerved, dipped, and drove "all out" for it. 
 He was into it — 400 yards remember — in about 
 the time it takes you to draw three level 
 quiet breaths, and had flashed through it — 
 five or six hundred feet across it might have 
 been — in a couple of quick heart-beats. The 
 Huns followed close, and in that half-dozen 
 seconds Ricky had something between fifty and 
 a hundred bullets whizzing and ripping past and 
 
QUICK WORK 73 
 
 through his wings. As he leaped clear of the 
 streaming wisps of the cloud's edge he threw one 
 look behind him and pulled the joy-stick hard 
 in to his stomach. Instantly his machine reared 
 and swooped up in the loop he had decided on, 
 up and over and round. At the first upward 
 zoom Ricky had pulled down the handle of his 
 top gun and brought it into instant action. The 
 result was that as he shot up and over in a perfect 
 loop the centre machine, which had been astern 
 of him, flashed under and straight through the 
 stream of his bullets. 
 
 Ricky whirled down in the curve of his loop 
 with his gun still shooting, but, now he had 
 finished his loop and flattened out, shooting up 
 into the empty air while his enemy hurtled 
 straight on and slightly downward ahead of him. 
 Instantly Ricky threw his top gun out of action, 
 and, having now reversed positions, and having 
 his enemy ahead, steadied his machine to 
 bring his bow gun sights to bear on her. But 
 before he could fire he saw the hostile's right 
 upper plane twist upward, saw the machine spin 
 side on, the top plane rip and flare fiercely back 
 and upward, the lower plane buckle and break, 
 and the machine, turning over and over, plunge 
 down and out of his sight. One of his bullets 
 evidently had cut some bracing wires or stays, 
 and the wing had given to the strain upon it. 
 
 So much Ricky just had time to think, but 
 immediately found himself in a fresh danger. 
 The two remaining hostiles had flashed past him 
 at the same time as the centre one, while he 
 
74 QUICK WORK 
 
 threw his loop over it, but, realising apparently 
 on the instant what his manoeuvre was, they 
 both swung out and round while he passed in 
 his loop over the centre machine. It was smart 
 work on the part of the two flanking hostiles. 
 They must have instantly divined Ricky's dodge 
 to get astern of them all, and their immediate 
 circle out and round counteracted it, and as he 
 came out of his loop brought them circling in 
 again on him. For an instant Ricky was so 
 concentrated on the centre machine that he 
 forgot the two others; but, the centre one 
 down and out, he was suddenly roused to the 
 fresh danger by two following short bursts 
 of fire which flashed and flamed athwart him, 
 and caught a glimpse of the other two closing 
 in again astern of him and "sitting on his 
 tail." 
 
 Both were firing as the} r came, and again 
 Ricky felt the sharp rip and crack of explosive 
 bullets striking somewhere on his machine, and 
 an instant later knew the two were following 
 him and hailing lead upon him. He cursed 
 savagely. He had downed one enemy, but here 
 apparently he was little if any better off with 
 two intact enemies in the worst possible position 
 for him, "on his tail," and both shooting their 
 hardest. 
 
 A quick glance ahead showed him the white 
 glint of light on the wheeling wings of his Flight, 
 attracted by the sight of his battle, circling 
 and racing to join the fight. Rut, fast and all 
 as they came, the fight was likely to be over 
 
QUICK WORK 75 
 
 before they could arrive, and with the crack and 
 snap of bullets about him and his own two guns 
 powerless to bear on the enemy, it looked un- 
 comfortably like odds on the fight ending against 
 him. Another loop they would expect and 
 follow over — and the bullets were crippling him 
 every instant. 
 
 Savagely he threw his controls over, and his 
 machine slashed out and down to the right in 
 a slicing two-hundred-foot side-slip. The right- 
 hand machine whirled past him so close that he 
 saw every detail of the pilot's dress — the fur- 
 fringed helmet, dark goggles, black sweater. 
 He caught his machine out of her downward 
 slide, drove her ahead, steadied her, and brought 
 his sights to bear on the enemy a scant twenty 
 yards ahead, and poured a long burst of fire into 
 her. He saw the streaking flashes of his bullets 
 pouring about and over her top planes, dipped 
 his muzzle a shade, and saw the bullets break 
 and play on and about the pilot and fuselage. 
 Then came a leaping flame and a spurt of black 
 smoke whirling out from her; Ricky had a 
 momentary glimpse of the pilot's agonised 
 expression as he lifted and glanced wildly 
 round, and next instant had only in his sight 
 a trailing black plume of smoke and the gleam 
 of a white underbody as the enemy nose-dived 
 down in a last desperate attempt to make a 
 landing before his machine dissolved in flames 
 about him. 
 
 With a sudden burst of exultation Ricky 
 realised his changed position. A minute before 
 
.76 QUICK WORK 
 
 he was in the last and utmost desperate straits, 
 three fast and well-armed adversaries against 
 his single hand. Now, with two down, it was 
 man to man — no, if he wished, it was all over, 
 because the third hostile had swung left, had her 
 nose down, and was "hare-ing" for home and 
 down towards the covering fire of the German 
 anti-aircraft batteries. Already she was two 
 to three hundred yards away, and the first Ger- 
 man Archie soared up and burst with a rending 
 "Ar-r-rgh" well astern of him. 
 
 But Ricky's blood was up and singing songs 
 of triumph in his ears. Two out of three 
 downed; better make a clean job of it and bag 
 the lot. His nose dipped and his tail flicked up, 
 and he went roaring down, full out, after his 
 last Hun. A rapid crackle of one machine-gun 
 after another struck his ear before ever he had 
 the last hostile fully centred in his sights. Ricky 
 knew that at last the Flight had arrived and were 
 joining in the fight. But he paid no heed to 
 them; his enemy was in the ring of his sight 
 now, so with his machine hurling down at the 
 limit of speed of a falling body plus all the pull 
 of a hundred and odd horse-power, the whole 
 fabric quivering and vibrating under him, 
 the wind roaring past and in his ears, Ricky 
 snuggled closer in his seat, waited till his target 
 was fully and exactly centred in his sights, and 
 poured in a long, clattering burst of fire. The 
 hostile's slanting nose-dive swerved into a spin, 
 an uncontrolled side-to-side plunge, back again 
 into a spinning dive that ended in a straight- 
 
QUICK WORK 77 
 
 downward rush and a crash end-on into the 
 ground. 
 
 Whether it was Ricky or some other machine of 
 the Flight that got this last hostile will never be 
 known. Ricky himself officially reported having 
 crashed two, but declined to claim the third as 
 his. On the other hand, the rest of the Flight, 
 after and always, with enthusiastic unanimity, 
 insisted that she was Ricky's very own, that he 
 had outplayed, outfought, and killed three 
 Huns in single combat with them — one down 
 and t'other come on. If Ricky himself could 
 not fairly and honestly claim all rights to the 
 last Hun, the Flight did for him. 
 
 " TforeeV they said vociferously in mess that 
 night, and would brook no modest doubts 
 from him. And to silence all doubts the Squad- 
 ron poet composed a song which was sung by the 
 mess with a fervour and a generous slurring over 
 of faulty metre (a word the poet didn't even 
 know the meaning of) that might have stirred the 
 blood of a conscientious objector. It was entitled, 
 " Three Huns Sat on his Tail," and was sung to 
 the tune of " There were Three Crows Sat on a 
 Tree," or, as the uninitiated may prefer, "When 
 Johnny Comes Marching Home," and it detailed 
 the destruction of the Huns one by one, verse by 
 verse. 
 
 When I tell you it was sung chanty fashion, 
 with the first, second, and last lines chorused 
 by the mess, I can leave you to imagine the loud- 
 pedal, full, fortissimo effect of the "Hurrahs," 
 and (helped out with feet, with fists, spoons, 
 
78 QUICK WORK 
 
 and anything else handy to resound upon the 
 table) of the final rolling "Cr-r-r-ash." 
 
 There were three Huns sat on his tail, 
 
 Hurrah, hurrah! 
 But he looped over one and gave him "Hail 
 
 Colum-bi-a!" 
 He shot up the Hun so full of lead 
 That before he knew he was hit he was dead, 
 And our Archie look-out reporting said: 
 
 One!— CR-R-R-ASH! 
 
 But all this was later, and is going a little 
 ahead of the story. As the last Hun went reeling 
 down, Ricky, in the official language of the 
 combat reports, " rejoined formation and con- 
 tinued the patrol." He pulled the stick towards 
 him and rose buoyantly, knowing that he was 
 holed over and over again, that bullets, and 
 explosive bullets at that, had ripped and rent 
 and torn the fabrics of his machine, possibly had 
 cut away some strut or stay or part of the frame. 
 But his engine appeared to be all right again, 
 had never misbehaved a moment during the 
 fight, was running now full power and blast; 
 his planes swept smooth and steady along the 
 wind levels, his controls answered exactly to his 
 tender questioning touch. He had won out. He 
 was safe, barring accident, to land back in his 
 own 'drome; and there were two if not three 
 Huns down on his brazen own within the last 
 — how long? 
 
 At the moment of his upward zoom on the 
 conclusion of the fight he glanced at his clock, 
 could hardly believe what it told him, was only 
 
QUICK WORK 79 
 
 convinced when he recalled that promise to 
 himself to turn back at the end of that minute, 
 and had his belief confirmed by the Flight's 
 count of the time between their first turning back 
 and their covering the distance to join him. His 
 clock marked exactly noon. The whole fight, 
 from the firing of the first shot to the falling away 
 of the last Hun, had taken bare seconds over the 
 one minute. 
 
 That pilot was right; in air fighting "you 
 don't get time to think." 
 
 Quick is the word and quick is the dead 
 
 If you would live in the air-fight game; 
 Speed, give 'em speed, and a-top of it — speed! 
 
 (Man or machine exactly the same). 
 Think and stunt, move, shoot, quickly; or die, 
 
 Fight quick or die quick; when all is said, 
 There are two kinds of fighters who fl.y, 
 
 Only two kinds — the quick, and the dead. 
 
VII 
 
 THE AIR MASTERS 
 
 It is hardly known to the general public — which 
 seems a pity — that the Navy has, working on 
 the Western Front, some Air Squadrons who 
 fly only over the land and have not so much 
 as seen the sea, except by chance or from a 
 long distance, from year's end to year's end. 
 They have carried into their shore-going lives a 
 number of Navy ways, like the curt "Thank 
 God" grace at the end of a meal, or the mustering 
 of all hands for "Divisions" (Navalese for 
 "Parade") in the morning, marking off the 
 time by so many "bells," hoisting and lowering 
 at sunrise and sunset the white ensign flown 
 on a flagstaff on the 'drome; they stick to their 
 Navy ratings of petty officers and sub-lieutenants 
 and so on, and interlard their speech more or 
 less with Navy lingo — a very useful and expres- 
 sive one, by the way, in describing air manoeuvres 
 — but otherwise carry out their patrols and air 
 work with, and on about the same lines as, 
 the R.F.C. 
 
 Naval Number Something is a "fighting 
 scout" Squadron, which means that its sole 
 
 80 
 
THE AIR MASTERS 81 
 
 occupation in life is to hunt for trouble, to find 
 and fight, "sink, burn or destroy" Huns. At 
 first thought it may seem to the Army which 
 fights "on the floor" that this job of a fighting 
 machine is one which need interest no one out- 
 side the Air Service, that it is airman fighting 
 against airman, and that, except from a point 
 of mere sporting interest, the results of these 
 fights don't concern or affect the rest of the 
 Army, that the war would roll on just the same 
 for them whichever side had the upper hand 
 in the air fighting. Those who think so are 
 very far wrong, because it is on the fighters pure 
 and simple that the air mastery depends. Air 
 work is a business, a highly complicated, com- 
 pletely organised and efficient business, and 
 one bit of it has to dovetail into another just 
 as the Army's does. The machines which spot 
 for our guns, and direct the shooting of our 
 batteries to destroy enemy batteries which 
 would otherwise destroy our trenches and our 
 men in them; the reconnaissance machines 
 which fly up and down Hunland all day and 
 bring back reports of the movements of troops 
 and trains and the concentration or removal 
 of forces, and generally do work of which full 
 and true value is known only to those Heads 
 running the war; the photographing machines 
 which bring back thousands of pictures of all 
 sorts — the line knows a few, a very few, of these, 
 and their officers study very attentively the 
 trench photos before they go over the top in a 
 raid or an attack, and so learn exactly how, why, 
 
82 THE AIR MASTERS 
 
 and where they are to go; the bombing machines 
 which blow up dumps of ammunition destined 
 for the destruction of trenches and men, derail 
 trains bringing up reinforcements or ammuni- 
 tion to the Hun firing line, knock about the 
 'dromes and the machines which otherwise 
 would be gun-spotting, reconnoitring, and bomb- 
 ing over our lines — and perhaps some day one 
 may tell just how many Gotha raids have been 
 upset, and cancelled by our bomb-raids on a 
 Hun 'drome — all these various working machines 
 depend entirely for their existence and freedom 
 to do their work on the success of the fighting 
 machines. The working machines carry guns, 
 and fight when they have to, but the single- 
 seater fighting machines are out for fight all the 
 time, out to destroy enemy fighters, or to put 
 out of action any enemy working machine they 
 can come across. 
 
 The struggle for the air mastery never ceases, 
 and although it may never be absolute and 
 complete, because the air is a big place to sweep 
 quite clear and clean, the fact that scores of our 
 machines spend all their flying hours anywhere 
 over Hunland from the front lines to fifty miles 
 and more behind them for every one Hun who 
 flies over ours and, after a cruise of some minutes, 
 races back again, is fairly good evidence of who 
 holds the whip hand in the air. 
 
 All this introduction is necessary to explain 
 properly the importance of the fighting squad- 
 rons' job, and why the winning of their fights 
 is of such concern to every man in the Army, 
 
THE AIR MASTERS 83 
 
 and to every man, woman, and child interested in 
 any man in the Army. It also serves to explain 
 why it was that three machines of Naval Number 
 Something " leapt into the air" in a most tre- 
 mendous hurry-skurry, the pilots finishing 
 the buckling of their coats (one going without 
 a coat indeed) and putting on goggles after they 
 had risen, when the look-out at the Squadron 
 telescope reported that there were four Hun 
 two-seater machines circling round at about 
 10,000 or 12,000 feet and just far enough over 
 our front lines to look suspiciously like being on 
 a gun-spotting or "Art.-Ob." bit of business. 
 
 That such a performance should be taking 
 place almost within sight of their own 'drome 
 doorstep naturally annoyed the Navals, and led 
 to the immediate and hurried steps which took 
 the three machines and pilots who were first ready 
 into the air in "two shakes of the jib-sheet." 
 The three men were all veteran fighters, and 
 their machines three of the Squadron's best, and 
 if the four Huns had known their reputations and 
 calibre it is doubtful if they would have dared 
 to hang about and carry on with their work as 
 they did. There was "Mel" Byrne, a big man 
 with a D.S.C. and a Croix de Guerre ribbon on his 
 breast, and a score of crashed Huns notched to his 
 credit, flying his "Kangaroo"; "Rip" Winkle, 
 who had once met and attacked, single-handed, 
 seven Huns, shot down and crashed three hand- 
 running and chased the others headlong as far 
 over Hunland as his petrol would take him: 
 he was in his "Minnenwerfer"; and the "next 
 
84 THE AIR MASTERS 
 
 astern" was the '"Un-settler" flown by "Ten- 
 franc" or "Frankie" Jones, a youngster of — 
 well, officially, twenty, so called, not because he 
 was in his baptism named Frank, but because 
 of a bet he had made with another Naval Squad- 
 ron as to which Squadron would " crash" 
 the most Huns by a stated date. He was 
 desperately keen to win his often-referred-to 
 wager — so much so in fact that the other pilots 
 chaffed him constantly on it and swore he would 
 risk more to win his bet than he would to win 
 aV.C. 
 
 The three wasted no time in the usual circling 
 climb over the 'drome, but drove up full tilt and 
 straight for the four dots in the sky. They 
 climbed as they went, and since the Trichord 
 type is rather famous for its climbing powers 
 they made pretty good height as they went. 
 "Mel," in the lead, was in a desperate hurry to 
 interrupt the enemy's artillery-spotting work, so 
 gave away the advantage of height and sacrificed 
 the greater climb they could attain with a lesser 
 speed to the urgent haste and need of getting 
 in touch with the enemy. They were still a 
 good couple of thousand feet below when they 
 came to within half a mile of the Huns, and 
 the " Kangaroo," with the others following close, 
 tilted steeply up and began to show what a 
 Trichord really could do if it were asked of her. 
 They were gaining height so rapidly that the 
 Huns evidently did not like it, and two of them 
 turned out and drove over to a position above 
 the Trichords. The three paid no attention to 
 
THE AIR MASTERS 85 
 
 them, but climbed steeply, swinging in towards 
 the other two machines which, since they still 
 continued their circling, were probably con- 
 tinuing their " shoot" and signalling back to 
 their guns. But the Trichords were too threaten- 
 ing to be left longer alone. The two turned and 
 flew east, with the Trichords in hot pursuit, 
 slanted round, and presently were joined by 
 their friends. Then the four plunged on the 
 three in an almost vertical dive. Because the 
 fighting scout only shoots straight forward out 
 of a fixed gun, its bows must be pointing straight 
 at a target before it can fire, and the Huns' 
 straight-down dive was meant to catch the 
 Trichords at a disadvantage, since it was hardly 
 to be expected they could stand on their tails 
 to shoot straight up in the air. But this is 
 almost what they did. All three, going "full 
 out," turned their noses abruptly up and opened 
 fire. The Huns turned their dive off into an 
 upward "zoom" and a circling bank which 
 allowed their observers to point their guns over 
 and down at the Trichords, and fire a number 
 of rounds. 
 
 But because it was now perfectly obvious that 
 the Trichords had attained their first and most 
 urgent object, the breaking- off of the Huns' 
 "shoot" and spotting for their guns, they could 
 now proceed to the next desirable part of the 
 programme — the destruction of the four Huns by 
 methods which would level up the fighting 
 chances a little. The "Kangaroo" shot out 
 eastward and began to climb steeply, Mel ex- 
 
86 THE AIR MASTERS 
 
 pecting that the other two would follow his 
 tactics, get between the enemy and their lines, 
 and climb to or above their height. But the 
 "'Un-settler" was in trouble of some sort, and 
 after firing a coloured light as a signal to the 
 leader meaning "Out of action; am returning 
 home," slid off west in a long glide with her 
 engine shut off. Rip Winkle, on the "Minnen- 
 werfer," followed the "Kangaroo" east a few 
 hundred yards and began to climb. The four 
 Huns at first tried to keep above the level of 
 the two, but it was quickly evident that the 
 Trichords were outclimbing them hand over 
 fist, were going up in a most amazing lift, in 
 "a spiral about as steep as a Tube stair." The 
 Huns didn't like the look of things and suddenly 
 turned for their lines, dropped their noses, and 
 went off at full speed. The two Trichords cut 
 slanting across to connect with them, and in 
 half a minute were close enough to open fire. 
 Two against four, they fought a fierce running 
 fight for a minute or two. Then the "Kan- 
 garoo" swept in astern of a Hun, dived and 
 zoomed up under him and poured in a point- 
 blank burst of fire. Mel saw his bullets hailing 
 into and splintering the woodwork of the under- 
 body, was just in time to throttle down and 
 check the "Kangaroo" as the Hun's tail flicked 
 up and he went sweeping down in a spinning 
 nose dive. But a hard-pressed pilot will some- 
 times adopt that manoeuvre deliberately to 
 throw a pursuer out of position, and, knowing 
 this, Mel followed him down to make sure he 
 
THE AIR MASTERS 87 
 
 was finished, followed him watching the spin 
 grow wilder and wilder, and finish in a splinter- 
 ing crash on the ground. Mel lifted the " Kan- 
 garoo" and drove off full pelt after the others. 
 Two of the Huns had dived and were skimming 
 the ground — they were well over Hunland by- 
 no w — and the other one and the "Minnen- 
 werfer" were wheeling and circling and darting 
 in and out about each other exactly like two 
 boxers sparring for an opening, their machine- 
 guns rattling rapidly as either pilot or gunner 
 got his sights on the target. Then when he 
 was almost close enough to join in, Mel saw a 
 spurt of flame and a gust of smoke lick out 
 from the fuselage of the Hun. The machine 
 lurched, recovered, and dipped over to dive 
 down; the " Minnenwerfer" leaped in to give 
 her the death-blow, and under the fresh hail of 
 bullets the Hun plunged steeply, with smoke 
 and flame pouring up from the machine's body. 
 The wind drove the flames aft, and in two 
 seconds she was enveloped in them, became a 
 roaring bonfire, a live torch hurtling to the 
 ground. The Trichords saw her observer 
 scramble from his cockpit, balance an instant 
 on the flaming body, throw his hands up and leap 
 out into the empty air, and go twisting and 
 whirling down to earth. 
 
 A Hun Archie shell screamed up past the 
 hovering Trichords and burst over their heads, 
 and others followed in quick succession as the 
 two turned and began to climb in twisting and 
 erratic curves designed to upset the gunners' 
 
88 THE AIR MASTERS 
 
 aim. They worked east as they rose and were 
 almost over the lines when Mel, in one of his 
 circlings, caught sight of a big formation flying 
 towards them from the west. He steadied his 
 machine and took another long look, and in a 
 moment saw they were Huns, counted them 
 and found fourteen, most of them scouts, some 
 of them two-seaters of a type that Mel knew as 
 one commonly used by the Huns on the infre- 
 quent occasions they get a chance to do artillery- 
 observing work on our lines. Both Mel and 
 Rip worked out the situation on much the 
 same lines, that the Huns had some important 
 " shoot" on, were specially keen to do some 
 observing for their guns, had sent the four 
 two-seaters first and were following them up 
 with other two-seater observing-machines pro- 
 tected by a strong escort of fighters. Mel 
 looked round for any sight of a formation of 
 ours that might be ready to interrupt the 
 game, saw none, and selecting the correct 
 coloured light, fired a signal to Rip saying, 
 "I am going to attack." Rip, as a matter of 
 fact, was so certain he would do so that he had 
 already commenced to climb his machine to 
 gain a favourable position. The fourteen were 
 at some 17,000 feet, several thousand above the 
 Trichords, but here the great climbing power 
 of the Trichords stood to them, and they went 
 up and up, in swift turn on turn that brought 
 them almost to a level with the enemy before 
 the Huns were within shooting distance. They 
 came on with the scouts flying in a wedge-shaped 
 
THE AIR MASTERS 89 
 
 formation, and the observing-machines pro- 
 tected and covered inside the wedge. 
 
 The odds were so hugely in their favour that 
 it was clear they never dreamed the two would 
 attack their fourteen, and they drove straight 
 forward to cross above the lines. But the 
 Trichords wakened them quickly and rudely. 
 Each wheeled out wide and clear of the forma- 
 tion, closed in astern of it to either side, lifted 
 sharply to pick up an extra bit of useful height, 
 dived, and came hurtling, engines going full 
 out and guns shooting their hardest, arrow- 
 straight at the two-seaters in the centre of the 
 formation below them. Owing to the direction 
 of their attack, only the observers' guns on the 
 two-seaters had any chance to bring an effective 
 fire to bear. It is true that the few scouts in 
 the rear of the wedge did fire a few scattering 
 shots. But scouts, you will remember, having 
 only fixed guns shooting forward, can only fire 
 dead ahead in the direction the machine is 
 travelling, must aim the machine to hit with 
 the gun. This means that the target presented 
 to them of the Trichords flashing down across 
 their bows made it almost impossible for them 
 to keep a Trichord in their sights for more than 
 an instant, if indeed they were quick enough 
 to get an aim at all. Their fire went wide and 
 harmless. The two-seaters did better, and both 
 Trichords had jets of flaming and smoking 
 tracer bullets spitting past them as they came, 
 had several hits through their wings. But 
 they, because they held their machines steady 
 
90 THE AIR MASTERS 
 
 and plunged down straight as bullets them- 
 selves on to their marks, were able to keep 
 longer, steadier and better aim. Mel, as he 
 drove down close to his target, saw the gaping 
 rents his bullets were slashing in the fuselage 
 near the observer, saw in the flashing instant 
 as he turned and hoicked up and away, the 
 observer collapse and fall forward with his 
 hands hanging over the edge of his cockpit. 
 Rip saw no visible signs of his bullets, but saw 
 the visible result a moment after he also had 
 swirled up, made a long fast climbing turn, and 
 steadied his machine for another dive. His 
 Hun dropped out of the formation and down 
 in long twisting curves, apparently out of control. 
 He had no time to watch her down, because 
 half a dozen of the Hun scouts, deciding evidently 
 that this couple of enemies deserved serious 
 consideration, swung out and began to climb 
 after the Trichords. Mel promptly dived down 
 past them, under the two-seaters and up again 
 under one. The instant he had her in the 
 gun-sights he let drive and saw his bullets 
 breaking and tearing into her. She side-slipped 
 wildly, rolled over, and Mel watched for no 
 more, but turned his attention and his gun to 
 another target. 
 
 By now the half-dozen Hun scouts had ob- 
 tained height enough to allow them to copy 
 the Trichords' dive-and-shoot tactics, and down 
 they came to the long clattering fire of their 
 machine-guns. Both Trichords had a score 
 of rents in wings and fuselage and tail planes, 
 
THE AIR MASTERS 91 
 
 but by a mercy no shot touched a vital part. 
 But they could hardly afford to risk such chances 
 often, so went back to their plan of outclimbing 
 and diving on their enemies. Over and over 
 again they did this, and because of their far 
 superior climb were able to keep on doing it 
 despite every effort of the Huns. Machine 
 after machine they sent driving down, some 
 being uncertain " crashes" or "out-of -controls," 
 but most of them being at least definitely 
 " driven down" since they did not rejoin the 
 fight, and were forced to drop to such landing- 
 places as they could find. There were some 
 definite "crashes," one which fell wrapped in 
 roaring flame from stem to stern; another on 
 which Rip saw his bullets slashing in long tears 
 across the starboard wing, the splinters fly 
 from a couple of the wing struts as the bullets 
 sheared them through in splitting ragged frag- 
 ments. In an instant the whole upper wing 
 flared upward and back and tore off, the lower 
 folded back to the body, flapped and wrenched 
 fiercely as the machine rolled over and fell, 
 gave and ripped loose; the port wings followed, 
 breaking short off and away, leaving the machine 
 to drop like a plummet to the ground. The 
 third certain crash was in the later stages of 
 the fight. The constant dive-and-zoom of the 
 Trichords had the desired effect of driving 
 the Huns lower and lower each time in their 
 endeavour to gain speed and avoid the fierce 
 rushes from above. Strive as they would, 
 they could not gain an upper position. Some 
 
92 THE AIR MASTERS 
 
 of them tried to fly wide and climb while the 
 Trichords were busy with the remainder; but 
 one or other of the two leaped out after them, 
 hoicked up above them, drove them lower, or 
 shot them down, in repeated dives. 
 
 The fight that had started a good 17,000 feet 
 up and close over the trenches, finished at 
 about 1,000 feet and six to seven miles behind 
 the German lines. At that height, the pilot of 
 one Hun driven into a side-slip was not able 
 to recover in time and smashed at full speed into 
 the ground; another was forced so low that he 
 tried to land, hit a hedge and turned over; a 
 third landed twisting sideways and at least tore 
 a wing away. 
 
 Then the two Trichords, splintered and rent 
 and gaping with explosive-bullet wounds, with 
 their ammunition completely expended, their 
 oil and petrol tanks running dry, turned for 
 home, leaving their fourteen enemies scattered 
 wide and low in the air, or piled in splintered 
 smoking wreckage along the ground below the 
 line of their flight. The fight with the fourteen 
 had run without a break for three-quarters of 
 an hour. 
 
 They never knew exactly how many victims 
 they had "sunk, burned or destroyed." As 
 they stated apologetically in the official " Com- 
 bat Report" that night: " Owing to the close 
 presence of other active E.A. 1 driven-down 
 machines could not be watched to the ground." 
 
 "Frankie" was almost more annoyed over 
 
 1 E.A. = enemy aircraft. 
 
THE AIR MASTERS 93 
 
 this than he was over having had to pull out of 
 the action with a dud machine. "If we could 
 have confirmed all your .crashes," he remarked 
 regretfully, "it would have been such a jolly 
 boost-up to the Squadron's tally — to say nothing 
 of my wager." 
 
VIII 
 
 "THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 
 
 The infantry who watched from their trenches 
 one afternoon a Flight of our machines droning 
 over high above their heads had no inkling 
 of the effect that Flight was going to have on 
 their, the infantry's, well-being. If they had 
 known that the work of this Flight, the suc- 
 cessful carrying out of its mission, was going 
 to make all the difference of life and death 
 to them they might have been more interested 
 in it. But they did not know then, and do 
 not know now, and what is perhaps more 
 surprising, the Flight itself never fully learned 
 the result of their patrol, because air work, 
 so divided up and apparently disconnected, is 
 really a systematic whole, and only those whose 
 work it is to collect the threads and twist them 
 together know properly how much one means 
 to the other. 
 
 This Flight was out on a photographic patrol. 
 They had been ordered to proceed to a certain 
 spot over Hunland and take a series of pictures 
 there, and they did so and returned in due 
 
 94 
 
"THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 95 
 
 course with nothing more unusual about the 
 performance than rather a high average of 
 attentions paid to them by the Hun Archies. 
 The photos were developed and printed as 
 usual within a few minutes of the machines 
 touching the ground, and were rushed off to 
 their normal destinations. The photographers 
 went to their afternoon tea and forgot the 
 matter. 
 
 But in a Nissen hut some miles from the 
 photographers' 'drome afternoon tea was held 
 up, while several people pored over the photos 
 with magnifying glasses, consulted the many 
 maps which hung round the walls and covered 
 the tables, spoke earnestly into telephones, 
 and dictated urgent notes. One result of all 
 this activity was that Captain Washburn, or 
 "Washie," and his Observer Lieutenant "Pip" 
 Smith, to their no slight annoyance, were 
 dragged from their tea and pushed off on an 
 urgent reconnaissance, and two Flights of two 
 fighting scout Squadrons received orders to 
 make their patrol half an hour before the time 
 ordered. Washie and his Observer were 
 both rather specialists in reconnaissance work, 
 and they received sufficient of a hint from their 
 Squadron Commander of the urgency of their 
 job to wipe out their regrets of a lost tea and 
 set them bustling aboard their 'bus "Pan" 
 and up into the air. 
 
 It may be mentioned briefly here that three 
 other machines went out on the same recon- 
 naissance. One was shot down before she was 
 
96 "THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 
 
 well over the lines; another struggled home 
 with serious engine trouble; the third was 
 so harried and harassed by enemy scouts that 
 she was lucky to be able to fight them off and 
 get home, with many bullet holes — and no 
 information. Washie and Pip did better, 
 although they too had a lively trip. To make 
 sure of their information they had to fly rather 
 low, and as soon as they began to near the 
 ground which they wanted to examine the 
 Hun Archies became most unpleasantly active. 
 A shell fragment came up through the fuselage 
 with an ugly rip, and another smacked bursting 
 through both right planes. Later, in a swift 
 dive down to about a thousand feet, "Pan" 
 collected another assortment of souvenirs from 
 machine-guns and rifles, but Washie climbed 
 her steeply out of range, while Pip busied 
 himself jotting down some notes of the exceed- 
 ingly useful information the low dive had 
 brought them. 
 
 Then six Hun fighting scouts arrived at 
 speed, and set about the "Pan" in an earnest 
 endeavour to crash her and her information 
 together. Pilot and Observer had a moment's 
 doubt whether to fight or run. They had 
 already seen enough to make it Urgent that 
 they should get their information foack, and 
 yet they were both sure there was r^ore to see 
 and that they ought to see it. The{r doubts 
 were settled by the Huns diving o$ 6hem one 
 after another, with machine-guns going their 
 hardest. The first went down past them spat- 
 
"THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 97 
 
 tering a few bullets through "Pan's" tail 
 planes as he passed. The second Pip caught 
 fairly with a short burst as he came past, and 
 the Hun continued his dive, fell off in a spin, 
 and ended in a violent crash below. The third 
 and fourth dived on "Pan" from the right 
 side and the fifth and sixth on her left. Pip 
 managed to wing one on the right, and sent 
 him fluttering down out of the fight more or 
 less under control, and Washie stalled the 
 "Pan" violently, wrenched her round in an 
 Immelman turn, and plunged straight at another 
 Hun, pumping a stream of bullets into him from 
 his bow gun. The Hun went down with a 
 torrent of black smoke gushing from his fuselage. 
 Washie brought "Pan" hard round on her 
 heel again, opened his engine full out and ran 
 for it, with the scattered Huns circling and 
 following in hard pursuit. Now "Pan" could 
 travel to some tune when she was really asked 
 — and Washie was asking her now. She 
 was a good machine with a good engine; her 
 pilot knew every stitch and stay, every rod, 
 bolt, and bearing in her (and his rigger and 
 fitter knew that he knew and treated him and 
 her accordingly), every little whim in her that 
 it paid him to humour, every little trick that 
 would get an extra inch of speed out of her. 
 A first-class pilot on a first-class scout ought 
 to overhaul a first-class pilot and two-seater; 
 but either the "Pan" or her pilot was a shade 
 more first-class than the pursuers, and Washie 
 managed to keep far enough ahead to be out 
 
98 "THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 
 
 of accurate shooting range and allow Pip 
 to scrutinise the ground carefully as they flew. 
 For Washie was running it is true, but was 
 running east and further out over Hunland 
 and the area he wanted to reconnoitre, and 
 Pip was still picking up the very information 
 they had been sent to find. 
 
 When they swung north the three pursuing 
 scouts by cutting the corner came up on them 
 again, and Pip left his notes to stand by 
 his gun. There was some brisk shooting in the 
 next minute, but "Pan" broke clear with 
 another series of holes spattered through her 
 planes and fuselage, and Pip with the calf 
 of his leg badly holed by an explosive bullet, 
 but with his gun still rapping out short bursts 
 over the tail. They were heading for home 
 now, and Washie signalled Pip to speak 
 to him. The "Pan" is one of those comfort- 
 ably designed machines with pilot's and ob- 
 server's cockpits so close together that the 
 two men can shout in each other's ear. Pip 
 leaned over and Washie yelled at him. 
 "Seen enough? Got all you want?" "Yes." 
 Pip nodded and tapped his note-block. "All 
 
 I want," he yelled, "and then some " and 
 
 he wiped his hand across his wound, showed 
 Washie the red blood, and shouted "Leg 
 hit." 
 
 That settled it. Washie lifted the "Pan" 
 and drove her, all out, for home, taking the 
 risk of some bullet-holed portion of her frame 
 failing to stand the strain of excessive speed 
 
"THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 99 
 
 rather than the risk of going easy and letting 
 the pursuers close for another fight with a 
 wounded observer to protect his tail. 
 
 " They've dropped off," shouted Pip a 
 few minutes later. Washie swung and be- 
 gan to lift the "Pan" in climbing turn on turn. 
 "Look out," he shouted back, "look out," 
 and stabbed a finger out to point a group of 
 Huns ahead of them and cutting them off from 
 the fines. Next minute Pip in his turn pointed 
 to another group coming up from the south 
 well above them and heading to cut them off. 
 Washie swept round, dipped his nose slightly, 
 and drove at the first group. The next few 
 minutes were unpleasantly hot. The Huns 
 strove to turn them, to hold them from break- 
 ing through or past, or drive them lower and 
 lower, while Washie twisted and dived and 
 zoomed and tried to dodge through or under 
 them, with his gun spitting short bursts 
 every time he caught a target in his sights; 
 and Pip, weakening and faint from pain 
 and loss of blood, seconded him as best he 
 could with rather erratic shooting. 
 
 Affairs were looking bad for them, even when 
 "Pan" ran out and west with no enemy ahead 
 but with four of them clinging to her flanks 
 and tail and pumping quick bursts at her; but 
 just here came in those two Flights of our 
 fighting scout Squadrons — quite accidentally 
 so far as they knew, actually of set design and 
 as part of the ordered scheme. Six streaking 
 shapes came flashing down into the fight with 
 
100 "THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 
 
 their machine-guns pouring long bursts of ih-«s 
 ahead of them, and the four close-pursuing 
 Huns left the "Pan" and turned to join up 
 with their scattered companions. Washie 
 left them to fight it out, and turned directly, 
 and very thankfully, for his 'drome. 
 
 This ends the tale of "Pan," but not by any 
 means of the result of her work. That work, 
 in the shape of jerky but significant reports, 
 was being dissected in the map-hung Nissen 
 hut even before Pip had reached the Casualty 
 Clearing Station; and "Pan's" work (con- 
 firming those suspicious photographs) again bred 
 other work, more urgent telephone talks, and 
 Immediate orders. The stir spread, circle 
 by circle, during the night, and before day- 
 break the orders had borne their fruit, and 
 Flights — Artillery-Observing, reconnoitring and 
 fighting-scout — were lined up on their grounds 
 waiting the moment to go; the Night Bombers 
 were circling in from their second and third 
 trips of destruction on lines of communication, 
 railways and roads, junctions and bridges, 
 enemy troops and transport in rest or on the 
 march, ammunition dumps and stores; in the 
 front lines the infantry were "standing to" 
 with everything ready and prepared to meet 
 an attack; the support lines were filling with 
 reinforcements, which again were being strength- 
 ened by battalions tramping up the roads 
 from the rear; in the gun lines the lean hungry 
 muzzles of the long-range guns were poking 
 and peering up and out from pit and emplace- 
 
"THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 101 
 
 ment, and the squat howitzers were lifting or 
 lowering to carefully worked out angles. 
 
 Before daybreak was more than a mere 
 doubtful smudge of lighter colour in the east, 
 the waiting Flights were up and away to their 
 appointed beats, and the first guns began to 
 drop their shells, shooting "by the map" 
 (maps made or corrected from air photographs), 
 or on previously "registered" lines. 
 
 The infantry up in front heard the machines 
 hum and drone overhead, heard the rush and 
 howl of the passing shells, the thud of the guns' 
 reports, the thump of the high-explosive's 
 burst. That, for a time, was all. For a good 
 half-hour there was nothing more, no sign of 
 the heavy attack they had been warned was 
 coming. Then the gunfire began to grow 
 heavier, and as the light strengthened, little 
 dots could be seen circling and wheeling against 
 the sky and now and again a faint and far-off 
 tat-tat-tat-tat came from the upper air. For if 
 it was quiet and inactive on the ground, it was 
 very much the other way in the air. Our 
 reconnoitring and gun-spotting machines were 
 quartering the ground in search of targets, the 
 scout machines sweeping to and fro above them 
 ready to drop on any hostiles which tried to 
 interrupt them in their work. The hostiles 
 tried quickly enough. They were out in strength, 
 and they did their best to drive off or sink our 
 machines, prevent them spying out the land, 
 or directing our guns on the massing battalions. 
 But they were given little chance to interrupt. 
 
102 "THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 
 
 Let any of their formations dive on our gun- 
 spotters, and before they had well come into 
 action down plunged our scouts after them, 
 engaged them fiercely, drove them off, or drew 
 them away in desperate defensive fighting. 
 Gradually the light grew until the reconnoitring 
 machines could see and mark the points of 
 concentration, the masses moving into position, 
 the filled and filling trenches; until the gun- 
 spotters could mark down the same targets 
 and the observers place their positions on the 
 map. Then their wireless began to whisper 
 back their messages from the air to the little 
 huts and shanties back at Headquarters and 
 the battery positions; and then . . . 
 
 It was the turn of the guns to speak. Up in 
 the trenches the infantry heard the separate 
 thuds and thumps quicken and close and run 
 into one long tremendous roar, heard the shells 
 whistle and shriek and howl and moan over 
 their heads, saw the ground far out in front of 
 them veil in twisting smoke wreaths, spout and 
 leap in volcanoes of smoke, earth, and fire. 
 Battery by battery, gun by gun, the artillery 
 picked up and swelled the chorus. The enemy 
 machines did little gun-spotting over our posi- 
 tions. If one or two sneaked over high above 
 the line, it needed no more than the first few 
 puffs about them from our watching Archies to 
 bring some of our scouts plunging on them, 
 turning them and driving after them in head- 
 long pursuit. On the ground men knew little 
 or nothing of all this, of the moves and counter- 
 
"THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 103 
 
 moves, the dodging and fighting high over their 
 heads. Their attention was taken up by the 
 ferocious fire of our artillery, and in waiting, 
 waiting, for the attack which never came. 
 
 Small wonder it never came. The guns 
 caught it fairly, as it was developing and shaping 
 and settling into position for the assault. The 
 attack was a little late, as we heard after from 
 prisoners — perhaps the Night Bombers, and 
 their upsetting of road and rail transport time- 
 tables with high-explosive bombs and showering 
 machine-guns, had some word in that late- 
 ness — and our fire caught it in the act of deploy- 
 ing. And when such a weight of guns as was 
 massed on that front catches solid battalions 
 on the roads, or troops close-packed in trenches, 
 the Lord ha' mercy on the men they catch. 
 The shells rained, deluged down on every trench, 
 every road and communication way within 
 range, searched every thicket and patch of 
 cover, blasted the dead woods to splintered 
 wreckage, smashed in dug-out and emplace- 
 ment, broke down the trenches to tumbled 
 smoking gutters, gashed and seamed and pitted 
 the bare earth into a honeycombed belt of death 
 and destruction. The high-explosive broke in, 
 tore open, wrenched apart and destroyed the 
 covering trenches and dug-outs; the shrapnel 
 raked and rent; the tattered fragments of bat- 
 talions that scattered and sought shelter in 
 the shell-holes and craters. The masses that 
 were moving up to push home the intended 
 attack escaped if they were checked and stayed 
 
104 "THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 
 
 in time; those that had arrived and passed 
 into the furnace were simply and utterly des- 
 troyed. 
 
 For a good three hours the roaring whirlwind 
 of gunfire never ceased, or even slacked; for 
 three hours the ground for a full mile back 
 from the Hun front line rolled billowing clouds 
 of smoke, quivered and shook to the crash 
 of the explosions, spurted and boiled and eddied 
 under the shells "like a bubbling porridge 
 pot," as one gun-spotter put it, was scorched 
 with fire, flayed with lead and steel, drenched 
 and drowned with gas fron the poison shells. 
 
 For three hours the circling planes above 
 watched for sign of movement below, and seeing 
 any such sign talked back by wireless to the 
 guns, waited and watched the wrath descend 
 and blot out the movement in fresh whirlwinds 
 of concentrated fire; while further back a full 
 five to ten miles other spotters quartered to 
 and fro working steadily, sending back call 
 after call to our Heavies, and silencing, one by 
 one, battery after battery which was pounding 
 our trenches with long-range fire. And for 
 three hours the infantry crouched half deafened 
 in their trenches, listening to the bellowing 
 uproar, watching the writhing smoke-fog which 
 veiled but could not conceal the tearing destruc- 
 tion that raged up and down, to and fro, across 
 and across the swept ground. 
 
 Three hours, three long hours — and one can 
 only guess how long they were to the maimed 
 and wounded, cowering and squeezing flat to 
 
"THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 105 
 
 earth in the reeking shell-holes, gasping for 
 choked breath through their gas-masks, quiver- 
 ing under the fear of further wounds or sudden 
 and violent death; how bitterly long they 
 were to the German commanders and generals 
 watching their plans destroyed, their attack 
 wiped out, their regiments and battalions burnt 
 away in our consuming fire. 
 
 Our despatches, after their common use and 
 wont, put the matter coldly, dispassionately, 
 and with under- rather than over-statement of 
 facts — "The attack was broken by our artillery 
 fire." 
 
 Broken! Smashed rather; attack and at- 
 tackers blotted out, annihilated, utterly and 
 entirely. 
 
 "By our artillery fire." The truth no doubt, 
 but hardly the complete truth, since it said 
 no word of the part the Air Service had played. 
 So few knew what had been brought about by 
 the work of a photographic patrol, the following 
 reconnaissance, the resulting air work. 
 
 The infantry never knew how it was that 
 the attack never reached them, why they did 
 not have to beat it off with bullet and bayonet 
 —or be beaten in by it — except that the guns 
 perhaps had stopped it. The public did not 
 know because the press did not say — perhaps 
 because the press itself didn't know. And 
 what the Air Service knew, as usual it didn't 
 tell. 
 
 But Somebody evidently knew, because 
 Washie and Pip found themselves shortly 
 
106 "THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 
 
 afterwards in Orders for a Decoration; and 
 apparently the Squadron knew, because next 
 morning when he went out to his 'bus Washie 
 found that "Pan" had a neat little splash of 
 paint on what you might call her left breast, 
 an oblong little patch showing the colours of 
 the ribbon of the Military Cross. 
 
 All that we are and all we own, 
 All that we have and hold or take, 
 All that we tackle or do or try 
 Is not for our, or the Corps' own sake. 
 
 Through our open eyes the Armies see, 
 We look and we learn that they may know. 
 Collect from the clouds the news they need, 
 And carry it back to them below. 
 We harry the guns that do us no harm, 
 We picture the paths we shall never take; 
 There's naught to help or to hinder us 
 On the road we bomb or the bridge we break. 
 Only to work where our footmen wish, 
 Only to guard them from prying eyes, 
 To find and to fetch the word they want, 
 We war unceasing and hold the skies. 
 
 All that we are and all we own, 
 
 All that we have or hope or know, 
 
 Our work and our wits, our deaths, our lives, 
 
 We stake above, that they win below. 
 
IX 
 
 IF THEY KNEW— 
 
 A group of infantry in our front line trench 
 watching the boiling eddying smoke and spurt- 
 ing fires of our artillery barrage on the enemy 
 lines saw a couple of planes whirl suddenly 
 up into sight above and beyond the barrage 
 smoke. They were diving and twisting about 
 each other like a couple of tumbler pigeons 
 in flight, or rather, since one was obviously 
 pursuing the other closely, like a pigeon hard 
 pressed by a hawk. The excitement of the 
 infantry turned to disgust as they caught plain 
 sight of the markings on the machines, saw that 
 the pursued was a British machine, the pursuer 
 a black-crossed German. And when the British 
 machine came rocketting and whirling through 
 the barrage smother in plain flight from the 
 German, who dared not follow through the wall 
 of falling and bursting shells, the disgust of 
 the men on the ground was openly and angrily 
 expressed. 
 
 " Mastery o' the air," shouted one. "Fat 
 lot he'll master." And from the others came 
 similar jeers — "Hurry up, son, or he'll catch 
 
 107 
 
108 IF THEY KNEW— 
 
 you yet — Why couldn't he have put up a fight? 
 — Do they ever court-martial them blokes for 
 runnin' away? — Fritz fliers top dog again." 
 
 And yet, if those men had known, they would 
 have cheered the man passing over them, 
 cheered him for as plucky a man as ever flew 
 —and that is saying something. If they knew, 
 so often if they knew — but at least I can let 
 them know something of this particular story. 
 
 The Flight went out as usual on u o.p." 
 (offensive patrol), which, again as usual, had 
 taken them well over Hunland. For the first 
 half-hour they had a dull time, seeing no Huns 
 about and having no more than the normal 
 amount of Archie fire to dodge. Then the 
 Flight Leader spotted a string of dots to east- 
 ward, and on counting them and finding they 
 numbered something round a dozen to fifteen, 
 concluded they were Huns. He ensured the 
 Flight's attention to the matter, and then 
 pointing his machine straight at the enemy, 
 and after glancing round to make sure the Flight 
 were in correct formation, began to climb them 
 steadily up and towards the oncoming hostiles. 
 He kept a close watch on the enemy, because 
 he knew that the Squadron to which he be- 
 longed and the type of machine they flew had 
 a name apparently discouraging to the Huns' 
 fighting inclinations, and he was afraid that, 
 even with more than two to one in their favour, 
 they might on recognising the Flight avoid 
 action and clear off. The Flight had already 
 burnt a good hour's petrol and had some miles 
 
IF THEY KNEW— 109 
 
 to go back home, and this did not leave a very- 
 great margin for a long pursuit and perhaps 
 a prolonged fight. But this time the Huns 
 showed no sign of shirking the fight, and came 
 driving straight west on a course which must 
 very soon bring them into contact with the 
 Flight. As they swept closer it was seen that 
 the hostile fleet was made up of three two- 
 seater machines and a dozen single-seater fight- 
 ing scouts, and just before they came close 
 enough for action "Ailie" Arrowman, the 
 Flight Leader, noticed something else that made 
 him decide very quickly to concentrate the 
 Flight's frightfulness on the two-seaters. The 
 three were bombers, and from their slow and 
 heavy flight obviously fully loaded with bombs, 
 and from the direction they were taking were 
 clearly out on a bombing raid over the British 
 lines. 
 
 Now these Hun raids and bomb-droppings 
 had been becoming unpleasantly frequent for a 
 little time before this, and all our patrols had 
 special orders to keep a sharp look-out for 
 bombers and make things as hot for them as 
 possible. The Hun was coming to specialise 
 on rapid dashes over our lines, the hurried 
 dropping of their eggs, and a hasty bee-line 
 flight for home. Our infantry and our batteries 
 were a good deal annoyed by these attentions, 
 and naturally and very simply wanted to know 
 why our flying men didn't "stop these blighters 
 coming and going as they liked." This, of 
 course, is a delusion of the men on the ground. 
 
110 IF THEY KNEW— 
 
 The Huns were very far from doing as they 
 liked, but since the air (for flying purposes) is 
 twenty odd thousand feet high, and as long as 
 the line, it takes a lot of policing against tip- 
 and-run raids, especially when you remember 
 that machines can pass within quite a few 
 hundred yards of each other and never know 
 the other is there. The groundlings don't 
 recognise these facts, much less the incidental 
 possibilities of Huns sneaking over under cover 
 of clouds and so on, and it must be confessed 
 the airmen, as a rule, don't take many pains 
 to enlighten them, even when they do get 
 talking together. On the ground, again, they 
 know nothing of the Hun bombers chased back 
 and brought down well behind their own lines, 
 and nothing of the raids which are caught and 
 interrupted, as the one I'm telling of was about 
 to be. 
 
 All this is by the way, but it explains why 
 Ailie was specially keen to out the bombing 
 machines first of all, and also why the bombers 
 at the first sign of attack on them dropped 
 their noses and went off at a rush, and the Hun 
 fighters hurriedly dived in to divert the Flight 
 and force a fight with them. We need not 
 at the moment follow the details of the whole 
 fight, but see rather how the one man Ailie 
 fared in it. But, incidentally, it may be men- 
 tioned that the rest of the Flight sank one 
 bomber and chased the other down to the 
 ground, fought the escort and sank three of 
 them at a cost of no more than one pilot wounded, 
 
IF THEY KNEW— 111 
 
 a great many bullet holes in the machines, and 
 one badly crippled and just able to reach and 
 land on our side of the lines. 
 
 Ailie went down in a hurricane dive on the 
 first bomber, and since he was much faster 
 than the big machine, especially with it carry- 
 ing a full load, he caught it up rapidly, and 
 bringing his bow gun into action commenced 
 to hail a stream of lead on it. The gunner of 
 the two-seater began to fire back at Ailie, but 
 as his pilot at the same time was swerving and 
 swinging his machine to dodge the streaking 
 bullets, he spoiled the gunner's aim and few 
 of the bullets came dangerously close to Ailie. 
 But two of the enemy scouts had seen Ailie's 
 charge, had promptly swung and dived after 
 him, and, following hard astern, opened fire 
 in their turn. Ailie caught up the two-seater, 
 swooped down under her, throttled back to 
 keep her pace, pulled down the gun fixed on 
 his top plane, and started to pelt bullets up 
 into the underbody hurtling along above him. 
 The two Hun scouts dropped to his level and 
 followed, shooting close and hard, and Ailie, 
 finding their bullets snapping and smacking on 
 his planes, was forced to swerve and duck and 
 at last to turn sharp on them. Either he was the 
 better pilot or his was the handier machine, 
 because in a few seconds he had out-manoeuvred 
 them and driven them diving down ahead of him. 
 He ripped a short burst into one, wheeled, 
 looked round for sight of his two-seater and, 
 sighting it tearing off at top speed, swung and, 
 
112 IF THEY KNEW— 
 
 opening his engine full out, went racing after 
 it. The two-seater flung himself into a spin 
 and went twisting and spiralling wildly down, 
 Ailie following close and shooting whenever 
 he could bring his sights to bear. But again 
 the renewed rattle of close machine-gun fire 
 began, and he glanced round to find the scouts 
 hot in pursuit again. This time they were not 
 to be pursuers only, for another of the Flight 
 leaped suddenly into the fight, rattled off a 
 quick burst of fire, and in an instant had one 
 of the enemy scouts plunging down helplessly 
 out of control, whirled round and without a 
 second's hesitation attacked the second. The 
 Hun bomber, down to about 1,000 feet, flattened 
 out and drove off east with Ailie still hard after 
 him. He was getting angry now. Burst after 
 burst of fire he had poured, as far as he could 
 see, straight into the big machine, and yet it 
 kept on apparently unharmed. But suddenly 
 its tail flicked up, a wing buckled and tore loose, 
 and it went down rolling and pitching, to crash 
 on the ground. 
 
 Ailie swept over, leaning out and peering 
 down on the heaped wreckage; but what- 
 ever triumph he might have felt was short- 
 lived, for at that moment tat-tat-tat-tat went a 
 gun close behind him and then the quicker 
 closer rattle of double or triple guns. Ailie 
 hoicked hard up in a swift climbing turn, whirled 
 round, and just catching one of the enemy 
 scouts in his sights, gripped the trigger of the 
 firing mechanism. His gun fired — once — and 
 
IF THEY KNEW— 113 
 
 stopped, although he still held the trigger 
 hard gripped and it should have continued to 
 fire. The target swept clear, and Ailie, after 
 gripping and releasing quickly several times, 
 knew his gun had jammed. The two hostiles 
 reopened fire on him, and he swerved, straight- 
 ened out and went off in a bee-line at top 
 speed. He was not unduly alarmed, although 
 his position, a bare 1,000 feet off the ground 
 and therefore well within ground shooting range 
 of rifles and machine-guns, with a jammed 
 gun, and with two scouts hard after him, was 
 uncomfortably risky. He was on a fast machine, 
 so fast that he did not believe the Hun flew 
 that could catch him; and he reckoned that 
 in a straightaway flight he could drop the two 
 sufficiently to be out of urgent danger from 
 them. As he flew he leaned forward, wrenched 
 back the cover over the breech of his gun and 
 jerked the loading lever rapidly to and fro. 
 But the jammed cartridge stayed jammed and 
 Ailie felt a first qualm of fear, as he heard the 
 guns behind him reopen fire and recognised 
 that he was not gaining on his enemies. Another 
 gun broke into the chorus, and Ailie glanced 
 round to see another of his Flight diving in 
 and engaging one of the enemy. The second 
 one, a bright scarlet painted scout, kept on 
 after him, caught him up and dived firing on 
 him. 
 
 Then began a game that Ailie might remember 
 in his nightmares for long enough. His machine 
 was not doing her best, and the hostile fairly 
 
114 , IF THEY KNEW— 
 
 had the wings of him. Time after time the 
 Hun swooped up over him and dived down, 
 firing as he came. Ailie could only duck and 
 swerve and dodge, some of his dives bringing 
 him perilously close to the ground; and as 
 he flew he wrenched and jerked at his gun's 
 firing mechanism, snatched the Verey pistol 
 from its rack, and with the butt tapped and 
 hammered at the gun, hoping the jar might 
 loosen the cartridge. He escaped touching 
 the ground and crashing over and over again 
 by bare feet; more than once he had to zoom 
 sharply and just cleared low trees or even bushes 
 that appeared suddenly before him; once his 
 wheels brushed and ripped across the top of 
 a hedge, and once again in a banking turn his 
 heart stood still for a second that seemed an 
 eternity, as he banked steeply and the machine 
 side-slipped until his wing-tip, as it appeared 
 to him, was touching the grass. And all the 
 time, in dive after dive, his enemy came whirl- 
 ing down on him, the fire of his machine-gun 
 clattering off burst after burst, and the 
 bullets hissing past in flame and smoke or 
 smacking venomously on the wings and body 
 of Ailie's machine. 
 
 And through it all, flinging his machine about, 
 twirling and twisting like a champion skater 
 cutting fancy and fantastic figures, doing star- 
 performance low flying that might have kept 
 every nerve and sense of any stunt-artist flier 
 occupied to the full, Ailie still made shift to 
 spare a hand and enough eye and mind for the 
 
IF THEY KNEW— 115 
 
 job of fiddling and hammering and working to 
 clear his jammed gun — a gun that was not even 
 in a convenient position to handle because, 
 set above the left upper edge of his cockpit, 
 it was very little below the level of his face 
 and awkwardly high for his hand to reach. 
 He gave up trying to clear it at last and turned 
 all his attention to out-manceuvring his op- 
 ponent. The Hun was above him, and every 
 time he tried to lift his machine the Hun dived, 
 firing on him, and drove him down again. He 
 was too low to pick up or follow landmarks, 
 so kept the westering sun in his eyes, knowing 
 this was edging him west towards our lines. 
 The Hun after each dive did a climbing turn 
 to a position to dive anew, and each time he 
 climbed Ailie made another dash towards the 
 west. The Hun saw the move, and, to beat 
 it, dropped his climbing-turn tactics and in- 
 stead dived and zoomed straight up, dived and 
 zoomed again and again. Ailie saw his chance 
 and took it. He throttled hard back next 
 time the Hun dived, and as the Hun overshot 
 him and zoomed straight up, Ailie in two swift 
 motions pulled the stick in, lifting sharp up 
 after and under him, pulled down the top gun 
 and fired point blank into him. The Hun 
 whirled over, dived vertically, and in an instant 
 crashed heavily nose first into the ground. 
 And Ailie's top gun had jammed after about its 
 tenth shot. 
 
 He flew on west, hardly for the moment daring 
 to believe he had escaped, opening the throttle 
 
116 IF THEY KNEW— 
 
 and starting to lift from his dangerous proximity 
 to the ground mechanically, and with his mind 
 hardly yet working properly. If he had not 
 caught the Hun with that last handful of shots 
 before his second gun jammed . . , 
 
 And then, almost before he had collected 
 his wits enough to realise properly how close 
 his escape had been, that same horrible clatter 
 of machine-gun fire from the air above and 
 behind him broke out, the same hiss and snap 
 of bullets came streaming about him. For a 
 moment he had a wild idea that his Hun had 
 not actually crashed, but a glance round showed 
 that it was no longer the brilliant red machine, 
 but another, and again a fighting scout. 
 
 Exactly the old performance started all over 
 again, but this time without even that slender 
 chance he had used so well before of catching 
 his enemy with the fire of his top gun. Again 
 he went through the twisting and dodging and 
 turning to avoid his relentless enemy and the 
 fire that crackled about him. Again he dived 
 into fields, skimmed the ground, hurdled over 
 low bushes and hedges, used every flying trick 
 and artifice he knew, but had never before 
 dared try at less than thousands of feet height, 
 to shake off his pursuer; and again as he flew 
 he wriggled and worked at the jammed gun 
 in front of him. For breathless minutes he 
 worked, casting quick glances from the ground 
 rushing under him to the gun mechanism, 
 jockeying his machine with steady pressures 
 or sharp kicks on the rudder-bar and one hand 
 
IF THEY KNEW— 117 
 
 on the joy-stick, while the other fumbled and 
 worked at the gun, and the bullets sang and 
 cracked about him. By all the laws of chance, 
 by all the rules of hazard, he should have been 
 killed, shot down or driven down into a crash, 
 a dozen times over in those few minutes; just 
 as by all the limits of possibility he could 
 never hope to clear a jammed gun while doing 
 fancy flying at such a height. But against all 
 chance and hazard and possibility — as pilots 
 do oftener than most people outside themselves 
 know — he flew on untouched, and . . . cleared 
 his jamb. By now he was worked up to such 
 a pitch of fear, frenzy, desperation, anger — it 
 may have been any of them, it may have been 
 something of all — that he took no further 
 thought of manoeuvring or tactics, whirled 
 blindly and drove straight at his enemy, firing 
 as he went, feeling a savage joy in the jar and 
 bang of his spurting gun. To avoid that 
 desperate rush and the streaming bullets, the 
 Hun swerved wide and swooped out in a bank- 
 ing turn, a turn so hurriedly and blindly taken 
 that, before he could properly see, he found 
 himself whirling into the edge of a forest the 
 chase had unwittingly skirted. Ailie saw him 
 distinctly try to wrench round to clear the trees 
 — but he was too near; to hoick up and over 
 them — but he was too low. He crashed sideways 
 on a tree-trunk, down headlong into the ground. 
 Again Ailie swung and flew straight towards 
 the sun, switching on to the emergency tank, 
 because by now his main petrol tank was almost 
 
118 IF THEY KNEW— 
 
 empty. He continued to fly low and no more 
 than 100 or 200 feet off the ground. At his 
 speed it would take a good shot to hit him from 
 the ground; higher up he would run more risk 
 of Archie fire and of meeting Huns, and — this 
 perhaps was the main determining factor, be- 
 cause by now he was almost exhausted with 
 the fatigue of severe and prolonged strain — 
 flying low would bring him quicker to the lines 
 and safety. 
 
 One might have supposed that by now the 
 grim gods of War had had sport enough of him. 
 But he was not yet free of them. Within a 
 mile he was attacked again, and this time by 
 three hostile scout fighters. He made no at- 
 tempt to dodge or out-manceuvre them. His 
 cartridges were almost finished, his machine 
 was badly shot about, his petrol was running 
 out. He opened his engine out to its fullest 
 and drove hard and headlong for the lines and 
 the drifting smoke and winking fires that told 
 of an artillery barrage. Close to the barrage 
 he had to swerve and dodge a moment, because 
 one of the Huns was fairly on top of him and 
 hailing lead on him, but next instant he plunged 
 at, into and through the barrage, his machine 
 rocking and pitching and rolling in the turmoil 
 of shell-torn air, his eyes blinded by the drifting 
 smoke, his ears stunned by the rending crashes 
 and cracks of the drum-fire explosions. He 
 won through safely and alone, for his three 
 enemies balked at facing that puffing, spurting, 
 fire-winking inferno, turned back and left him. 
 
IF THEY KNEW- 119 
 
 Ailie, hardly daring to believe that he was 
 actually clear and safe and free, steered for 
 home. He skimmed his bullet-torn machine 
 over the trenches, a machine holed and ripped 
 and torn and cut with armour-piercing and 
 explosive bullets, his guns jammed, his am- 
 munition expended, his petrol at its last pints, 
 he himself at almost the last point of exhaustion, 
 dizzy from excitement, weak and faint from 
 sheer strain. 
 
 Yet this was the man and the moment that 
 those infantry in the trenches jeered, looking 
 up as he passed over, his ripped fabric fluttering, 
 his shot-through wires whipping and trailing, 
 blessing the wildest luck that had left him 
 alive, heart-thankful for the sight of khaki in 
 the trenches below him. 
 
 It seems a pity those disgusted infantry could 
 not have known the truth, of all he had come 
 through, of those long danger-packed minutes, 
 of those three crashed Huns scattered along 
 his track — and of those bombs which would 
 not drop on our lines, batteries, or billets that 
 day. 
 
X 
 
 THE FO-FUM'S REPUTATION 
 
 I am naturally anxious to avoid angering the 
 Censor by naming any particular type or make 
 of machine, but fear it is inevitable that anyone 
 who knows anything of aeroplanes must recog- 
 nise in reading this story the type concerned, 
 although that may hardly matter, since the Hun 
 knows the type well (and to his sorrow), and the 
 tale more fully in the exact detail of his casualties 
 than we do. And because this type, which we 
 may call the "Fo-Fum 2," has for a full year 
 previous to the date of this story's happenings 
 been openly scoffed at and condemned in speech 
 and print by the "experts" as slow, clumsy, 
 obsolete, and generally useless, I also fear I may 
 be accused of " leg-pulling" and impossibly 
 romancing in crediting the Fo-Fums with such a 
 startling fight performance. I may warn such 
 critics in advance, however, that I can produce 
 official records to prove a dozen shows almost 
 or quite equally good to the credit of the 
 Fo-Fums. 
 
 A Flight of six Fo-Fums went up and over 
 Hunland one morning when a westerly wind and 
 
 120 
 
THE FO-FUM'S REPUTATION 121 
 
 a strong hint of dirty weather in the air made 
 it an abnormally risky patrol for anything but 
 the best of pilots and the most reliable of 
 machines and engines. But the Fo-Fums, 
 whatever their other faults, have at least the 
 admitted merit of reliability, and the quality of 
 the pilots on this patrol is fairly shown by this 
 story. 
 
 They were well over the lines and about 
 10,000 feet up when a circus of about twenty 
 Huns hove in sight well above them. The Flight 
 Leader saw them and, climbing a little as they 
 went, he led the formation towards the hostiles, 
 or, as he put it, " beetled off to have a look at 
 'em." The Huns evidently saw the Fo-Fums 
 at the same time, and with natural willingness to 
 indulge in a scrap with odds of more than three 
 to one in their favour swooped up, " coming like 
 stink," to quote the Flight Leader again, to the 
 attack. 
 
 The Fo-Fums knew how the ball would almost 
 certainly open under the circumstances — twenty 
 Hun scouts with the advantage of superior 
 speed, height and weather gauge, against six 
 Fo-Fums — and quietly slid into a formation they 
 had more than once proved useful in similar 
 conditions. 
 
 The Huns, seeing no other enemies near endugh 
 to interfere, circled above, collected their for- 
 mation into shape, and made their leisurely dis- 
 positions for the attack, while the Fo-Fums no 
 less leisurely straightened out their wedge-shaped 
 formation, swung the head of the line in a circle, 
 
122 THE FO-FUM'S REPUTATION 
 
 which brought the leader round until he was fol- 
 lowing the last machine of the Flight, and so 
 commenced a steady circling or — one can hardly 
 refrain from quoting that expressive Flight 
 Leader — " chasing each other's tails in a blessed 
 ring-o'-roses giddy-go-round." The Huns drove 
 up into a position which brought them between 
 the Fo-Fums and the sun, thereby, of course, 
 gaining the additional advantage of being able 
 to aim and shoot with the sun in their backs while 
 the Fo-Fums had the light in their eyes. 
 
 The Fo-Fum men were not greatly disturbed 
 by this, for several reasons, because they were 
 used to conceding the advantage in beginning a 
 fight, because knowing the Huns had the wings 
 of them it was no use trying to avoid it, and 
 because they were contentedly sure that there 
 were so many beastly Huns there they couldn't 
 all keep "in the sun" and that each man would 
 easily find a target sufficiently out of it. They 
 continued their "giddy-go-round," and a dozen 
 of the Huns at top speed, with engines full out 
 and machine-guns rattling and ripping out a 
 storm of tracer bullets in streaking pencil-lines 
 of flame and blue smoke, came hurtling down like 
 live thunderbolts. The sight alone might well 
 have been a terrifying one to the Fo-Fum men, 
 and the sharp, whip-like smacks and cracks about 
 them of the explosive bullets which began to find 
 their mark on fabric or frame would also have 
 been upsetting to any but the steadiest nerves. 
 
 But the Fo-Fums showed not the slightest 
 sign of panicky nerves. They held their fire 
 
THE FO-FUM'S REPUTATION 123 
 
 until the diving Huns were within reasonable 
 shoot-to-hit range, and met them with a sharp 
 burst of fire from observers' or pilots' guns as 
 the position of each machine in the circle gave 
 a field of fire ahead or anywhere in a full half- 
 circle round to port, stern, or starboard. 
 
 It may help matters to explain here — and 
 again it tells nothing to the Hun that he doesn't 
 already know well and to his sorrow — that the 
 fighting Fo-Fum mounts three machine-guns — 
 one, which the pilot handles, shooting ahead; 
 another which the observer, sitting in front of 
 the pilot and to the side of the pilot's gun, shoots 
 anywhere outward in a half-circle round the 
 bow and in any forward direction down or up; 
 and a third placed on the top plane, which 
 the observer also shoots by jumping up from his 
 bow gun, standing almost man-high clear of the 
 " gun'l " of the machine's body, and aiming 
 up or level outward to either side and astern. 
 
 In meeting the attacking dive the observers 
 stood up to their top guns, and if their position 
 in the Flight's circle allowed them to bring their 
 gun to bear on an enemy, they opened fire. If 
 the machine was full bow on to the rush the pilot 
 fired; or if she was in such a position that he 
 could not see a target sufficiently ahead, or the 
 observer see sufficiently to the side, he dodged 
 the machine in or out of the circle enough to 
 bring one of the guns to bear, and then wheeled 
 her back into position. 
 
 These tacties may sound complicated, but 
 really are — so the Fo-Fums say — beautifully 
 
124 THE FO-FUM'S REPUTATION 
 
 simple when you know them and are used to 
 them. What they amount to is merely the fact 
 that all six machines were able to open fire 
 within a second or two of one another, and that 
 in some cases the pilot was able to get in a second 
 burst from his bow gun by dipping his nose down 
 after a hostile as she plunged past. 
 
 That they were effective tactics was promptly 
 demonstrated to the Huns by one of their 
 machines bursting into flames, another rolling 
 over sideways and " dead-leafing " down in a 
 series of side-to-side slips which ended in a crash 
 on the ground below, and by another continuing 
 his dive well down, changing it into a long glide 
 to the eastward and out of the fight, evidently 
 with machine or pilot out of action. Several 
 of the Fo-Fums had bullet-holes in their 
 machines, but nothing vital was touched, and 
 they had just time to connect up nicely into their 
 compact circle when the remainder of the Huns 
 came tearing down on them in similar terrifying 
 fashion. 
 
 But the Fo-Fums met them in their similar 
 fashion, and when the Huns, instead of diving 
 past and down as the first lot had done, curved 
 up in an abrupt zoom, the observers swung 
 their gun-muzzles up after them and pelted them 
 out of range. One Hun lost control just on the 
 point of his upward zoom, flung headlong out 
 until he stalled and fell out of the fight for good. 
 From the fact that his gun continued to fire at 
 nothing until he was lost to notice it was evident 
 either that his gear was damaged or the pilot 
 
THE FO-FUM'S REPUTATION, 125 
 
 hit and unconsciously gripping or hanging to the 
 trigger or firing mechanism. A fourth Hun at 
 the top of his zoom up lurched suddenly, fell 
 away in a spinning nose dive, and also vanished 
 from the proceedings — whether " crashed " or 
 merely T out of control " was never known. 
 
 In a fight against this sort of odds, which our 
 pilots so often have, the need of keeping an eye 
 on active enemies rather than on the subsequent 
 interesting fashion of an out-of-control's finish 
 certainly reduces our air men's score a good deal, 
 since it is the rule only to claim and record 
 officially as a " crash " a machine which is 
 actually seen (and confirmed) to have smashed 
 on the ground, to have broken in air, or other- 
 wise have made a sure and positive finish. Five 
 Huns down and definitely out of action was a 
 good beginning to the fight, especially as no 
 Fo-Fum was damaged, and the odds were now 
 reduced to fifteen against six — quite, according 
 to the Fo-Fums, usual and reasonably sporting 
 odds. 
 
 But the odds were to lengthen to such an 
 extent that even the seasoned and daring 
 fighters of No. Umpty Squadron began to look 
 grave and feel concerned. Two Flights came 
 looming up rapidly from eastward, and, occupied 
 as the Fo-Fums were with the first brush, the 
 new enemies were upon them almost the instant 
 the second rush on them finished — before, in 
 fact, the first Huns shot down and hit the ground. 
 The newcomers converged on the fight and 
 dashed straight at the Fo-Fum circle without a 
 
126 THE FO-FUM'S REPUTATION 
 
 pause. There were twelve of them in one lot 
 and eight in the other, and that, added to the 
 twenty the Fo-Fums had counted at the begin- 
 ning of the fight, made a total of forty machines 
 against their six. 
 
 After this the tale of the fight can no longer 
 be told as a whole. It developed into a series 
 of rushes and dives on the part of the enemy in 
 large or small numbers, swift leaps and turns 
 and twists, and plunges and checks, repeated hot 
 attacks and attempts by the Huns to break 
 the Fo-Fums' steady circle, determined and 
 fairly successful efforts of the Fo-Fums to foil 
 the attempts. For long minute after minute 
 the fight swayed and scattered, flung apart, out 
 and down and up, climbed and fell and closed 
 in again to point-blank quarters. It ran raging 
 on and on in a constant fierce rattle and roll of 
 machine-gun fire, a falling out, one fashion or 
 another, of Hun after Hun, in occasional desper- 
 ate fights of single Fo-Fums forced out of the 
 circle and battling to return to it. 
 
 Some of these single-handed combats against 
 odds are worthy subjects for an air saga, each 
 to its individual self. There was, for instance, 
 the Fo-Fum which was forced out of the circle, 
 cut off, and fought a lone-hand battle against 
 eleven enemies. The observer stood and shot 
 over his top plane at one Hun who tried to 
 cover himself behind the tail of the Fo-Fum. 
 The pilot at the same instant was lifting the nose 
 a little to bring his gun to bear on another Hun 
 diving on him from ahead, and this sinking of the 
 
THE FO-FUM'S REPUTATION 127 
 
 Fo-Fum's stern gave the observer a chance. He 
 filled it with a quick burst from his machine-gun, 
 and filled the Hun so effectively full of bullets 
 that his nose dropped and he swooped under 
 the Fo-Fum. The observer jumped down to 
 his bow gun, swung the muzzle down, and caught 
 the Hun passing under with a burst which finished 
 him and sent him whirling down out of control. 
 
 The pilot's shooting at the same time was 
 equally effective. The Hun who had dived on 
 his right front was met by a quick turn which 
 brought the bow gun to bear and a short burst 
 of fire. The Hun continued to dive past and 
 under, and both pilot and observer caught a 
 flashing but clear-imprinted picture of the Hun 
 pilot collapsed in a heap on his seat before he 
 also fell helplessly rolling and spinning down out 
 of the fight. 
 
 The observer, dropping his forward gun as he 
 saw his shooting effective, scrambled quickly up 
 to his top gun and was just in time to open on 
 another Hun not more than twenty feet away 
 and with his gun going " nineteen to the dozen, 
 and rapping bullets all over the old bus till she's 
 as full of holes as a Gray ere cheese," as the 
 observer said. He only fired about a "dozen 
 rounds — the fight by now had been running long 
 enough and hot enough to make economy of 
 ammunition a consideration — but some of the 
 dozen got home and sent another Hun plunging 
 down and out. 
 
 The observer just lifted his eyes from watch- 
 ing the" late lamented " and trying to decide 
 
128 THE FO-FUM'S REPUTATION 
 
 whether he was " outed " or " playing dead," 
 in time to catch a glimpse of a black cross streak- 
 ing past astern of him. He glued his eyes to 
 the sights, jerked his muzzle round after the 
 fresh enemy, and just as he swung in a steep 
 bank " slapped a hatful of lead into him " and 
 saw a strip of the hostile's cowling rip and lift 
 and beat flailing back against the struts until 
 the enemy shut off engine and glided out. 
 
 The pilot's gun was clattering again, and the 
 observer, seeing all clear behind him, turned and 
 half jumped, half fell, down into his cockpit as 
 the Fo-Fum lay over on her beam-ends in a bank 
 that brought her almost sheer on her wing-tip. 
 He was just in time to see the pilot's fresh victim 
 fall out of control, and dropping the bow gun he 
 had grabbed he hoisted himself to his top gun 
 again. 
 
 It sounds a little thing when one speaks of all 
 this jumping down and scrambling up from one 
 gun to another, but it is worth pausing to con- 
 sider just what it means. The place the observer 
 had to jump from at his top gun was about as 
 scanty and precarious as a canary bird's perch; 
 the space he had to jump or fall down into was 
 little bigger than a respectable hip-bath; the 
 floor and footholds on which he did these gym- 
 nastics were heaving, pitching, and tossing, 
 tilting to and fro at anything between level, a 
 slope as steep as a sharp-angled roof, and steeper 
 still to near the perpendicular. 
 
 And all the time the machine which carried 
 out the acrobatic performance was travelling 
 
THE FO-FUM'S REPUTATION 129 
 
 at the speed of a record-breaking express train, 
 and if the performer mis-jumped or over- 
 reached the enclosing sides of his cockpit, sides 
 little more than knee-high as he stood on the 
 floor, not ankle-high as he stood at the top gun, 
 he had a clear eight to ten thousand feet, a good 
 mile and quarter, to fall before he hit the ground. 
 And this particular Fo-Fum stood on her head 
 or her tail, on one wing-tip or the other, dived 
 and dodged, twisted and turned and wriggled 
 and fought her way through, over, under, and 
 about her eleven opponents, putting four well 
 down and a fifth damaged in the process, and 
 picked up her place in the shifting, breaking, 
 and ragged, but always reforming, circle. 
 
 The fight flared on for full forty minutes, and 
 still at the end of that time the Fo-Fums were all 
 afloat and able to make home and a good 
 landing, although some were so shot about and 
 damaged that it was only by a marvel of pilot- 
 ing skill they were kept going — and, let it be 
 added, as their crews never failed to add, because 
 they were stout buses well and honestly 
 built of good material by skilled and careful 
 hands, driven by engines that were a credit to 
 the shops they came from and would "keep 
 running as strong as a railway locomotive, into 
 Hell and out the other side, s'long's you fed oil 
 and petrol to 'em." 
 
 One machine had the oil tank shot through, 
 and yet the engine ran long enough without 
 " seizing up" (melting the dry metal by friction 
 to sticking point) to get home. There were 
 
130 THE FO-FUM'S REPUTATION 
 
 other mechanical miracles — too technical for 
 explanation here — that the pilots tell of with 
 wonder and admiration, although they say little, 
 or at most or no more than a mild "good man" 
 or "sporting effort" of the equal or greater 
 miracle of men enduring and keeping their wits 
 and stout hearts, and carrying on, whole or 
 wounded as some were — one observer to his death 
 soon after landing — for that forty minutes' 
 savage fight against odds. Full forty minutes, 
 and at the end of that time there were only some 
 score Huns left in the fight: and in the finish it 
 was they who broke off the action, and slid out 
 and away down wind. 
 
 "Y'see," as the Flight Leader said after when 
 he was asked why he didn't pull out or battle 
 his way out and home, "Y'see, the old Fo-Fums 
 are pretty well known on this slice of front, and 
 they've got a reputation for never chucking a 
 scrap. I'd have hated to come plungin' home 
 with a crowd of Huns hare-in' after us. The line 
 'ud think we'd been runnin' away from a scrap; 
 and I wouldn't like my Flight to be letting down 
 the old Fo-Fums' reputation like that." 
 
 Most people will admit that the Flight didn't 
 let it down. There are even a good manj' - who 
 think it added a good-sized gilt-edged leaf to the 
 Fo-Fums' and the Umpty Squadron's plentiful 
 laurels. 
 
XI 
 
 LIKE GENTLEMEN 
 
 When Lieutenant Jack Smith, new come from 
 a year of life in the trenches and reserve billets, 
 landed for a day or two's stay with his brother 
 in one of the squadrons of the R.F.C., he began 
 to think he had strayed into an earthly Paradise, 
 was amazed that such an excellent substitute for 
 well-found civilised life could exist in the Field. 
 
 He got the first shock when he arrived at the 
 'drome about 8.30 a.m. and found his brother 
 still comfortably asleep. While his brother got 
 up and dressed he explained that, the Division 
 being out on rest near by, he had taken a chance 
 of the long-standing invitation to come and spend 
 a day or two with the Squadron; and while 
 he talked his eyes kept wandering round the 
 comfortable hut — the bookcase, the framed 
 pictures on the walls, the table and easy-chair, 
 the rugs on the floor, all the little touches of 
 comfort — luxury, he called them to himself — 
 about the place. 
 
 "You're pretty snugly fixed up here, aren't 
 you, Tom?" he burst out at last. 
 
 "So, so!" said Tom, pouring a big jug of hot 
 131 
 
.132 LIKE GENTLEMEN 
 
 water into the wash-basin — hot water, thought 
 Jack Smith, not only for shaving, but to wash in. 
 " Being Flight Commander, I have a shack to 
 myself, y'see. Most of the pilots share huts. 
 We'll fix a bed here for you to sleep. Hullo, 
 quarter-past nine! I must hurry — won't be 
 any breakfast left. You had brek?" 
 
 "Two hours ago," said his brother "We 
 don't lie in bed till afternoon, like you chaps." 
 
 Tom laughed. "Not my turn for dawn 
 patrol," he said; "I'll be on to-morrow. My 
 Flight's due to go up at noon to-day." And he 
 went on outlining the methods of their work. 
 
 In the Mess they found half a dozen other 
 pilots finishing breakfast. "My brother Jack 
 — going to spend a day or two with us" — was 
 introduced, and in ten minutes found himself 
 pleasantly at home amongst the others. He 
 began to forget he was at the Front at all, and 
 the attentive waiter at his elbow helped heighten 
 the illusion. "Tea or coffee sir? . . . Porridge, 
 sir?" 
 
 Jack had porridge, and fresh milk with it and 
 his tea. Fresh milk — and he'd nearly forgotten 
 milk came from anything but a tin! Then he 
 had a kipper — not out of a tin, either — and bacon 
 and eggs and toast and marmalade. It was his 
 second breakfast, but he did it full justice. 
 
 After breakfast he went out with Tom to the 
 hangars, and had a look over the machines and 
 pottered round generally until after eleven. 
 Then Tom went off to get ready for patrol, and 
 handed him over to "Jerry," one of the pilots. 
 
LIKE GENTLEMEN 133 
 
 Jack spent a fascinating hour watching the patrol 
 start, and then being taken round by Jerry, who 
 was bubbling over with eagerness to show and 
 explain and tell him everything. 
 
 Then they had lunch, and again Jack was led 
 to forgetfulness that he was at the Front. Sitting 
 there with a dozen happy, laughing, chatting 
 companions at a table spread with a spotless 
 cloth, with a variety of food and drinks to choose 
 from, with no sound of guns or any other echo 
 of war in his ears except the occasional hum of 
 a plane overhead — and that was pleasant and 
 musical rather than warlike — he felt and said he 
 might as well be in a long-established Mess in 
 barracks at home. 
 
 After lunch he sat in the ante-room with the 
 others round the big, open fireplace and smoked 
 a cigarette and skimmed the plentiful weeklies 
 until Tom's Flight was about due in. Jerry 
 picked him up again and took him out and showed 
 him the Flight when they were pin-points in the 
 sky, and explained the process of landing as they 
 came in. 
 
 Jack found his brother's machine had brought 
 home several bullet-holes, and he was oddly 
 thrilled at sight of them — oddly, because he 
 thought he was completely blase about bullet- 
 holes and similar signs of battle. 
 
 Tom made very little of it, merely saying Yes, 
 they'd had a scrap, had crashed one Hun and 
 put another couple down out of control; and 
 who was on for an hour on the canal? 
 
 Jack went to the canal with them, and found 
 
134 LIKE GENTLEMEN 
 
 they had there a wonderful boat built by the 
 pilots out of planks they had " found." The 
 boat held two comfortably, four uncomfortably, 
 and on this occasion carried seven. They fooled 
 away a couple of hours very happily and school- 
 boyishly, landed, and went back at a jog-trot 
 to the 'drome. The wind had changed and they 
 could hear the guns now, heavily engaged, by 
 the sound of them. 
 
 They were back just in time to see a patrol go 
 up, and Tom hurried Jack out to watch. "We've 
 got another Squadron's Major here, staying to 
 dinner to-night, and the patrol is taking off in 
 a fancy formation that's our own special patent. 
 It's worth watching. Come along." 
 
 It was worth watching, although Jack, per- 
 haps, was not sufficiently educated in air work 
 to appreciate it properly. The Flight was drawn 
 up in line facing into the wind, and, after a pre- 
 liminary run up of their engines, a signal was 
 given, six pairs of chocks jerked simultaneously 
 clear of the wheels, and the six machines began 
 to taxi forward over the ground, still keeping 
 in line. 
 
 Their speed increased until they were racing 
 with tails up, and then, suddenly, the whole six 
 lifted together and took the air, keeping their 
 straight line and climbing steadily. The right- 
 hand machine swept round to the right, and one 
 after another the rest followed him, each banking 
 steeply and, as it seemed from the ground, heel- 
 ing over until their wings stood straight up and 
 down. As they straightened they opened out 
 
LIKE GENTLEMEN 135 
 
 and dropped into their places, and the Flight 
 swept circling round above the 'drome in correct 
 and exajctly-spaced formation. 
 
 " Pretty good show," said Tom critically. 
 
 " Y<?u wouldn't understand rightly, Jack, but 
 it's a fancy stunt we've never heard of another 
 squadron being able to do. Sheer swank, of 
 course, I'll admit, but rather sport." 
 
 Later, Jack was able to appreciate better what 
 the " stunt " was worth from the admiring and 
 amazed comments of the much-impressed visiting 
 Major. 
 
 Tea followed, and after it the pilots drifted off 
 to such occupations or amusements as they 
 desired. Some lounged in the ante-room, with 
 the gramophone singing, whistling, and band 
 playing; others went off to the hangars to see 
 to something being done to their machines, 
 engines, or guns; others vanished into their 
 huts, and, reappearing stripped, began strenuous 
 work on a punching-ball or disappeared over the 
 surrounding fields on a cross-country run. The 
 brothers wandered round, and finished an idle 
 hour with a brisk turn at the punching-ball. 
 
 " Gets a good sweat up," explained Tom, 
 " and helps keep you in condition. That's the 
 curse of this job — not getting any exercise unless 
 you do something of this sort." 
 
 " Curse of it! " said Jack enviously. " Blest 
 if I see much of a curse of any sort about it. It's 
 amazing to think anybody can be in the middle 
 of a big push in this war and be able to have 
 such a ripping fine time of it." 
 
136 LIKE GENTLEMEN 
 
 Tom laughed. " Our CO. always swears this 
 is the only end of the old war where a man is 
 able to live like a gentleman and fight like a 
 gentleman," he said. " And I don't know he 
 isn't right." 
 
 " It's the only side I've seen where you can," 
 agreed Jack. " You certainly live like gentle- 
 men, anyhow." 
 
 " Oh, it's gentlemanly enough fighting, too," 
 said Tom. " Anyhow, you do go out to scrap 
 with your face washed and a clean shirt to your 
 back, and come straight home to a hot bath 
 inside half an hour after, if you like. And in 
 the actual fighting it's clean scrapping — putting 
 your skill against the other fellow's, and the best 
 man winning, as a rule. None of your blind 
 floundering through mud and shell-fire for me, 
 thank'ee, and getting scuppered without a notion 
 who did it or how you got it." 
 
 That evening they changed for dinner, Tom 
 lending a pair of slacks to his brother. " Might 
 as well," said Tom. " Not that it matters about 
 you, because I could tell the CO. you didn't 
 bring kit. But he likes everyone to dress pro- 
 perly for Mess, and so do we all. Dunno he isn't 
 right, too. Now, will you bath first, or shall I? " 
 
 The bath arrangements were explained to him 
 — the bath being a curtained-off corner of the 
 hut with hot water in a canvas bath on the floor 
 and a shower operated by pulling a string to a 
 tank on the roof. 
 
 " We're having the band for dinner to-night," 
 said Tom, as they dressed. " We rather pride 
 
LIKE GENTLEMEN 137 
 
 ourselves on our band, y'know; eleven instru- 
 ments, and all real good performers picked up 
 all over the shop, and in the Squadron as batmen 
 or mechanics or something. Lots of 'em were 
 part or whole professionals in civvy life." 
 
 " I feel as if I were going to a ball or a ban- 
 quet or a box at the opera or something," said 
 Jack, as they walked down to the Mess — " I feel 
 so amazing clean and groomed and sleek. And 
 you lucky beggars have this any old night, and 
 right in the middle of the war, too! " 
 
 The evening " put the tin hat on it " as he 
 said. There was a champagne cocktail before 
 dinner, and then the Major led the way into a 
 Mess that made Jack blink his eyes. The table 
 down the centre was big enough to take the whole 
 score of diners and of generous enough width 
 to allow of stretched legs without kicking oppo- 
 site shins and toes. It was covered with a spot- 
 less cloth, glittering cutlery, and shining glass, 
 and down the centre were shaded electrics and 
 vases made from polished brass shell-cartridges 
 filled with flowers. The CO. sat at the head of 
 the table with the Major-guest on the one side 
 and Jack on the other with his brother beside 
 him. There was a full-course dinner most excel- 
 lently cooked and served, and there was almost 
 any drink available you liked to call for, although 
 Jack noticed that his brother and most of the 
 others drank fresh-made lemonade or something 
 of the sort. 
 
 " It's one thing you have to cut out pretty 
 well," explained Tom. " This game doesn't leave 
 
138 LIKE GENTLEMEN 
 
 room for men with anything but steady nerves, 
 and most of us find little or no liquor and not 
 too much smoking gives you the longest life and 
 gets the most Huns. We're all out for the most 
 Huns, y'see, and pushing up the Squadron's 
 record. Over the hundred crashed in under six 
 months now and we want to pile it up. There's 
 hardly a man here hasn't got anything from two 
 to a dozen a-piece." 
 
 " Doesn't seem to sit on their consciences," 
 said Jack, looking round the table of happy 
 faces and listening to the chatter and laughter 
 that ran steadily through the dinner. Out in the 
 ante-room the band played light and cheerful 
 music. 
 
 " Some band," said Jack admiringly in answer 
 to a remark from the CO. " Good as a West 
 End Theatre; makes me want to get up and 
 dance," tapping his foot in time to the alluring 
 rag that the music had just slid off into. 
 
 " You people evidently believe in the c eat, 
 drink and be merry, for to-morrow, etcetera ' 
 theory," said the visiting Major. 
 
 "■ Why not? " said the CO. quickly. " Let's 
 live decently while we can, I say. We're all 
 proud of the Squadron, and all keen to do the 
 best we can to make it the best in the Field, in 
 living, and feeding, and comfort — and fighting. 
 And the theory seems to work all right." 
 
 " Looking at your record," said the other 
 Major, " it does." 
 
 They were at the second course, when half a 
 dozen pilots came in in ones and twos, went to 
 
LIKE GENTLEMEN 139 
 
 the head of the table and made their formal 
 apologies for being late, and went to their seats. 
 They were the evening patrol, and the Leader 
 took his place near the Major's end of the table. 
 
 " Anything doing to-night? " asked the Major 
 when the Captain had been served and com- 
 menced his soup. 
 
 " Quite a brisk scrap," said the Captain pro- 
 ceeding industriously with his soup. " That's 
 what made us so late. Chased a bunch of four- 
 teen Albatrii and had twenty minutes' scrapping 
 with them." 
 
 " Get any? " asked the Major. 
 
 " Two crashes and three down out of control. 
 Jerry got one crash and I got the other. Makes 
 the Squadron tally a hundred and seven, doesn't 
 it?" 
 
 " Yes, good work," said the CO., and called 
 down the table " I hear you bagged another 
 to-night, Jerry. How many does that make? " 
 
 " Hundred and seven to the Squadron, sir," 
 said Jerry, " and eight to me." 
 
 The Flight Leader, hurrying his dinner to 
 catch up to the others, went on to tell some bald 
 details of the fight. Jack sat drinking it in, 
 although it was rather a technical and air-slangy 
 account for him to understand properly, and all 
 the time he could not get it out of his mind how 
 extraordinary it was that this man and the others 
 who half an hour ago had been fighting for their 
 lives, shooting men down, hearing (and seeing 
 as he gathered from the story) bullets crack past, 
 tearing home at a hundred and odd miles an 
 
140 LIKE GENTLEMEN 
 
 hour with the reek and roar of a big battle be- 
 neath them, with shells puffing and coughing 
 about them as they flew, should now be sitting, 
 washed, bathed, cleanly and comfortably dressed, 
 at a full-course dinner, with flowers on the table 
 and a good band playing outside. He had seen 
 plenty of fighting himself, but with such a differ- 
 ence, with such a prolonged misery of short sleep, 
 scratch meals, hard physical work, living in mud 
 and filth and dirt and stench, under constant 
 fear of death or mutilation, that this air-fighting 
 appeared by contrast — well, the CO. had it right, 
 " living and fighting like gentlemen." 
 
 The port went round, followed by the coffee, 
 cigarettes, and liqueurs, the niceties of Mess 
 etiquette, Jack noticed, being very punctiliously 
 observed, and no man touching his port or light- 
 ing his cigarette before the Major touched and lit 
 his, none moving from the table until after the 
 port had been round, and so on. The evening 
 finished with a couple of very jolly hours in the 
 ante-room where the gramophone took the 
 place of the band in alternate turns with musical 
 pilots at the piano. A group hung round the 
 open fireplace chatting and joking, another 
 round the piano where one pilot played musical 
 pranks, sang topical air songs, and played 
 seductive melodies that set half a dozen couples 
 " ragging " round the room, and two or three 
 tables collected for Bridge and Poker. 
 
 Jack, revelling in the comfort and pleasant- 
 ness of the whole thing, was haled at last by 
 Jerry into a set for Bridge, and played for an 
 
LIKE GENTLEMEN 141 
 
 hour just the sort of game he liked — good enough 
 to be interesting, free and easy and talkative 
 enough not to be stiff and boringly businesslike. 
 
 He was very thoughtful as he undressed for 
 bed — a comfortable camp bed, with a soft pillow, 
 and pyjamas — and Tom looked at him with a 
 glimmer of a smile. 
 
 "Wondering if you'll put in for a transfer 
 to Flying Corps ?" he asked. 
 
 Jack was a little startled. 
 
 "Well, something like that — yes," he ad- 
 mitted. "You do seem to have such a ripping 
 good time of it, and right bang in the war, too. 
 It's amazing." 
 
 "'Tisn't all pie, all the time, y'know," said 
 his brother seriously. "Pretty strenuous at 
 times." 
 
 Jack grunted scornfully, with his mind on 
 what strenuous times in the line meant. 
 
 "We'll talk it over to-morrow," said Tom. 
 "Must get a sleep now. I'm on dawn patrol." 
 
 Next day was very much like the first, and 
 Jack felt the inclination grow to consider a 
 transfer to this life of luxury and ease. j 
 
 But the afternoon brought a new side of air 
 work to him. The remains of a patrol — three 
 machines out of six — straggled home with 
 riddled machines and the tale of a hot fight. 
 Jack gathered and sorted out and had interpre- 
 tations of the involved and technical details, 
 and they made his blood run hot and cold in 
 turn. The six had fought a big formation of 
 fifteen to twenty Huns, fought them fast and 
 
142 LIKE GENTLEMEN 
 
 fiercely for a good fifteen minutes, had crashed 
 five certainly and put others down without having 
 time to watch their end, had routed and driven 
 east the remainder of the formation. But they 
 had lost two men crashed. One had his top 
 petrol tank holed and the top plane set on fire. 
 He was low down and fighting two Huns, and 
 he might with luck have dived down and made 
 a landing in Hunland. He preferred instead 
 to take one more Hun down with him and lessen 
 the odds against his fellows, had deliberately 
 flung his machine on the nearest enemy, crashed 
 into him, and went hurtling down, the two 
 locked together and wrapped in roaring flames. 
 
 Another had his engine hit, but with water 
 spraying out from his radiator fought on and 
 finished his individual combat, and put his Hun 
 down before he attempted to turn out and make 
 for the lines. He had flown long enough after 
 receiving the damage to make it a matter of 
 speculation whether his engine could get him 
 home or not, but he flung away this last chance 
 by turning aside from his homeward flight and 
 throwing away a couple of thousand feet of 
 height to dive in to the assistance of another of 
 our machines hard beset by four enemies. One 
 of these he crippled and drove down, and another 
 his divers on gave a quick chance to the hard- 
 pressed pilot to shoot down and crash. But the 
 damaged engine by now was done, and the pilot 
 could only turn his nose for the lines and try to 
 glide back. 
 
 One of the hostiles saw his chance, drove after 
 
LIKE GENTLEMEN 143 
 
 him, dropped on his tail, pouring in burst after 
 burst of fire, hung to him and followed him down 
 in the; spin which was evidently the last desperate 
 attempt to win clear, finally shot him down and 
 crashed him as he flattened out. 
 
 A third pilot had been badly wounded by a 
 burst of bullets which had riddled and smashed 
 one arm. He, too, might have pulled out and 
 escaped; and he, too, hung on fighting to the 
 end; flew his machine lurching and swerving 
 home, landed, fainted, and died from loss of 
 blood before the tourniquet was well on his arm. 
 
 A fourth, with a bullet-shattered foot, stayed 
 in the fight and took another wound in the 
 shoulder, and still fought on, saw it out, and 
 came home — and went off to the Casualty Clear- 
 ing Station with a laugh and a jest on his lips 
 and the certainty in his heart that he was going 
 to lose his foot or carry it mutilated and useless 
 for life. But he refused to go until notes had 
 been compared and he could be told their bag of 
 Huns and the total it brought the Squadron up to. 
 
 What hit Jack hardest was that his new but 
 firm friend Jerry was one of those crashed. And 
 only an hour or two before he had been talking 
 with Jerry and planning and taking his advice 
 about joining up with the R.F.C., how to apply 
 and how to get quickly through his training, and 
 ways of wangling it to get to this Squadron — 
 and — jumping far into the future — how he, 
 Jerry, would put him up to any amount of fight- 
 ing tips, and how to get your Hun and keep a 
 whole skin and pile the Squadron's record up. 
 
144 LIKE GENTLEMEN 
 
 It had all sounded so good to Jack, and now 
 — Jerry was gone, had fought his las*, fight, 
 had died the death within an hour of his last 
 laughing word to Jack on the 'drome, had 
 flung himself flaming into a collision with his 
 enemy and paid out his life for one more crashed 
 Hun to the Squadron's tally. And the other 
 one lost, the boy who had thrown away his 
 chance by diving with a " conking" engine to 
 help a friend, was the same boy who had fooled 
 at the piano, had kept them all giggling and 
 chuckling at his jokes and chaff at lunch that 
 day; and then had gone out and played a man's 
 grim part and sacrificed himself to give a friend 
 a fighting chance. 
 
 That night Jack talked to his brother and told 
 him he'd made up his mind to put in for an 
 exchange. "Yes, Jerry told me all that — poor 
 old Jerry," he said, when Tom warned him he'd 
 been seeing the best side of the life in that 
 particular Squadron, that they were rather a — 
 well, swanky lot if you liked, but believed in 
 doing themselves well; that any other Squad- 
 ron he might go to might be much less particular 
 about how they lived and might rough it a lot 
 more. (Which, by the way, is very true; and 
 there are many men who have lived in Squad- 
 rons at the Front for many months may scoff 
 at this description of Squadron life as rank 
 exaggeration. It is not, as others can testify.) 
 
 Jack heard it all out, but did not alter his 
 determination. 
 
 "Whatever Squadron it is you admit they 
 
LIKE GENTLEMEN 145 
 
 live better than we do in the line," he said, 
 "and anyhow that's not my point now. I'd 
 like to get even a bit with some of that crowd 
 who downed poor Jerry." 
 
 "It is better than the line," admitted his 
 brother, "and whatever the Squadron, at least 
 we live decently and fight fairly and squarely." 
 
 "Yes," said Jack, "your C.O.'s right — live 
 and fight — and, by the Lord," he added warmly, 
 his mind on that day's fight, his two friends and 
 the manner of their end, "he might have added 
 'die' — like gentlemen." 
 
XII 
 
 "AIR ACTIVITY'' 
 
 That "air activity/ ' so frequently reported 
 and so casually read in the despatches, means a 
 good deal more than "fleets of aeroplanes dark- 
 ening the sky," machines dashing and flashing 
 around anywhere up to their "ceiling" of 
 twenty odd thousand feet, shooting holes in and 
 crashing each other, bombing and photographing 
 and contact-patrolling and ground-strafing, and 
 all the rest of it. 
 
 There is just as much "air" activity, or if 
 you measure by hours, from two to ten times as 
 much, amongst those men whose sole occupation 
 in life is pushing other people into the air and 
 keeping them there until they wish to come down, 
 and who never have their own two feet off the 
 firm earth. The outsider hardly thinks of this, 
 and there are even a few pilots — a very few, as 
 one is glad to know — who are apt to forget it, 
 while the great majority of the others don't or 
 can't very well make much show of their appre- 
 ciation of or gratitude for the sheer hard labour 
 of the groundwork in a Squadron that keeps 
 them afloat. I know that most pilots will be 
 glad to have even this one little bit of the lime- 
 
 146 
 
"AIR ACTIVITY" 147 
 
 light turned on a class of men who deserve a 
 good deal more than they get. 
 
 No. 00 Squadron broke into the Air Activity 
 period a full week before the Push began on the 
 ground, but a certain amount of "dud weather" 
 gave the pilots some intervening spells of rest 
 and gave the Squadron mechanics a chance to 
 catch up and keep level with their work. But 
 in the last few days before the Push was dated 
 to begin, the air work became more strenuous, 
 because the Huns, evidently suspecting that 
 something was coming off, set their air service 
 to work trying to push over and see what was 
 going on behind our lines, and to prevent our 
 air men picking up information behind theirs. 
 No. 00 was a single-seater fighting Squadron, 
 and so was one of the ots whose mission in life 
 was to down any Huns who came over to recon- 
 noitre or spot for their guns, and, conversely, 
 to patrol over Hunland and put out of action 
 as many as possible of the Hun fighters who 
 were up to sink our machines doing artillery 
 observing or photographing. The more machines 
 one side can put and keep in the air the better 
 chance that side has of doing its work and pre- 
 venting the opposition doing theirs — it is a pity 
 many aircraft workers even now don't seem to 
 understand the value of this sheer weight of 
 numbers — and since both sides by this time were 
 using their full air strength it meant that No. 00, 
 like all the rest, was kept flying the maximum 
 number of hours machines and pilots could stand. 
 
 As the work speeded up the strain grew on 
 
148 "AIR ACTIVITY" 
 
 pilots and machines, which also means on the 
 mechanics. Some of the planes came home with 
 bullet-holed fabrics, shot-through frames, and 
 damaged engines. All the holes had to be 
 patched, all the frames had to be mended, all 
 the engines had to be repaired. The strain and 
 pressure on a flimsy structure being hurtled 
 through the air at speeds running from 100 to 
 200 miles per hour is bound to result in a certain 
 amount of working loose of parts, stretching of 
 stays, slackening of fabrics, give and take in 
 nuts and bolts, yielding and easing of screws; 
 and since the pilot's and the machine's life and 
 the Squadron's efficiency alike depend on every 
 one of the hundreds of parts in a machine's 
 anatomy being taut and true, or free and easy- 
 running, as the case may be, the mechanics began 
 to find a full normal day's work merely in the 
 overhauling and setting up of the machines, 
 apart altogether from fight-damage repairs. 
 
 Two days before the Push began the mechanics 
 put in a hard working day of fifteen hours out 
 of the twenty-four; the day before the Push 
 they started at 6 a.m. and finished at 1 a.m. next 
 morning — and with the first patrols due to start 
 out at dawn. But they finished with every 
 machine trued to a hair-line, braced and strung 
 to a perfection of rigidity, with engines running 
 as sweet as oil, and giving their limit of revolu- 
 tions without a hint of trouble, with every single 
 item about them overhauled, examined, adjusted 
 and tested as exhaustively and completely as if 
 a life hung on the holding of every bolt, brace, 
 
"AIR ACTIVITY" 149 
 
 and screw, the smooth, clean working of every 
 plug, piston, and tappet — as, indeed, a life would 
 hang that day. 
 
 The weather report of the day was not good, 
 but a good half hour before dawn the mechanics 
 had the machines out in line and the pilots were 
 straggling out swaddled in huge leather coats, 
 sheepskin-lined thigh boots, furred helmets and 
 goggled masks. But before they arrived the 
 mechanics had been out a full hour, putting the 
 final touches to the machines, warming up the 
 engines — for it was near enough to winter for 
 the cold- weather nights to make an engine 
 sulky and tricky to start — giving a last look 
 round to everything. 
 
 The first two Flights went off before dawn, 
 and the third an hour after them. The 
 mechanics walked back into the empty hangars 
 which, after the bustle of the last few days 
 seemed curiously dead and desolate, and then to 
 their waiting breakfasts. 
 
 For some of them the respite was short. Ten 
 minutes after the last lot of machines had gone 
 there was a shout for " A " Flight men. They 
 hurried out to find the CO. and the Flight Ser- 
 geant standing together watching a machine 
 drive slowly up against the wind towards the 
 'drome. Plainly something was wrong with 
 her; she had an air of struggling, of fighting for 
 her life, of being faint and weary and almost 
 beaten. It was hard to say what gave her this 
 curious look of a ship with decks awash and on 
 the point of foundering, of a boxer staggering 
 
150 "AIR ACTIVITY" 
 
 about the ring and trying to keep his feet. It 
 may have been the propeller running so slowly 
 that it could be clearly seen, or the fact that she 
 was losing height almost as fast as she was 
 making way; but whatever it was, it was un- 
 mistakable. 
 
 As she drew near to the edge of the landing 
 ground it was evident that it would be a toss-up 
 whether she made it or touched ground in a 
 patch of rough, uncleared field. The mechanics 
 set off, running at top speed to where she was 
 going to touch; the CO. and the Flight Sergeant 
 followed close behind them. They saw the pilot 
 make one last effort to lift her and clear a sunk 
 road and bank that ran along the edge of the 
 landing ground. He lifted her nose, . . . and she 
 almost stalled and fell; he thrust her nose down 
 again, . . . and she hung, . . . lurched, . . . slid 
 forward and in to the bank. Would she clear 
 . . . would she ... 
 
 Then, in an instant, it was over. The wheels 
 just caught the edge of the bank, her tail jerked 
 up and her nose down, . . . and the runners heard 
 the splintering crash of her breaking under- 
 carriage, of her " prop " hitting and shivering 
 to matchwood, her fabrics ripping and tearing. 
 She stood straight up on her nose, heeled over, 
 and fell on her side with fresh noises of crackling, 
 tearing, and splintering from her wrecked wings. 
 Up to now the runners had thought of the 
 machine, but in the instant of her hitting, their 
 thoughts jumped to the pilot and — would he 
 smash with her, or would the wreck catch fire? 
 
'•'AIR ACTIVITY" 151 
 
 But before they reached the piled tangle of wood 
 and fabrie they saw a figure crawl out from under 
 it, stand upright, and mechanically brush the 
 dirt from his knees. They found he was un- 
 touched. 
 
 " Got a bullet in her engine somewhere, sir," 
 he told the Major. " I caught a fair old dose 
 from the machine-guns, and had the planes 
 riddled; then this one got her, and I couldn't 
 get my revs., and thought I'd better push her 
 home. Poor old 'bus." 
 
 " Another one coming, sir," said the Flight 
 Sergeant suddenly, and pointed to a machine 
 whirling towards them at a thousand feet up. 
 There was nothing wrong with this one, anyhow. 
 She roared in over their heads, banked and 
 swung, slid down smoothly and gracefully, 
 touched and ran and slowed, and came to rest 
 with the engine just running. It whirred up 
 into speed again and brought her taxi-ing in 
 towards the sheds and the mechanics running 
 to meet her. The Major and the pilot, walking 
 back towards the sheds, were talking of the 
 show: " Something terrifi 7 ., sir — never saw such 
 a blaze of a barrage — and the place fair stiff 
 with machine-guns. Yes, crowds of Huns — and 
 ours — hardly pick a way without bumping — I 
 put a good burst into one Albatross — didn't 
 see " 
 
 The Major interrupted: " Can you make out 
 the letter — ah, there, ' K,' " as the machine, 
 taxi-ing into the sheds, slewed, and they saw the 
 big " K " on her side. 
 
152 "AIR ACTIVITY" 
 
 " 'The Kiddie/ " said the pilot. " Morton's 
 'bus. Seemed to be running strong enough." 
 
 They quickened their pace, the Major with a 
 growing fear that turned to certainty, as they 
 saw men come from the sheds, clamber up on the 
 machine, stoop over the pilot, and begin to lift 
 him. 
 
 They found Morton hit in the foot and badly. 
 But before he was well clear of the machine he 
 v/as laughing and asking for a cigarette. " Yes, 
 I stopped one, Major; but it doesn't feel too 
 bad. Hullo, Solly, what's yours? " 
 
 " Engine hit, conked out, crashed her edge of 
 the 'drome here," said Solly hurriedly. " I say, 
 Major, can I take ' The Kiddie ' and go back? 
 I'm all right, and so is she — isn't she, Morton? " 
 
 " Better take a rest," said the Major. " After 
 a crash like that " 
 
 But Solly argued, protested so eagerly, that 
 the Major gave in. The mechanics bustled and 
 swarmed about " The Kiddie," filling the oil 
 and petrol tanks, securing her light bombs on 
 the racks fitted under her, replacing the expended 
 rounds of machine-gun ammunition. And before 
 Morton had finished his smoke or had the boot 
 and sock cut from his foot, Solly was off. One 
 might have imagined " The Kiddie " as eager as 
 himself, her engine starting up at the first swing 
 of the prop, roaring out in the deep, full-noted 
 song that tells of perfect firing and smooth run- 
 ning. Solly ran her up, eased off, waved his 
 hand to the two men standing holding the long 
 cords of the chocks at her wheels. The chocks 
 
"AIR ACTIVITY" 153 
 
 were jerked clear, " The Kiddie " roared up into 
 her top notes again, gathered way, and moved 
 out in a sweeping circle that brought her into 
 the wind, steadied down, gathered speed again 
 across the grass, lifted her tail, and raced another 
 hundred yards, rose and hoicked straight up as 
 if she were climbing a ladder. At a couple of 
 hundred feet up she straightened out and shot 
 away flat, and was off down wind like a bullet. 
 
 Then the " air activity " hit the Squadron on 
 the ground. A tender and accompanying gang 
 sped out to the crashed machine and set about 
 the business of picking it up and bringing it 
 home; telephone messages buzzed in and out 
 of the Squadron office; another tender rolled 
 out of the 'drome and started racing " all out " 
 with a pilot bound for the Park, where a new 
 machine would be handed over to replace the 
 crash. 
 
 Before the crashed machine was in, the first 
 lot out began to home to the 'drome. One by 
 one they swept in, curved, slid down, and slanted 
 smoothly on to the ground, and rolled over to 
 the hangars. There was hardly one without a 
 bullet-hole somewhere in her; there were some 
 with scores. Planes were riddled, bracing and 
 control wires cut, fuselage fabric and frames 
 ripped and holed and cracked, propellers cleanly 
 shot through. This was at 8 o'clock — and half 
 of them were due to be up again at 1, and the 
 others at 2. Every possible arrangement had 
 been made for quick repairs and replacements, 
 tools laid ready, spares brought out and placed 
 
154 "AIR ACTIVITY" 
 
 to hand. The mechanics fell on the damaged 
 machines like wolves on a sheepfold. Fuselages 
 were ripped open, broken wires and controls torn 
 out, badly damaged planes unshipped and slung 
 aside, snapped and dangling bracing wires 
 hurriedly unscrewed, suspected longerons and 
 ribs stripped and bared for examination, holed 
 or cracked propellers removed. In an hour 
 anyone walking into the hangars might have 
 thought he was in an airship-breaker's yard, 
 and was looking at a collection almost fit for the 
 scrap-heap. But at the appointed time the 
 machines of the first Flight were ready, although 
 it would take a decent-sized booklet to detail 
 the nature and method of the repairs and replace- 
 ments. 
 
 But every hole in a fabric had been patched, 
 spare wing and tail planes had been shipped, 
 new wires rove, damaged propellers replaced by 
 new ones, fuselage covers laced up, guns examined 
 and cleaned. At a quarter to one the pilots 
 came from an early lunch and found their 
 machines ready, fabrics whole and taut, wires 
 and stays tight-strung and braced, engines tuned 
 up and ready, everything examined and tried 
 and tested, and pronounced safe and fit. And 
 " The Kiddie," that had come in a full hour 
 after the others, and had several bracing and 
 control wires cut, and twenty-seven bullet marks 
 to show for her two trips, was amongst the first 
 to take off with the others. 
 
 As, one by one, the first Flight went up, the 
 men were hard at work on the machines of the 
 
"AIR ACTIVITY" 155 
 
 second, hoisting up tins of petrol and oil, and 
 pouring them into the tanks, reloading the 
 bomb-racks, packing away fresh stores of am- 
 munition, trying and running up the engines. 
 
 At sharp two the second Flight took off, and 
 at three the third (which had also brought home 
 a miscellaneous assortment of injuries) followed 
 them to the tick of time. But although all three 
 Flights were out, the mechanics, with no faintest 
 hope of a rest, set hastily about the business of 
 mending and repairing those planes and parts 
 which had been removed, and were now, or would 
 be when they were done with, complete and 
 ready spares. 
 
 They kept hard as they could go at it for a 
 couple of hours, and then the first Flight began 
 to drop in on them. One was missing — "crashed 
 in No Man's Land" — another pilot reported, 
 " Seemed to go down under control all right," 
 and another was lost in Hunland. 
 
 The third Flight had even worse luck. Two 
 were missing, nothing known of them, so appar- 
 ently lost over the line, and another came circling 
 back with her under-carriage swinging and twist- 
 ing loose and hanging by a stay. On the ground 
 they noticed the casualty, and, fearing the pilot 
 might not be aware of the extent of the damage 
 and try to land without calculating on it, they 
 fired a light and signalled him. 
 
 But it was quickly evident from the caution of 
 his manoeuvres that he knew, and he came down 
 and pancaked as carefully as he could. He 
 crashed, of course, but, as crashes go, not too 
 
156 "AIR ACTIVITY" 
 
 badly. Everyone was watching hirn with bated 
 breath. As he touched the ground — cr-r-rash 
 — a tongue of flame licked and flickered, and 
 instantly fouph it leaped in a thirty-foot gust of 
 fire, dropped, and before the horrified watchers 
 could move tongue or foot, blazed up again in a 
 roaring, quivering pillar of fire. Then, as some 
 scuffled for fire-extinguishers and others ran 
 with vague and crazy ideas of dragging the pilot 
 out, they saw a figure reel out from behind the 
 blaze, throw himself down, and roll on the grass. 
 He was burned about the hands and face, 
 had a skin-deep cut across his brow, a broken 
 little finger — nothing that a few dressings and 
 a splint would not make as good as ever. He 
 had leaped out as he landed. 
 
 His amazing escape brightened the shadow that 
 would have lain on the Squadron Mess that night 
 from the loss of the other pilots, and for the hour 
 of dinner the talk ran free and mixed with jests 
 and bursts of laughter. In the ante-room there 
 was another half-hour's talk over the events of 
 the day, a medley of air slang about revving, and 
 Flaming Onions, and split-arming, and props, 
 and mags., and Immelman Turns, and short 
 bursts, and Hun-Huns, and conking, and all the 
 rest. Then, about 9.30, the pilots began to 
 drift off to bed, and at 10.30 the mess rooms were 
 clear and the lights out. 
 
 But in the hangars, the armoury, the carpentry 
 and machine shops, the electrics were at full 
 blaze, the mechanics were hustling and bustling 
 for dear life. It grew colder as the night wore 
 
"AIR ACTIVITY" 157 
 
 on, and by midnight men who had been working 
 in shirt-sleeves began to put on their jackets. 
 By 2 a.m. they were shivering as they worked, 
 especially those blue-lipped and stiff-fingered 
 ones who had to stand still over a lathe or sit 
 crouched, stitching and fumbling with numb 
 fingers at fabric and tape and string. Again the 
 hangars were filled with a welter of stripped and 
 wrecked-looking outlines of machines, and all 
 the apparent lumber of dismantled parts and 
 waiting spares. About 3 and 4 a.m. tenders 
 began to rumble in on their return from various 
 errands, and at 5 orderlies came from the cook- 
 house with dixies of hot tea. The Flight Ser- 
 geants confabbed and compared notes then and 
 sent half the mechanics off to bed and set the 
 other half to work again; and by 6 the ma- 
 chines were taking decently recognisable shape. 
 And at half an hour before dawn again the 
 machines of the first Flight were out and 
 ready, with engines run up and warmed, and 
 tanks full, and ammunition and bombs in 
 place, waiting for the shivering pilots stumbling 
 out to them in the dark. They were gone before 
 the first blink of light paled the gun-flashes in 
 the sky, and they were barely gone before there 
 came dropping into the 'drome the pilots who 
 had gone off the night before to fly in new 
 machines to replace the wastage. A second 
 Flight went at 9, and then the mechanics, who 
 had turned in at 5.30, were turned out again and 
 the others sent to bed. They had an even 
 shorter spell of rest, because new machines 
 
158 "AIR ACTIVITY" 
 
 somehow require an appalling amount of woris; 
 and overhauling and tuning up before any self- 
 respecting Squadron considers them fit to carry 
 their pilots. 
 
 All that day the yesterday's performance was 
 repeated, with the addition that parties had to 
 be sent off in tenders to bring in machines that 
 had made forced landings away from the 'drome 
 and were unfit to fly home. The mechanics, 
 dismissed for an hour at dinner-time and an 
 hour at tea-time, spent about ten minutes over 
 each meal, and the rest in sleep. They needed 
 it, for that night they had no sleep at all, had 
 to drive their work to the limit of their speed 
 to get the machines ready for the pilots to take 
 in the morning. That day there were more 
 crashes, mild ones and complete write-offs, and 
 it is hard to say which the weary mechanics 
 loathed the most. The pilots had amazing luck. 
 Man after man was shot down, but managed 
 to glide back to our side of the lines, crash his 
 machine, crawl out of the splintered wreckage, 
 and make his way by devious routes back to the 
 Squadron — to take another machine as soon 
 as it was ready, and go out again next day. 
 
 For four days this sort of thing continued. 
 In that time the mechanics averaged twenty and 
 a half hours' driving hard work a day, the shop 
 electrics were never out, the lorry-shop lathe, 
 with relays running it never ceased to turn; the 
 men ate their food at the benches as they worked, 
 threw themselves down in corners of the hangars 
 and under the benches, and snatched odd hours 
 
"AIR ACTIVITY" 159 
 
 of sleep between a Flight going out and another 
 coming in. 
 
 By the mercy, dud weather came on the fifth 
 day, driving rain and blanketting mist, and the 
 mechanics — no, not rested, but spurted again 
 and cleared up the debris of past days, repaired, 
 refitted, and re-rigged their machines in readi- 
 ness for the next call, whenever it might come. 
 At the finish, about midnight of the fourth day, 
 some of them had to be roused from sleeping as 
 they stood or sat at their work; one man fell 
 asleep as he stood working the forge bellows 
 and tumbled backwards into a tub of icy water. 
 
 Then they reeled and stumbled to their beds, 
 and again by the grace — since once asleep it is 
 doubtful if mortal man could have wakened 
 them — the sixth day was also dud, and the 
 mechanics slept their fill, which on the average 
 was somewhere about the round of the clock. 
 
 By then the fury of the battle assault had 
 died down, the Squadron's duties were eased, 
 and the mechanics dropped to a normal battle 
 routine of fourteen or fifteen hours a day. 
 
 The Air Activity speeded up again after a 
 few days of this, and from then on for another 
 fortnight the men in the air were putting in two 
 and three patrols a day and with some of the 
 Artillery Observing machines in the air for four 
 and four and a half hours at a time, while the men 
 on the ground in the Squadrons were kept at full 
 stretch and driving hard night and day to main- 
 tain their machines' efficiency. No. 00's me- 
 chanics did an average of nineteen to twenty 
 
160 "AIR ACTIVITY" 
 
 hours work a day for fifteen days, and it is prob- 
 able that if the full fact were known so, or nearly 
 so, did the mechanics of most of the other 
 Squadrons on that front. For, as it always does 
 in prolonged fine weather and continued air 
 work, the "air supremacy" became much more 
 than a matter of the superiority of the fighters 
 or fliers, dropped down to a race between the 
 German mechanics and our own, their ability 
 to stand the pace, to work the longest hours, 
 to put in the best and the most work in the least 
 time, to keep the most machines fit to take the air. 
 The workshops at Home play a bigger and 
 much more important part in this struggle 
 than ever they have known, and are in fact 
 fighting their fight against the German shops 
 just as much as their air men are fighting the 
 Hun fliers. A constant and liberal supply of 
 spares and parts needed for quick repair ob- 
 viously cuts down the Squadron's work and 
 better enables them to keep pace with the job, 
 and time and again in this period the Squadron 
 mechanics were forced to work long hours filing 
 and hammering and turning and tinkering by 
 hand to repair and improvise parts which should 
 have been there ready to their hand. As the 
 struggle ran on it became plainer day by day 
 that our men were gaining the upper iiand, not 
 only in the fighting — they can always do that — 
 but in the maintenance of machines in the air. 
 The number of ours dropped, perhaps, but the 
 Huns' dropped faster and faster, until our patrols 
 were entirely " top dog." The pilots will be 
 
"AIR ACTIVITY" 161 
 
 the first to admit the part their mechanics played 
 in this victory. 
 
 Through all this strenuous time "The Kiddie," 
 for instance, played her full part. Time and 
 again her pilot brought her in riddled with 
 bullets, with so many controls and flying- and 
 landing-wires and struts cut through, that it 
 was only because she was in the first place well 
 and truly built, and in the second place, so 
 keenly and carefully looked after, that Solly 
 was able to nurse her back and land her on the 
 'drome. And always, no matter how badly 
 damaged she came in, she was stripped, over- 
 hauled, repaired, and ready for action when the 
 time came round for her next patrol; and always 
 the work was done so thoroughly and well that 
 she went out as good, as reliable, as fit to fly 
 for her life, as any 'bus could be. 
 
 In the first week of the show, which was the 
 most strenuous period just described, Solly 
 Colquhoun got a Military Cross for his share of 
 the show, and on first receiving word of it the 
 Major sent for him to come to the office, and 
 gave him the news and his congratulations. 
 
 "May I borrow the message, sir?" said 
 Solly Colquhoun. "I'll bring it back in five 
 minutes." 
 
 The Major gave him the telegram. 
 
 "Off you go," he said laughingly. "Off to 
 raise the mess, I suppose. Get along. I'll be 
 over to wet the Cross with you in a minute. Tell 
 the Mess Sergeant to get the fizz ready that I 
 had in." 
 
162 "AIR ACTIVITY" 
 
 But Solly had not gone to rouse the mess. 
 He went at a hard trot straight to the Flight 
 hangars. 
 
 " Flight," he yelled as he neared them. 
 "Fli-i-ght! Where's the Flight Sergeant? Oh, 
 here, Flight — I want you and my rigger and my 
 fitter. Fetch them quick." 
 
 They came swearing under their breaths. 
 "The poor old 'Kiddie' for the air again," 
 said the rigger. "Done her whack this trip, 
 hasn't she?" returned the fitter. 
 
 "Look here," said Solly abruptly, hardly 
 waiting for them to come to a halt before him. 
 "Just read that wire, will you? ... I brought it 
 straight here. You're the first in the Squadron 
 to know. I wanted you to be, and I wanted 
 just to say thank you to you fellows for getting 
 me this Cross. I know what 'Kiddie' has stood 
 up to, and why. I know what you did, . . . and 
 . . . well, thank you." 
 
 He shook hands awkwardly but very heartily 
 while the men stammered congratulations and 
 disclaimers of any reason for thanks. "Must 
 beetle off," said Solly. "Promised to take this 
 paper over. Tell the other men, will you? A 
 Military Cross for our Flight. And thank you 
 again." 
 
 He turned to hurry out, but, passing "The 
 Kiddie," stabled there with her fore-end swathed 
 and blanketted, her sides sleek and glossy and 
 shining, taut and trim, spotless and speckless 
 as the day she came from her makers, he halted 
 and ran a fondling hand down her rounded back. 
 
"AIR ACTIVITY": 163 
 
 "Thank you too, 'Kiddie,'" he said, nodded 
 to the Sergeant, "I got a good old 'bus, Flight," 
 turned, and ran off. 
 
 "A d n good 'bus," said the Sergeant, 
 
 "and a d n good man flying her." 
 
XIII 
 
 THE LITTLE BUTCHER 
 
 The CO. was showing a couple of friends from 
 the infantry round the Squadron, and while 
 they were in the hangars having a look at the 
 machines — one of our latest type fighting scouts 
 — a pilot came to them on the run, and hardly 
 pausing to make a jerky salute, spoke hastily: 
 " Message just come in by 'phone, sir, that 
 there's a Hun two-seater over our lines near 
 Rorke's Camp, and will you warn the Flight 
 when they go up presently to look out for him. 
 And if you don't mind, sir, I'd like to go up at 
 once myself and have a shot at him." 
 
 The Major hesitated a moment; then " Right," 
 he said, and with a quick " Thanks" the pilot 
 whipped round and ran off. 
 
 "Might walk over and see him start," said 
 the CO. " He'll be gone in a minute. Always 
 has his bus standing by all ready. He's our 
 star pilot — queer little chap — always desper- 
 ately keen for Huns, and makes any number of 
 lone-hand hunts for 'em. Crashed nearly forty 
 to date, the last brace before breakfast yester- 
 day." 
 
 "Hope it didn't spoil his appetite," said one 
 of the visitors. 
 
 164 
 
THE LITTLE BUTCHER 165 
 
 "Spoil it!" The CO. laughed. "Gave him 
 one, rather. You don't know him, but I tell you 
 he'd sooner kill a Hun than eat, any day. We 
 call him 'The Little Butcher' here, because he 
 has such a purposeful, business-like way of going 
 about his work." 
 
 They came to The Little Butcher as he was 
 scrambling aboard his machine. He was too 
 busy to glance at them, and the two visitors, 
 looking at the thin, dark, eager face, watching 
 the anxious impatience to be off, evident in 
 every look and movement, saw something 
 sinister, unpleasant in him and his haste to get 
 to his kill. Their impressions were rather 
 strengthened after The Little Butcher had 
 gone with a rush and a roar, and they had 
 asked the CO. a few more questions about him. 
 
 "No, not a tremendous amount of risk for 
 him this trip," said the CO. "Y'see, he's on 
 a "bus that's better than their best, and can 
 outfly and outstunt anything he's likely to 
 meet. He knows his job thoroughly, and it's 
 a fairly safe bet that if he finds his Hun his 
 Hun is cold meat." 
 
 Now, both the visitors had been fighting for 
 rather a long time, had few squeamish feelings 
 left about killing Huns, and were not much 
 given to sparing pity for them. And yet they 
 both, as they admitted after to each other, felt 
 a vague stirring of something very like pity for 
 those two German airmen up there unaware of 
 the death that was hurtling towards them. 
 
 "I'm rather changing my notions of this air- 
 
166 THE LITTLE BUTCHER 
 
 fighting," said one. "I always thought it rather 
 a sporting game, but " 
 
 "So it is to a good many," said the CO. 
 "But there's nothing sporting about it to The 
 Little Butcher. He's out for blood every time." 
 
 "Seems to me," said one, when the C.O. had 
 left them to go and see the Flight get ready, 
 "this Little Butcher of theirs is well named, and 
 is rather an unpleasant sort of little devil." 
 
 "I can't say," admitted the other, "that the 
 idea appeals to me of going off, as it seems he's 
 doing, to shoot down a couple of men in cold 
 blood. Butchering is about the right word. 
 I'm out to kill Germans myself, but I can't say 
 I like doing it, much less gloat over the prospect, 
 as this youngster appears to do." 
 
 Their unfavourable impression of The Little 
 Butcher was so much stronger even than they 
 knew that it really gave them a grim sense of 
 satisfaction when the C.O. told them later that 
 word had just come in that there were two Huns 
 where one had been reported. 
 
 "Nasty surprise for your Little Butcher," 
 said one, "if he bumps into them. But I sup- 
 pose he'll see them in time and wait for the 
 Flight to help him." 
 
 "Not he," said the C.O. "He'll tackle the 
 two quick enough, and probably outfly 'em and 
 get one or both. Sheer off from a chance of 
 crashing two Huns instead of one? Not much." 
 
 This was late afternoon or early evening, and 
 the two heard the story of the fight that night, 
 before and during dinner, between courses and 
 
THE LITTLE BUTCHER 167 
 
 mouthfuls of food, over cigarettes and coffee, 
 in snatches and patches, in answers to questions 
 and in translations of air terms they did not 
 clearly follow. And again their impression of 
 The Little Butcher grew firmer, that he was "a 
 murderous little devil" and "a cold-blooded 
 young brute." There was no mistaking in The 
 Little Butcher's telling his huge satisfaction in 
 his kill, his fretting impatience when he thought 
 he might be baulked of his prey, his eagerness to 
 finish his work; and frankly the two did not like 
 it or him. 
 
 When he had gone off that afternoon, he had 
 flown arrow-straight for the locality the Hun 
 was reported in, climbing in a long slant as he 
 went, looking out eagerly for any sign of his 
 quarry. He found them — or, as he still thought, 
 the one — by sighting the puffing bursts of our 
 Archie shells, and took quick stock of the 
 position. The sun was still high and in the 
 south-west; the Huns almost due south of him. 
 His great anxiety was to approach unseen to 
 such a distance as would prevent the Hun 
 escaping on catching sight of him, so he swung 
 wide to his left to gain the cover of a slow drift- 
 ing cloud that might allow him to come closer 
 without being seen. He passed behind and 
 clear of it, and continued his circle, south 
 now and bearing west towards another cloud, 
 and as he flew he stared hard towards the puffing 
 shell-bursts and made out the tiny dots that he 
 knew were two machines. He was sure they 
 were both Huns, because the way they circled 
 
168 THE LITTLE BUTCHER 
 
 and flew about each other without any move- 
 ments of a fight made it clear they were not 
 opponents. The Archie shells wrote them down 
 Huns. 
 
 With the second cloud safely between him and 
 them, The Little Butcher swung and raced 
 towards the two, reached the back of the cloud, 
 and went laddering up towards its upper and 
 western edge. He figured they could not be 
 more than a mile from him then, but to locate 
 them exactly and make his best plan of attack 
 he skirted round the side of the cloud — a thick, 
 solid, white cotton-woolly one — until he caught 
 sight of them. 
 
 The instant he did so he plunged into the 
 cloud and out of sight. He had kept so close 
 to it that the one turn of his wrist, the one kick 
 on his rudder, flung him side-slipping into it, 
 to circle back and out clear behind it again. 
 He looked down and round carefully for sight 
 of any of our machines that might be coming 
 up to interrupt his work and perhaps scare off 
 his quarry, but saw none. But on the clear sun- 
 lit ground far below he saw a puff of smoke flash 
 out, and then another close beside the hutments 
 of Rorke's Camp, and concluded the two Huns 
 were "doing a shoot," were observing for their 
 artillery and directing the fire of their guns on 
 to points below them. It gave him the better 
 chance of a surprise attack, because at least one 
 man's attention on each of the machines must 
 be taken up in watching the fall of the shells. 
 The Little Butcher revived his hope of bagging 
 
THE LITTLE BUTCHER 169 
 
 the two, a hope that at first had begun to fade 
 in the belief that one might bolt while he was 
 downing the other. 
 
 The worst of the position now was that the 
 two were rather widely separated, that his 
 attack on the one might bolt the other, and 
 that the second might reach the safety of his own 
 lines before he could be overtaken. The Little 
 Butcher didn't like the idea, so he restrained his 
 impatience and waited, fidgeting, for the two to 
 close in to each other or to him. He climbed 
 to the top of the cloud and circled with engine 
 throttled back, swinging up every now and 
 again until he could just catch sight of the two, 
 ducking back behind the cloud edge again with- 
 out being seen. 
 
 He was so intent on his business that it was 
 only instinct or long habit that kept him 
 glancing up and round for sight of any other 
 enemy, and it was this that perhaps saved him 
 from the fate he was preparing for the two. In 
 one of his upward glances he suddenly caught 
 sight of another machine full three thousand feet 
 above him, and racing to a position for a diving 
 attack. The Little Butcher, as he said that 
 night, "didn't know whether to curse or weep." 
 The newcomer broke in most unpleasantly on 
 his careful plans. Two slow old Art. Ob. Huns 
 were one sort of game; with a fast fighting scout 
 thrown in the affair became very different. 
 The two he had counted as "his meat," but 
 now with this fellow butting in. . . . He felt it 
 served him right in a way for not diving at 
 
170 THE LITTLE BUTCHER 
 
 them first shot instead of hanging about for a 
 chance to bag the two. He had been impatient 
 enough, Lord knew, to get at them, and he 
 shouldn't have waited. 
 
 All this went through his mind in a flash, even 
 as his eyes were taking in the details of the 
 scout rushing to position above him, his mind 
 figuring out the other's plan of attack. He 
 wasn't worrying much for the moment about 
 the attack, because he was still circling slowly 
 above his cotton-wool cloud, had only to thrust 
 forward the joy-stick to vanish as completely 
 from sight as if he were in another world. But he 
 wanted to frame the best plan that would still 
 give him a shot at the artillery machines, and — 
 
 The scout above pointed at him and came 
 down like a swooping hawk, his guns clattering 
 out a long burst of fire. The Little Butcher 
 flipped over and sank like a stone into the 
 thickness of the cloud. He went plunging down 
 through the rushing vapour, burst out of it into 
 the sunlight below, opened out his engine, and, 
 turning towards the sun, was off with a rush. 
 
 As he swept out clear of the cloud he looked 
 round and up, to locate his enemies, size up the 
 position, and figure the chances of his contem- 
 plated plan working. The scout was not in 
 sight yet, was circling above the cloud still, 
 probably waiting for him to emerge. The two 
 artillery machines were closer together, as if 
 they had noticed the signs of fight and were in 
 position to support each other. They were out 
 on his right hand and about a mile away. He 
 
THE LITTLE BUTCHER 171 
 
 kept straight and hard on his course — a course 
 that was taking him into a line that would pass 
 between them and the sun. 
 
 He saw the scout again now, high up and 
 circling above the cloud still. The Little 
 Butcher paid no further heed to him, but drove 
 on at his top pace, with his head twisted to 
 the right and his eyes glued on the slow swinging 
 artillery machines. They gave no sign of seeing 
 him for ten long seconds, or if they saw him con- 
 cluded he was running away. "My luck held," 
 said The Little Butcher in his telling of the tale, 
 and the savage ring in his voice and glint in his 
 dark eyes gave a little shiver to the two listening 
 infantrymen. 
 
 He gained the point he was aiming for, shot 
 up into "the eye of the sun," kicked the 'bus 
 hard round, and came plunging and hurtling down 
 on the nearest of the two machines. As he dived 
 he heard the whip of bullets past him, knew the 
 scout above had sighted him, was probably 
 diving in turn to intercept him. He paid no 
 heed; held hard and straight on his course, 
 keeping his eye glued on the nearest machine 
 and his sights dead on him, his fingers ready to 
 start his guns at first sign of their seeing him. 
 And because he was coming on them "out of 
 the sun," because even if they had smoked 
 glasses on and looked at him it would take a 
 second or two to accustom themselves to the 
 glare and be sure of him, he was within 300 
 yards before the farthest one suddenly tilted 
 and whirled round and dived away. 
 
172 THE LITTLE BUTCHER 
 
 The Little Butcher was on him before he had 
 well begun his dive, had gripped the trigger 
 lever of his guns and commenced to hail a stream 
 of bullets ahead of him. He saw the Hun swerve 
 and thrust his nose down, so changed course 
 slightly to hold him in his sights, and kept his 
 guns going hard. He was close enough now to 
 see the observer swinging his gun round to fire 
 on him, and then, next instant, to see a handful 
 of his bullets hit splintering into the woodwork 
 of the Hun's fuselage. 
 
 The Hun fell spinning and rolling, and The 
 Little Butcher thrust his nose down and ripped 
 in another short burst as his target swept under- 
 neath. Then he lifted and swung, and went 
 tearing straight at the second artillery ma- 
 chine, which was nose on to him and firing 
 hard from its forward gun. At the same 
 moment he heard the whipping and cracking of 
 bullets about him and the clatter of close 
 machine-guns, looked up, and saw the scout 
 turn zooming up from a dive on him. 
 
 The Little Butcher held straight on, opening 
 fire at the Hun ahead. The Hun side-slipped, 
 ducked and spun down a thousand feet, The 
 Little Butcher diving after, spitting short bursts 
 at him every time he thought he crossed the 
 sights, aware again that the scout above was 
 following him down and shooting uncomfortably 
 close. He was forced to turn his attention to 
 him, so next time a dive came, he pulled his top 
 gun down and let drive at the shape that plunged 
 down, over, and up, then hoicked up after him 
 and engaged hotly. 
 
THE LITTLE BUTCHER 173 
 
 The two-seater below made no attempt to 
 climb and join the combat, but swinging east hit 
 for home as hard as he could go. The Little 
 Butcher broke off his fight with the scout and 
 went, full out, after the two-seater, the scout 
 whirling round and following gamely. Because 
 The Little Butcher had by far the faster machine, 
 and had besides the added impetus of a down- 
 ward slant from his thousand-foot higher level, 
 he overhauled the two-seater hand over fist, 
 forced him into a spinning dive again, and in a 
 moment was mixing it in a hot fight with him 
 and the scout. Again, because he had the faster 
 and handier machine, he secured an advantage, 
 and whipping round astern of the scout and 
 "sitting on his tail" drove him to escape his 
 fire in a steep spin. 
 
 But at that moment The Little Butcher felt 
 a spray of wet on his face, found it was oil, and 
 concluded, wrathfully, that his oil tank or pipe 
 must be shot through. His engine, he knew, 
 would quickly run dry, might seize up at any 
 moment, and leave him helpless. And the two- 
 seater was off tearing for the lines again, the 
 scout still spinning down to escape him. He 
 wanted that two-seater, wanted him badly. He 
 had bagged the one and meant getting the other. 
 
 There was a last chance — if his engine would 
 stand for a few minutes. He opened her out 
 and shot off after the two-seater. He caught 
 him up and dropped astern, the oil still spraying 
 back, misting his goggles and nearly blinding 
 him, the Hun observer pouring a long steady 
 fire at him. He stooped forward with his face 
 
174 THE LITTLE BUTCHER 
 
 close to the wind-screen, dropped to a position 
 dead astern of the two-seater where the observer 
 could not effectively fire at him without shooting 
 away his own tail, and poured in a long clatter- 
 ing burst from both guns. His bullets, he knew, 
 were tearing stern to stem through the Hun; 
 but the Hun held on, and The Little Butcher 
 felt his engine check and kick. The oil spray had 
 ceased, which meant the last of the oil was 
 gone and the engine running dry. The Little 
 Butcher gritted his teeth, and kept his guns going. 
 
 The Hun observer's fire stopped suddenly, 
 and he fell limp across the edge of his cockpit. 
 The Hun pilot was helpless. With a fast scout 
 on his tail, with no gunner or gun to shoot 
 astern, he could do nothing — except perhaps 
 escape in a spin down. But astern of him the 
 guns continued to chatter, the bullets to rip 
 and tear and splinter through his machine. 
 
 The Little Butcher was in an agony of suspense 
 as to whether he could get his man before his 
 engine failed him, and as he told his story it 
 was plain to see the intensity, the desperate 
 uncertainty, and the eagerness he had felt. "I 
 knew my engine was going to conk out any 
 second — could feel a sort of grate and grind in 
 her, and that my revs, were dropping off. The 
 Hun was drawing away a yard or two . . . and I 
 tell you I cursed the luck. I hung on, dead 
 astern and pumping it into him and seeing my 
 bullets fairly raking him. But he wouldn't 
 go down. ..." (His eyes gleamed as he spoke, 
 his brows were drawn down, his whole face 
 
THE LITTLE BUTCHER 175 
 
 quivering with eagerness, with the revived 
 excitement of the chase, the passionate desire 
 for the downfall of his quarry.) "I began to 
 think he'd get away. I'd never have forgiven 
 myself — having him dead helpless like that, right 
 at point-blank, and then losing him. . . . But I 
 got him at last — and just in time. Got him, 
 and crashed him good. ..." 
 
 It all sounds very brutal perhaps — did cer- 
 tainly to the two infantrymen listening, fas- 
 cinated. But — this was The Little Butcher; and 
 he was out to kill. 
 
 The end had come a few seconds later. The 
 Hun pilot lurched forward; his machine 
 plunged, rolled over, shot out and up, tail-slid, 
 and then went spinning and " dead-leafing" 
 down. The Little Butcher shut off his crippled 
 engine, looked round and saw the Hun scout 
 streaking for the lines, put his machine into a 
 long glide and watched his second victim twist 
 and twirl down and down, watched until he saw 
 him hit and crash. 
 
 He came down and made a landing on another 
 'drome, borrowed a tender, and in an hour was 
 eating his dinner. 
 
 I have said the two visitors did not like the 
 story or the teller. They were, in fact, a little 
 disgusted and sickened with both, and they 
 said as much to their friend the CO. when the 
 others had left the table, and they three lingered 
 over liqueurs. 
 
 "Silly of me perhaps," said one, "but I 
 hated the way that boy sort of licked his lips 
 
176 THE LITTLE BUTCHER 
 
 over the chance of catching that Hun unawares 
 and shooting him down." 
 
 The other wrinkled his nose disgustedly. "It 
 was fifty times worse his hanging to that fellow 
 who couldn't shoot back — when the observer 
 was dead — and bringing him down in cold blood. 
 Poor devil. Think of his feelings." 
 
 "Little Butcher," said the first, "you named 
 him well. Bloody-minded little butcher at that." 
 
 "But hold on a minute," said the CO. "I 
 can't let you run away with these wrong notions 
 of The Little Butcher. Have you any idea why 
 he is so keen on killing Huns? Why he jumped 
 at the chance to go up and get that one to-day, 
 why he was in such a hurry to tackle the two, why 
 he— well, why he is The Little Butcher?" 
 
 "Lord knows," said one, and "Pure blood- 
 thirstiness," the other. 
 
 "I'll tell you," said the CO. "It is because 
 he was once in the infantry, as I was; and 
 because he knows, as I do, what it means to the 
 line to have an artillery observing machine 
 over directing shells on to you fellows, or taking 
 photos that will locate your positions and bring 
 Hades down on you. Every Hun that comes 
 over the line, you fellows have to sweat for; 
 every minute a gun-spotter or photographer or 
 reconnaissance machine works over you, you pay 
 for in killed and wounded. Lots of our pilots 
 don't properly realise that, and treat air fighting 
 as more or leste of a sporting game, or just as the 
 job they're here for. The Little Butcher knows 
 that every Hun crashed means so many more 
 
THE LITTLE BUTCHER 177 
 
 lives saved on the ground, every Hun that gets 
 away alive will be the death of some of you; 
 so he's full out to crash them — whenever, 
 wherever, and however he can." 
 
 The two guests fidgeted a little and glanced 
 shamefacedly at one another. "I hadn't 
 
 thought " began one, and "I never looked 
 
 at it " said the other. 
 
 "No," said the CO., "and few men on the 
 ground do, because they don't know any better. 
 P'raps you'll tell some of 'em. And don't for- 
 get — although I admit that, as he told the 
 story, it mightn't sound like it — his isn't the 
 simple butchering game you seem to think. 
 You didn't see his 'bus when it was brought in? 
 No. Well, it had just thirty-seven bullet holes 
 in it, including one through the windscreen, a 
 foot off his head. Any one of those might have 
 crashed him; and he knows it. Some day one 
 of them will get him; and he also knows that. 
 But he takes his risks, and will keep on taking 
 'em — because every risk, every Hun downed, is 
 saving some of you fellows on the floor. There's 
 a-many women at home to-night who might be 
 widows and are still wives; and for that you 
 can thank God — and The Little Butcher." 
 
 "I see," said the one listener slowly — "I see." 
 
 "So do I," said the other. "And I'm glad 
 you told us. Now," thrusting his chair back, 
 "I'm going to find The Little Butcher, and 
 apologise to him." 
 
 "Me too," said the first — "apologise, and 
 thank him for all he's done, and is doing — for us." 
 
XIV 
 
 A CUSHY JOB 1 
 
 A Ferry Pilot once told me that he had a very- 
 pleasant and " cushy" job, especially when you 
 compared it with the one in a Squadron working 
 over the lines. Because we had just made an 
 ideal flight across Channel on a beautiful summer 
 day, and were sitting in comfortable deck-chairs, 
 basking in the sun outside the Pool Pilots' 
 Mess after a good lunch, I was inclined at first 
 to believe him. A little later he told a story 
 which made me revise that belief, the more so 
 as it was not told to impress, and was accepted 
 by the other Ferry Pilots there present so 
 casually and with so little comment that it was 
 apparently an experience not at all beyond the 
 average. 
 
 A chance remark was made about a recent 
 trip on which he had been lost in the mist, and 
 had two very close shaves from crashing. Since 
 none of the others asked for the story, I did, 
 and got it at last, told very sketchily and off- 
 handedly, and only filled in with such details 
 as I could drag out of him with many questions. 
 
 He had started out one morning to fly a new 
 fast single-seater scout machine to France, and, 
 
 1 Cushy =easy, soft. 
 178 
 
A CUSHY JOB 179 
 
 while getting his height before pushing out across 
 Channel, noticed there was a haze over the water, 
 and that the coast on the other side was also 
 rather obscured, although not to any alarming 
 extent. But before he had got over to the 
 French side quite a thick mist had crept up 
 Channel, and he had to come down to a couple 
 of thousand feet to pick up his exact bearings. 
 He lost some time at this, but at last recognised 
 a bit of the coast, and found he was rather off 
 his line, so swung off and pushed for the Depot 
 landing-ground. Before he reached it, the mist, 
 which had been steadily thickening, suddenly 
 swept over in a solid wave, and he found any 
 view of the ground completely gone. 
 
 He climbed a couple of thousand into the 
 sunlight again, and looked round for a bearing, 
 thought he could make out the ground in one 
 direction, and, opening his engine full out, pushed 
 off for the spot. But either his eyes had deceived 
 him, or the mist had beat him to it. He flew on, 
 with nothing but crawling, drifting mist visible 
 below him, dropped down again and peered over 
 the side, down and down again until his altimeter 
 showed him to be a bare couple of hundred feet 
 up. There was still no sight of ground, and 
 since he was now in thick mist himself he could 
 see nothing but dim greyness below, all round, 
 and above him. He climbed through thinning 
 layers of mist into daylight, and headed straight 
 south by compass, figuring that the best plan was 
 to try to outfly the mist area, and, when he 
 could see the ground anywhere, pick up a 
 
180 A CUSHY JOB 
 
 bearing and a 'drome, any 'drome, and get down 
 on it. 
 
 But after half an hour's flight he was still 
 above crawling banks of mist, and by now had 
 not the faintest idea of where he was. He had 
 made several dips down to look for the ground, 
 but each time had caught not the faintest indica- 
 tion of it, although he had dropped dangerously 
 low according to the altimeter. He began to 
 wonder if the altimeter was registering cor- 
 rectly, but came to the highly unpleasant con- 
 clusion that, if he could not trust it, he certainly 
 dare not distrust it to the extent of believing 
 he was higher than it showed, dropping down 
 and perhaps barging into a clump of trees, or 
 telegraph wires, or any other obstruction. 
 
 He admits that he began to get a bit rattled 
 here. He became oppressed with a desolating 
 sense of his utter aloneness, especially when he 
 was low down and whirling blindly through the 
 mist. He was completely cut off from the 
 world. Firm ground was there beneath him 
 somewhere, cheery companions, homely things 
 like cosy rooms and fires and hot coffee; but 
 while the mist lasted he could no more touch any 
 of them than he could touch the moon. 
 
 To make it worse, he was completely lost and 
 had not the faintest idea where he was. He 
 was steering by compass only, and if he was 
 drifting to the east he might be approaching 
 the lines and Hunland, and if to the west might 
 even now be over the sea. For an hour and a 
 half he flew, trying to keep a straight course 
 south, and seeing nothing but that dim grey 
 
A CUSHY JOB 181 
 
 around him when he came low, the sun and sky- 
 above, and the wide floor of mist beneath, when 
 he climbed high. Flying high he had the same 
 sense of aloneness, of being the only living 
 thing in an empty world of his own, of cut-off- 
 ness from the earth, that he had when he was 
 in the blanketting mist. 
 
 It was a different kind of aloneness, but even 
 more desperate from the feeling of helplessness 
 that went with it. Here he was, a fit, strong 
 man, with every limb, organ, and sense perfect, 
 with a good, sound, first-class machine under 
 him, with a bright sun and a clear sky above, 
 able to control his every movement, to fly to any 
 point of the compass, to go up, or down, or 
 round, at any angle or speed he liked — except 
 a speed low enough to allow him to drop to the 
 ground without smashing himself and his machine 
 to pulp and splinters. All his power was reduced 
 to nought by a mere bank of mist, a thin im- 
 palpable vapour, a certain amount of moisture 
 in the atmosphere. His very power and speed 
 were his undoing. Speed that in free air was 
 safety, was death on touching the ground except 
 at a proper angle and with a clear run to slow 
 in — an angle he could not gauge, a clear run he 
 could not find for this deadly mist. It was 
 maddening . . . and terrifying. 
 
 He decided to make one more try for the 
 ground, a last attempt to see if he could get 
 below the mist blanket without hitting the 
 earth. He thrust his nose down and plunged, 
 flattening out a little as he came into the mist, 
 shut off his engine, and went on down in a long 
 
182 A CUSHY JOB 
 
 glide with his eyes on the altimeter, lifting and 
 staring down overside, turning back quickly to 
 read his height. At three hundred he could see 
 nothing, at two hundred nothing, at a hundred 
 still nothing but swirling greyness. He flew on, 
 still edging down, opening up his engine every 
 now and then to maintain flying speed, shutting 
 it off and gliding, his eyes straining for sight of 
 anything solid, his ears for sound of anything 
 but the whistle and whine of the wind on his 
 wings and wires. Down, still down, his heart in 
 his mouth, his hand ready on the throttle — 
 down . . . down . . . 
 
 Everything depended on what sort of surface 
 he was flying above. If there were flat open 
 fields he must catch sight, however shadowy it 
 might be, of them before touching anything. 
 If there were trees or buildings below, the first 
 sight he got might be something looming up 
 before him a fraction of a second before he hit. 
 Down, steadily and gradually, but still down — 
 down . . . then, up — suddenly and steeply, his 
 hand jerking the throttle wide open, the engine 
 roaring out in deafening notes that for all their 
 strength could not drown the thumping of his 
 heart and the blood drumming in his ears. A 
 hundred feet he climbed steeply; but even then, 
 with the panic of immediate peril gone, he kept 
 on climbing in narrow turns up into the sunlight 
 again. 
 
 He had had a deadly narrow escape, had been 
 so intent on staring down for the ground that 
 almost before he knew what was happening he 
 had flashed close past something solid, some- 
 
A CUSHY JOB 183 
 
 thing that his wing-tips catching would have 
 meant death — a straight upright pillar, then 
 another, with faint pencilled lines running 
 between them — a ship's masts and rigging. And 
 as he shot up, almost straight up, he had a quick 
 glimpse of another three shadowy masts jerking 
 downwards into obscurity before and then 
 beneath him. He must be over a harbour, or 
 dock, or perhaps some sort of canal basin. He 
 kept his upward course until he was in sunlight 
 again, carefully examined his oil and petrol 
 gauges and his compass, and set a northerly 
 course. The mist might be over all France; he 
 would make a try back for England. 
 
 He held on until he had run his main petrol 
 tank out, switched on to the gravity "emer- 
 gency tank" set on the top plane, and kept 
 steadily on his course. He had an hour's petrol 
 there, and that ought, he figured, to take him 
 well over England and inland. 
 
 He decided to keep going until he could see 
 signs of the mist thinning, or until his petrol 
 ran almost out; but when it was about half 
 empty, and he thought he must be back over the 
 Channel and a good many miles inland, he slid 
 down through the mist on the chance of being 
 able to see the ground below it. He went down 
 to a hundred feet, lower, could see nothing, 
 opened his engine out again and began to climb. 
 
 Then he had another hair-raising deadly scare. 
 He saw the mist in front of him suddenly begin 
 to darken, to solidify, to take shape, to become 
 a solid bulk stretching out and thinning away to 
 grey mist to either side, above him, and below him. 
 
184 A CUSHY JOB 
 
 For one flashing instant he was puzzled, for 
 another he was panic-stricken, knew with a 
 cold clutch of terror at his heart that he was 
 charging at a hundred miles an hour full into 
 the face of a sheer-walled cliff. Actually his 
 speed was his saving — his speed and the instinct 
 that did the one possible thing to bring him 
 clear. He had gathered way on his upward 
 slant, his engine running full out. He hauled 
 the control lever hard in, and his machine, 
 answering instantly, reared and swooped and 
 shot straight up parallel with the cliff face, over 
 in the first half of a loop, and straight away 
 from the cliff, upside down, until he was far 
 enough out safely to roll over to an even keel. 
 It was so close a thing that for an instant he saw 
 distinctly the cracks and crevices in the cliff 
 face, held his breath, dreading to feel the jar of 
 wheels or tail on the rock, and the plunge and 
 crash that would follow. 
 
 A long way out he slanted up, with his heart 
 still thumping unpleasantly, climbed until he 
 was in the sunlight again, and turned north. 
 
 He found the mist thinning ten minutes later, 
 cleared it in another five, glided down, and picked 
 a good field, and landed — with about ten minutes' 
 petrol in his tank. 
 
 And that same afternoon, when the mist 
 went, he refilled his tanks and took his machine 
 over to France, and delivered it to the Depot 
 there. 
 
 But a Ferry Pilot, you'll remember, has a 
 "cushy job." 
 
XV 
 
 NO THOROUGHFARE 
 
 For a week the line had been staggering back, 
 fighting savagely to hold their ground, being 
 driven in, time and again, by the sheer weight 
 of fresh German divisions brought up and 
 hurled without a pause against them, giving 
 way and retiring sullenly and stubbornly to 
 fresh positions, having to endure renewed 
 ferocious onslaughts there, and give to them 
 again. Fighting, marching, digging in; fighting 
 again and repeating the performance over and 
 over for days and nights, our men were worn 
 down dangerously near to the point of exhaus- 
 tion and collapse, the point over which the 
 Germans strove to thrust them, the point 
 where human endurance could no longer stand 
 the strain, and the breaking, crumbling line 
 would give the opening for which the Germans 
 fought so hard, the opening through which they 
 would pour their masses and cut the Allied 
 armies in two. 
 
 Now at the end of a week it looked as if their 
 
 aim was dangerously near attainment. On one 
 
 portion of the line especially the strain had 
 
 been tremendous, and the men, hard driven and 
 
 . 185 
 
186 NO THOROUGHFARE 
 
 harassed for two days and nights almost with- 
 out a break, were staggering on their feet, 
 stupid with fatigue, dazed for want of sleep. 
 Of all their privations this want of sleep was 
 the hardest and cruellest. The men longed 
 for nothing more than a chance to throw them- 
 selves on the ground, to fling down on the 
 roadside, in the ditches, anywhere, anyhow, 
 and close their aching eyes and sink in deep, 
 deep sleep. But there was no faintest hope of 
 sleep for them. They had been warned that 
 all the signs were of a fresh great attack being 
 launched on them about dusk, by more of 
 those apparently inexhaustible fresh enemy 
 divisions. The divisions they had fought all 
 day were being held stubbornly by rear-guard 
 actions until the new positions were established; 
 and plain word had been brought in by recon- 
 noitring air men of the new masses pressing up 
 by road and rail to converge with all their 
 weight on the weakened line and the worn-out 
 men who made ready to hold it. Everyone 
 knew what was coming. Company and battalion 
 officers scanned the ground and picked positions 
 for trenches and machine-guns to sweep the 
 attack; Generals Commanding pored over maps 
 and contours and sought points where concen- 
 trated shell-fire might best check the masses. 
 And all who knew anything knew that it was 
 no more than a forlorn hope that if once those 
 fresh divisions came to close quarters they 
 could be beaten back. Our men would be 
 outnumbered, would be unrested and worn 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE 187 
 
 with fighting and digging and marching con- 
 tinuously, — that was the rub; if our men could 
 have a rest, a few hours' sleep, a chance to 
 recuperate, they could make some sort of a 
 show, put up a decent fight again, hold on long 
 enough to give the promised reinforcements 
 time to come up, the guns to take up new posi- 
 tions. But "a renewed attack in force must 
 be expected by dusk" said the word that came 
 to them, and every precious minute until 
 then must be filled with moving the tired 
 men into position, doing their utmost to dig 
 in and make some kind of defensive line. It 
 looked bad. 
 
 But there were other plans in the making, 
 plans figured out on wider reaching lines, offer- 
 ing the one chance of success in attacking the 
 fresh enemy masses at their most vulnerable 
 points, fifteen, twenty miles away from our 
 weary line. The plans were completed and 
 worked out in detail and passed down the chain 
 to the air Squadrons; rnd Flight by Flight the 
 pilots and observers loaded up to the full capacity 
 of their machines with bombs and machine- 
 gun ammunition and went droning out over 
 the heads of the working troops digging the 
 fresh line, over the scattered outpost and rear- 
 guard lines where the Germans pressed ten- 
 tatively and waited for the new reinforcements 
 that were to recommence the fierce " hammer- 
 blow" attacks, on over the dribbling streams of 
 transport and men moving by many paths into 
 the battle line, on to where the main streams 
 
188 NO THOROUGHFARE 
 
 ran full flood on road and rail — and where the 
 streams could best be dammed and diverted. 
 
 The air Squadrons went in force to their 
 work, bent all their energies for the moment to 
 the one great task of breaking up the masses 
 before they could bring their weight into the 
 line, of upsetting the careful time-table which 
 the enemy must lay down and follow if they 
 were to handle with any success the huge bulk 
 of traffic they were putting on road and rail. 
 Each Flight and Squadron had its own ap- 
 pointed work and place, its carefully detailed 
 orders of how and where to go about their 
 business. In one Squadron, where the CO. 
 held council with his Flight Leaders and ex- 
 plained the position and pointed out the plans, 
 one of his Captains summed up the instructions 
 in a sentence. "That bit of road," he said 
 with his finger on the map, "you want us to 
 see it's 'No Thoroughfare' for the Hun up to 
 dark?" 
 
 "That's it," said the CO. "And if you get 
 a chance at a train or two about here — well, 
 don't let it slip." 
 
 "Right-oh," "That's simple," "No Thorough- 
 fare," said the Captains, and proceeded about 
 their business. The Flights went off at short 
 intervals, intervals calculated to "keep the pot 
 a-boiling," as closely as possible, to allow no 
 minutes when some of the Squadron would not 
 be on or about the spot to enforce the "No 
 Thoroughfare" rule. For the rest of the after- 
 noon they came and went, and came and went, 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE 189 
 
 in a steady string, circling in and dropping 
 to the 'drome to refill hurriedly with fresh stocks 
 of bombs and ammunition, taking off and 
 driving out to the east as soon as they had the 
 tanks and drums filled and the bombs hitched 
 on. They were on scout machines carrying four 
 light bombs and many hundred rounds of 
 ammunition apiece, and Dennis, the leader of 
 the first Flight, made an enthusiastic report of 
 success on the first return. " Found the spot 
 all right, Major," he said cheerfully. "The 
 crater reported is there all right, and it has 
 wrecked half the road. There was a working 
 party on it going like steam to fill in the hole, 
 we disturbed the party a whole lot." 
 
 They had disturbed them. The road was 
 one of those long miles-straight main routes 
 that run between the towns in that part of 
 France. They were well filled with troops 
 and transport over the first miles, but the Flight 
 Leader followed instructions and let these go, 
 knowing other Squadrons would be dealing 
 with them in their own good time and way. 
 "Although I wish they'd get busy and do it," 
 as he told the CO. "Having nothing to worry 
 them, those Huns just naturally filled the air 
 with lead as he went over 'em. Look at my 
 poor old 'Little Indian' there; her planes are 
 as full of holes as a sieve." 
 
 But he had pushed his "Little Indian" 
 straight on without attempting to return the 
 fire from below, and presently he came to the 
 spot where the Squadron was to tackle its job 
 
190 NO THOROUGHFARE 
 
 — a spot where an attempt had been made by 
 our Engineers to blow up the road as we retired, 
 and where a yawning hole took up half the 
 road, leaving one good lorry-width for the 
 transport to crawl round. An infantry battalion 
 was tramping past the crater when the Flight 
 arrived above it, and since the "Little Indian" 
 flew straight on without loosing off a bomb or 
 a shot, the rest of the Flight followed obediently, 
 although in some wonder as to whether the 
 target was not being passed by mistake. There 
 was no mistake. They followed the leader 
 round in a wide sweep over the open fields with 
 stray bunches of infantry firing wildly up at 
 them, round to the crater, and past it again, 
 and out and round still wider. The road by 
 the crater was empty as they passed, but a 
 long string of lorries and horse transport that 
 had been waiting half a mile back began to 
 move and crawl along towards the crater. The 
 " Little Indian" kept on her wide circle until 
 half the lorries were past the crater. Then she 
 came round in a steep bank and shot straight 
 as an arrow back to the road, swept round 
 sharply again and went streaking along above 
 it. Two hundred yards from the crater she 
 lifted, curved over and came diving down, 
 spitting fire and lead as she came, pelting a 
 stream of bullets on the lorries abreast of the 
 mine hole and diving straight at them. Thirty 
 feet away from the hole, one, two, three, four 
 black objects dropped away from under the 
 machine, and four spurts of flame and smoke 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE 191 
 
 leaped and flashed amongst the lorries and about 
 the hole, as the " Little Indian" zoomed up, 
 ducked over and came diving down again with 
 her machine-guns hailing bullets along the 
 lorries and the horse transport. And close 
 astern of her came the rest of the Flight, splash- 
 ing their bombs down the length of the convoy, 
 each saving one or two for the spot by the 
 crater, continuing along the road and emptying 
 their guns on the transport. Half a mile along 
 the road they swung round and turned back 
 and repeated the gunning performance on men 
 struggling to hold and steady crazed and bolting 
 horses, on wagons in the ditches, on one lorry 
 with her nose well down in the half-filled crater 
 and another one comfortably crashed against 
 her tail that stuck out into the half-width bit of 
 road. 
 
 "A beautiful block," the Flight told the 
 Major on their return. " Couldn't have placed 
 'em better if we'd driven the lorries ourselves. 
 And there's horse wagons enough scattered 
 along the ditches of the next half mile to keep 
 the Hun busy for hours." 
 
 The second Flight, arriving about ten minutes 
 after the first had departed homeward bound, 
 found the Huns exceedingly busy struggling 
 to remove the wrecked transport which so 
 effectually blocked the way. There were men 
 enough crowded round the crater especially to 
 make a very fine target, and the first machine 
 or two got their bombs well home on these, and 
 scattered the rest impartially along the road on 
 
192 NO THOROUGHFARE 
 
 any "suitable targets" of men or transport. 
 They established another couple of very useful 
 blocks along the mile of road behind the crater, 
 and completely cleared the road of marching 
 men for a good three miles. The third Flight 
 found no targets beyond the working party at 
 the crater until they had gone back a few miles 
 to a cross road, where they distributed some 
 bombs on a field battery, bolted the teams, and 
 left the gunners well down in the ditches beside 
 their overturned guns and limbers. 
 
 They had barely finished their performance 
 when the first Flight was back again, but by 
 this time the enemy had taken steps to upset 
 the arrangements, and with a couple of machine- 
 guns posted by the crater did their best to keep 
 the traffic blockers out of reach of their targets. 
 But the Flight would not be denied, and drove 
 in through the storm of bullets, planted their 
 bombs and gave the ground gunners a good 
 peppering, and got away with no further damage 
 than a lot of bullet holes in wings and fuselages. 
 For the next hour the Germans fought to 
 strengthen their anti-aircraft defences, bringing 
 up more machine-guns and lining the ditches 
 with riflemen, and the attackers got a reception 
 that grew hotter and hotter with each attempt. 
 But they held the road blocked, and effectually 
 prevented any successful attempt to clear and 
 use it, and in addition extended their attacks 
 to further back and to other near-by roads, 
 and to the railway. Crossing this line on one 
 outward trip Dennis, still flying his bullet-riddled 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE 193 
 
 "Little Indian," saw a long and heavily-laden 
 train toiling slowly towards the front. It was 
 too good a chance to miss, so he swung and made 
 for it, swooped down to within a hundred feet 
 and dropped his bombs. Only one hit fairly, 
 and although that blew one truck to pieces, it 
 left it on the rails and the trains still crawling 
 along. But the Flight followed his lead, and 
 one of their bombs hit and so damaged 
 the engine that a cloud of steam came pouring 
 up from it and the train stopped. Another 
 long train was panting up from the German rear, 
 so the Flight swept along it and sprayed it 
 liberally with machine-gun bullets, scaring the 
 driver and fireman into leaping overboard, 
 and bringing that train also to a standstill. 
 Dennis headed back home to bring up a fresh 
 stock of bombs, and, if he could, damage the 
 train beyond possibility of moving, although 
 he feared it was rather a large contract for a 
 scout's light bombs. But on the way back he 
 met a formation of big two-seater bombers 
 carrying heavy bombs, and by firing a few 
 rounds, diving athwart their course, and frantic 
 wavings and pointings managed to induce them 
 to follow him. Two of them did, and he led 
 them straight back to the two trains. The 
 driver and fireman of the second had resumed 
 their duties and were trying to push the first 
 train along when the bombers arrived, and 
 planting one bomb fairly on the train, started 
 a fire going, and with another which fell between 
 two trucks blew them off the metals. The 
 
194 NO THOROUGHFARE 
 
 burning trucks were just beginning to blow up 
 nicely as our machines raced for home and more 
 ammunition. 
 
 The next hour was mainly occupied with a 
 fast fight against about twenty Hun machines 
 evidently brought up to break up the road- 
 blockers' game. The fight ended with three 
 of the Huns being left crashed on the ground, 
 one of ours going down in flames, and two strug- 
 gling back across the lines with damaged machine 
 and engine. Dennis was forced to leave his 
 machine for one trip and borrow another while 
 his damaged wings were replaced with new ones. 
 
 This time two Flights went out together, 
 and while one engaged the Hun machines 
 which still strove to drive them back, the other 
 dived back on the road and again scattered the 
 working party which struggled to clear the road. 
 They had a hot passage, whirling down through 
 a perfect tempest of machine-gun fire, and 
 another machine was lost to it. Dennis struggled 
 back across the lines with a shot-through radiator 
 and an engine seizing up, was forced to land as 
 best he could, wrecked his machine in the 
 landing, crawled out of the wreckage, got back 
 to the 'drome, and taking over his repaired 
 machine went out again. 
 
 "That road's blocked," he said firmly, "and 
 she's goin' to stay blocked." And he got his 
 men to rig a sort of banner of fabric attached 
 to a long iron picket-pin harpoon arrangement, 
 painted a sentence in German on it, and took 
 it up with him. They found the road still 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE 195 
 
 blocked, but columns of troops tramping in 
 streams over the fields to either side. They 
 spent a full hour scattering these and chasing 
 them all over the landscape, had to break off 
 the game to take on another fight with a crowd 
 of Hun scouts, were joined by a stray Flight 
 or two who saw the fight and barged into it, 
 and after a mixed fast and furious " dog-fight" 
 at heights running from anything under 300 
 feet to about as many inches, chased the Hun 
 machines off. They came back in triumph 
 down the deserted road and the empty fields, 
 spattering the last of their rounds into the 
 wrecked lorries and wagons still lying there, 
 and then, as they passed over the piled wreckage 
 at the crater, Dennis leaned out and dropped 
 his streamered harpoon overboard. It plunged 
 straight, hit, and stuck neatly upright displaying 
 its legend clearly to anyone on the ground. 
 
 "What was on it?" said Dennis in answer to 
 the questions of the Flight later on. "It was 
 a notice in German. Maybe it was bad German, 
 but it was a dash good notice. It said 'No 
 Thoroughfare,' and I fancy we've taught the 
 Huns what it means anyhow." 
 
 They, and a good many of their fellow squad- 
 rons, had, on this and on other road and rail 
 Lines of Communication. They lost men and 
 they lost machines; but the expected fresh 
 attack on the line did not develop at dusk as 
 foretold. 
 
 And that night the weary troops slept a solid 
 life-renewing six hours. 
 
XVI 
 
 THRILLS 
 
 It was a bad day for kite-balloon work; first, 
 because the air was not clear and the visibility 
 was bad, and second, because there was an un- 
 comfortable wind blowing, and the balloon was 
 jerking and swaying and lurching at the end of 
 its long tether, making it hard for the observers 
 to keep a steady eye on such targets as they 
 could pick up, and still harder to plot out angles 
 and ranges on the map spread on the table 
 sticking out from the side of the basket. 
 
 But hard fighting was going on, and the line 
 was getting badly hammered, so that every 
 balloon which could get up was in the air, and 
 every observer was hunting for hostile battery 
 positions, directing the fire of our guns on to 
 them, and doing all they could to lessen the 
 shell-fire that was pouring down on our infantry 
 in their scanty trenches. At times a swirl of 
 mist or cloud came down and shut off the view 
 altogether from the balloons; but they hung 
 on, and stayed aloft waiting for a clear and 
 the chance to observe a few more rounds the 
 moment they got it. 
 
 196 
 
THRILLS 197 
 
 In one balloon the two observers had been 
 sitting aloft for hours, after an early rising and 
 a hurried breakfast. They had only been having 
 fleeting targets at intervals as the haze cleared, 
 but any danger of becoming bored was removed 
 by the activities of a certain anti-balloon gun 
 which did its best to shoot them down whenever 
 it could get a sight on them, and by the excite- 
 ment of watching out for an air attack whenever 
 the low clouds came down and offered good 
 cover to any Hun air man who cared to sneak 
 over above them and chance an attack. 
 
 When a blanketing mist crawled down over 
 the target again, one observer swore disgustedly 
 and spoke down the telephone. The second 
 kept watch round and listened to the one-sided 
 conversation. When it finished, the first ob- 
 server turned to the map. "This is unpleasant, 
 Dixie," he said, pointing to a spot on it. "We've 
 lost the hill out there." 
 
 "Lost the hill!" said Dixie disconsolately. 
 "Don't talk to me about losing. I've lost my 
 beauty sleep; I've lost interest; and if this 
 cussed gas-bag doesn't stop behavin' like a 
 cockle-boat in a tide-rip, I'm goin' to lose my 
 breakfast next." 
 
 "It's clearing a little again," said the other 
 cheerfully. "Hope so, anyway. I want to 
 finish that battery off. Can you see what the 
 line's doing?" 
 
 "Seems to be mainly occupied absorbin' Hun 
 high explosive," said Dixie. "They don't look 
 to be enjoyin' life down there any more'n I am 
 
198 THRILLS 
 
 — an' that's not enough to write to the papers 
 about." 
 
 "There they go!" said the other. "Spot 
 that flash? Let's get on with it. The P.B.I. 1 
 down on the floor there want all the help we can 
 give 'em." 
 
 "You've said it, Boy," remarked Dixie, and 
 turned to his spotting again. 
 
 Both were hard at work five minutes later 
 trying to pick up the burst of their shells and 
 pass their observations down to the guns, when 
 there came a whistle and a howl and a loud, 
 rending c-r-r-rack! somewhere above them. 
 
 "See here, Boy!" said Dixie. "This is 
 gettin' too close to be pleasant, as the turkey said 
 about Christmas. Can't we find where he's 
 located and pitch a few back at him? I'm about 
 tired of perchin' up here being made a cock-shy 
 of." 
 
 "Wait a bit," said Boy. "I'm almost finished 
 
 with this other battery. Maybe Look 
 
 out! Here she comes again ! " 
 
 "Look out!" retorted Dixie, when the shell 
 had howled up and burst in a cloud of filthy 
 black smoke not more than a hundred yards out 
 and on their level. "Pleasant prospect to look 
 out at. Hades! Here's another. Say, Boy, 
 this is gettin' too hot, as Casabianca said to the 
 burnin' deck. He's got our elevation all right, 
 and if we don't change it he'll get us next, 
 for sure." 
 
 The closeness of the shot had been observed 
 
 1 Poor Blaaky Infantry. 
 
THRILLS 199 
 
 below, and, after a brief telephoned talk, the 
 balloon was hauled rapidly down a thousand 
 feet. Another shell crashed angrily above them 
 as it went down. 
 
 The next hour was a highly unpleasant one 
 to the two observers. The "anti" gun was 
 plainly out to down them, and kept pitching 
 shell after shell with most discomforting accuracy 
 all around them. The winch below hauled them 
 down and let them soar up to all sorts of vary- 
 ing elevations in strenuous endeavours to cheat 
 the gunners, while the two observers did their 
 best to pick up targets and lay their guns on to 
 them, and the anti shells continued to scream 
 up and burst about them. Several times the 
 explosions were so close that it appeared certain 
 the envelope must be holed, and the observers 
 stopped work and waited with held breath to 
 discover whether they were sinking and if they 
 would have to jump for it and trust to their 
 parachutes. But the balloon held up, and the 
 two continued their shoot. It was unpleasant, 
 highly unpleasant, but the hard-pressed infantry 
 wanted all the assistance the guns could give 
 them, and the guns wanted all the help air 
 observation could give; so the observers held on, 
 and chanced the shells, and kept their guns going 
 on such targets as they could pick out of the dull 
 light and grey mist. 
 
 It must be admitted that, as the time dragged 
 past, the strain began to tell on the tempers 
 of both men. The only respite they had from 
 the continued torment of the anti-balloon gun 
 
200 THRILLS 
 
 was when the mist closed down on them; and 
 then the strain was in no way lessened, but 
 altered only to that of watching out for an attack- 
 ing enemy. 
 
 And that looked-for attack came at last. 
 There came a sudden and urgent call on the 
 telephone from below, and both men strained 
 their eyes out through the lifting haze to the 
 next balloon in the line and, with an instinctive 
 fumbling at the attachment of their parachute 
 harness, made ready to jump. But what they 
 saw held them spellbound for a moment. The 
 next balloon in the line was being attacked. It 
 was over a quarter of a mile away; but the 
 silhouette of a plane could clearly be seen 
 swooping down on the defenceless balloon, 
 flashes of fire spitting and streaking from his 
 guns as he came. The two balloon-men leaped 
 over the edge of the basket. One plunged down 
 the regulation distance, his parachute fluttered 
 open with a shimmer of gleaming silk that looked 
 exactly like a bursting puff of white smoke, 
 began to drop down in wide pendulum swings. 
 But with the second man's parachute something 
 plainly had gone wrong. Dixie and the Boy, 
 clutching the sides of their basket and staring 
 horror-stricken, gasped as they saw the little 
 figure go plunging plummet-wise hundreds after 
 hundreds of feet . . . hundreds . . . thousands . . . 
 and still the parachute followed in a solid un- 
 opened black dot. The balloon was near 3,000 
 feet up when the man jumped, and he and the 
 parachute went down 3,000 feet, as a stone 
 
THRILLS 201 
 
 would drop down a well. Dixie and the Boy- 
 watched fascinated, tried to turn their heads 
 or shut their eyes — and couldn't. 
 
 When it was over, Dixie spoke hurriedly. 
 " Come on, kid! Over! Or it's our turn next ! " 
 
 But to watch a parachute fail to open, and the 
 next instant to trust your life to the proper 
 working of your own, is rather a severe test, 
 and it is little wonder that both Dixie and the 
 Boy waited another second watching and wait- 
 ing before leaping over. They saw a lick of 
 flame flicker along the top of the attacked 
 balloon, die down, flash out again — and then 
 caught sight of the Hun scout wheeling and 
 heading for their balloon. The winch below was 
 hauling down with frantic haste; but there is 
 little hope of pulling down a K.B. 3,000 feet 
 in anything like the time it takes a fast scout 
 to cover 500 yards, and the Boy, taking a gulping 
 breath, was on the point of jumping, when Dixie 
 clutched at him and cried — croaked is a truer 
 word — hoarsely at him. The new act of the 
 drama was begun and ended almost quicker 
 that the first. Out of the grey mist another 
 plunging shape emerged, hurtling straight across 
 the path of the enemy scout, its guns streaming 
 fire, clattering a long postman-knock tat-tat-tat- 
 tat. The enemy machine swerved violently, 
 missed collision by bare yards, swept round, 
 thrust his nose down and tried to dive away. But 
 the other machine was after him and on him like 
 a hawk after a pigeon, clinging to his tail and 
 pelting fire at him. A gust of sooty black smoke 
 
202 THRILLS 
 
 puffed from the leading machine, a spurt of 
 flashing fire followed, and it went diving head- 
 long with flame and clouds of smoke trailing 
 after. 
 
 "Boy," said Dixie unsteadily, "I've mighty 
 near had balloonin' enough for one morning's 
 amusement!" 
 
 The telephone was calling, and the Boy turned 
 to answer it. But before he spoke there rose 
 to them again the shrieking rush of an approach- 
 ing shell — a rush that rose to a shriek, a bellow, 
 and ended in an appalling crash that sent the 
 balloon reeling and jerking at its tether. Again 
 both men fingered the parachute harness buckled 
 about them and stared up intent and uneasy at 
 the swaying envelope above them. Before they 
 could decide whether it was hit or not another 
 wailing yowl heralded another shell, another 
 rending crash, another leaping cloud of black 
 smoke just below them, the shriek and whistle 
 of flying fragments up past them, told of another 
 deadly close burst. Choking black smoke 
 swirled up on them, and the Boy began to shout 
 hurriedly into his telephone. 
 
 "Tell 'em the basket's shot full of holes," 
 said Dixie, "and my parachute's got a rip in 
 it big enough to put your fist in. And tell " 
 
 He broke off suddenly. The pitching, tossing, 
 jerking of the tethered balloon had changed to 
 a significant smoothness and dead calm. The 
 Boy dropped his telephone receiver. "Dixie," 
 he gasped, "we're — we're adrift!" 
 
 Dixie took one swift look over the edge of 
 
THRILLS 203 
 
 the basket. " You've said it," he drawled, 
 "an' that ends the shoot, anyway." 
 
 "Should we jump for it?" asked the Boy 
 hurriedly. 
 
 "If you feel like it, go ahead," said Dixie, 
 "but not for mine, thank'ee. My parachute's 
 shot up to glory, an', anyhow, we're driftin' 
 back over our own lines. I'd as soon stay with 
 her till she bumps." 
 
 "I think she's dropping," said the Boy. 
 "The shell that cut the cable, maybe, holed the 
 gas-bag, and she'll come down with a run." 
 
 "We're comin' down all right," said Dixie 
 philosophically, "but not fast enough to hurt. 
 You jump if you like. I'm goin' to hang on and 
 pull the rippin'-cord when she's near the floor." 
 
 But the remembrance of that other observer, 
 falling like a bullet beneath an unopened para- 
 chute, was too close to encourage the Boy to 
 leap, and the two waited, hanging over the edge 
 of the basket, watching the ground drift past 
 beneath them, trying to gauge how fast the 
 balloon was coming down. It fell slowly, very 
 slowly, at first, losing height so gradually that it 
 was hard even to say it was losing. It began to 
 look as if the two were in for an easy and com- 
 fortable descent without leaving the balloon. 
 Then plainly the rate of descent began to quicken. 
 The ground began to swirl up to them at an 
 alarming speed; the balloon, which had up to 
 now been drifting so smoothly that its mov- 
 ment could hardly be felt, started to lurch down 
 in sickening swerves and drops and swings. 
 
204 THRILLS 
 
 "Boy," said Dixie seriously, "I dunno you 
 hadn't better chance it an' jump. Looks like 
 this ol' sausage was punctured bad, an' I'm 
 gettin' to think she's goin' to phut out quick 
 an' go down wallop. S'pose you jump, an' I 
 hang on to her. My parachute " 
 
 "Take mine," said the Boy quickly. "I'd 
 as soon stay with her." 
 
 "Nothin' doin'," answered Dixie. "Para- 
 chute jumps is no popular pastime of mine at 
 the moment, an' I don't mind ownin' to it." 
 
 So both waited, Dixie with his hand on the 
 ripping-cord, both with their heads over the side, 
 their eyes fixed on the passing ground. There 
 was a strong wind blowing, and, as they came 
 closer to the ground, they began to discover the 
 surprising speed at which they were travelling, 
 to feel a good deal uneasy about the crash with 
 which they must hit solid earth. The balloon 
 was falling now at dangerous speed, and, worse, 
 was coming down in a series of wild swings and 
 swayings. 
 
 "The wood!" shouted Dixie, pointing out 
 and down. "Better crash her in it, eh?" 
 
 "Go on," answered the Boy briefly. 
 
 The next minute was rather a nightmare — a 
 wild impression of a sickening plunge, of tearing 
 crackling noises, of breaking branches, of a basket 
 jerking, tossing, leaping, falling, bouncing and 
 falling again, and finally coming to rest amongst 
 the crashing tree-tops, hanging there a moment, 
 tearing free and, falling and bringing up com- 
 pletely with a bump amongst the lower branches, 
 
THRILLS 205 
 
 while the envelope settled and sagged and flopped 
 in another crescendo of cracklings and rippings 
 and tearings on top of the trees. The two clung 
 for dear life to their basket; were jerked and 
 wrenched almost from their grip a dozen times; 
 hung on expecting every moment to be their 
 last; felt the basket at last settle and steady, 
 and cease to do its best to hurl them overboard. 
 
 They climbed over, caught stray cords, and 
 slid thankfully to firm ground. "Did it ever 
 strike you, Boy," said Dixie, "what a pleasant 
 thing a lump of plain solid dirt under your feet 
 can be?" 
 
 That ended their adventure so far as the air 
 was concerned. But it cost them an hour's 
 tramp to find a main road and discover where 
 they were; and another hour to tramp along it 
 to a fair-sized town where there might be an inn 
 or hotel. A mile-stone on the roadside gave 
 them their whereabouts and surprised them by 
 the distance they had drifted back. 
 
 They set their faces east and began a steady 
 tramp. The road was rather crowded with a 
 stream of French civilians all moving west, and, 
 as they walked, the crowd grew closer and more 
 solid and showed plainer signs of haste and 
 anxiety. There were no troops on the road; 
 it was wholly filled with civilians — women and 
 children and very old men for the best part, all 
 laden with bundles or pulling or pushing or 
 driving vehicles of every sort and description. 
 There was a cow dragged behind an old woman 
 and a child, a huge bed-mattress bundled and 
 
206 THRILLS 
 
 roped on its back; a perambulator piled high 
 with clothing and blankets, and with a baby 
 nested down in the middle of the pile; an old 
 man leading a young child and carrying a bird- 
 cage with two full-sized chickens crammed into 
 it; a decrepit cart and still more decrepit pony, 
 with a load of furniture that might have filled 
 a pantechnicon; a family, apparently of mother 
 and five children of descending ages and sizes, 
 but each with a bundle hugged close; an old 
 bent woman tottering a step at a time on two 
 sticks. All trailed along wearily in a slow 
 drifting mass; and all, except the very young 
 children, were casting uneasy glances over their 
 shoulders, were evidently struggling to put as 
 many paces as possible between them and 
 their starting-point. 
 
 Dixie and the Boy knew well what it all 
 meant — merely the evacuation of another 
 village that had come within shell-range of the 
 Hun, or was near enough to the shifting battle- 
 line to make it wise to escape before all in it 
 were engulfed, made prisoner, and set to slavery 
 in the fields on starvation rations for Hun task- 
 masters, or, worse, deported, torn apart, child 
 from mother, weak from strong, helpless from 
 helpers, and deported to far-off factories or the 
 terrors of an unknown fate. The French and 
 Belgians have learned their lesson — learned it 
 slow and hard and bitterly — that it is bad to be 
 driven to leave all they own on earth, but 
 infinitely worse to stay and still lose all, and 
 more in the "all" than mere earthly possessions. 
 
THRILLS 207 
 
 Dixie and the Boy tramped slowly against the 
 tide of refugees and drew at last to near the town 
 from which the stream was pouring. It was all 
 very pitiful, very cruel. But worse was to come. 
 The road was one of those long main national 
 route highways common in France, running 
 straight as a ruler for miles on end, up hill and 
 down dale. The roofs of the village were half a 
 mile away, and suddenly, over these roofs, an 
 aeroplane came skimming. It flew low, and it 
 flew in a bee-line along above the wide straight 
 road; and as it flew there sounded louder 
 and plainer the unmistakable ac-ac-ac-ac of a 
 machine-gun; there was plainly to be seen a 
 stream of spitting fire flashing from the flying 
 shape. It swept nearer, and the clatter of its guns 
 sounded now through a rising wail, a chorus of 
 shrieks and calls and sharp screams, and the cries 
 of frightened or hurt children. The gun shut off 
 abruptly as the machine swooped up; burst 
 out again in a long savage tattoo as it curved 
 over and came roaring down in a steep dive. In 
 the road there was a pandemonium of screams 
 and cries : a wild turmoil of figures rushing hither 
 and thither, flinging down into the ditches, 
 scrambling over them and fleeing in terror out 
 over the open fields. As the machine dived 
 the two observers could see the streaking lines 
 of the tracer bullets, hear the sharp cracks and 
 smacks of explosives hitting the ground — and 
 other things. They could only stand and curse 
 in impotent rage, and the Hun machine, with a 
 rush and a roar, spat a last handful of bullets 
 
208 THRILLS 
 
 over and past them and was gone on down the 
 road. The two stood and watched its graceful 
 soaring and plunging, listened to the steady rattle 
 of its guns, swore savagely again, then turned 
 to help some of the shrieking women and crying 
 children about them. But next moment another 
 distant tat-tat-tat made them look up to see 
 another black-crossed machine, and then a 
 third, leap into sight over the village and come 
 tearing down above the road. Dixie and the 
 Boy both filled the few intervening seconds try- 
 ing to hustle the fear-stricken villagers off the 
 road down into the cover of the ditches, behind 
 carts — anywhere that might be out of reach of 
 the bullets. But the newcomers had gone one 
 better than bullets for fiendish destruction. As 
 the first one approached a black blob fell away 
 from it, and next second there was a rending 
 crash, a leaping cloud of smoke and dust whirl- 
 ing and eddying up from the road. The machine 
 roared over and past, with her machine-gun 
 hailing bullets down the road, and far down the 
 road came another billowing cloud of smoke and 
 the crash of another bomb. The third machine 
 followed close, also machine-gunning hard and 
 also splashing bombs down at intervals, one 
 falling with horrible effect fairly in a little crowd 
 of women and children clustered under and behind 
 a country cart. The cart was wrecked, and the 
 horse and half of the women and children. . . . 
 The two observers gave what help they could, 
 their faces white and their hands shaking and 
 their ears tingling as they worked. The whole 
 
, THRILLS 209 
 
 scene after the passing of the destroyers was 
 heart-rending 'and pitiful and far too horrible for 
 description. And the cruel part of it was that 
 it was all such useless destruction, such wanton 
 savagery, such a brutal and wilful slaughter of 
 the innocents. The low-fliers were too close 
 down for there to be any possibility of their not 
 knowing well what they were shooting and 
 bombing. There was not a sign of a uniform on 
 the road; it was packed with what clearly and 
 unmistakably was a crowd of refugees, of help- 
 less women and children. It was hard to 
 imagine what the Huns hoped to gain, what 
 object they could have had in such indiscrimin- 
 ate murder; but, object or no object, its happen- 
 ing is a matter of cold history. 
 
 It was growing late when the two observers, 
 continuing their journey, saw a distant aero- 
 drome, made their way across the fields to it, 
 explained themselves, and were offered dinner 
 first, and then transport back to their unit. 
 
 The two told their tale of the day while they 
 waited with the Squadron for dinner to be served. 
 It was dark by this time, and an annoying delay 
 came before dinner in the shape of an order to 
 put all lights out, and in the droning approach 
 of some enemy bombers. They passed some- 
 where overhead, and the machine-gun defences 
 fired a few streams of ineffectual bullets up at 
 them. One bomb whistled and shrieked down 
 and burst noisily a few hundred yards from the 
 'drome and others farther afield. The pilots 
 and the two observers were collected again just 
 
210 THRILLS 
 
 outside the door of the mess listening to the 
 distant drone of the Hun bombers, watching the 
 flicker and jump of gun flashes in the horizon 
 and a red glare that rose in a wide steady glow 
 from one or two points. It was an unpleasant 
 reminder of the trying time the Army was having, 
 of the retreat they had made, of the stores and 
 dumps that had been fired to prevent the enemy 
 taking possession of them. 
 
 One of the pilots — a youngster of under twenty, 
 with two wound stripes on his cuff — laughed 
 suddenly. "That Hun bomber just about 
 rounds off a complete day of frightfulness for 
 you two fellows," he said. "You have had a 
 lively time, one way and another." 
 
 "We have," said Dixie. "I've had thrills 
 enough for this day to fill a boy's adventure 
 library full an' overflowin'. " 
 
 "Too many for me," said the Boy, "when I 
 think of watching that man go down with an 
 unopened parachute." 
 
 "It was worse seeing that Hun come down the 
 road," said Dixie, "and bein' able to do nothin' 
 to stop him. An' when I think of that mother 
 with a dead baby, an' that kid — a girl — about 
 
 five years old, that an explosive bullet " 
 
 And he stopped abruptly. 
 
 There was silence for a minute, broken by the 
 young pilot. 
 
 "Speaking of thrills," he said, and laughed 
 again, "there was a paragraph — some of you 
 will remember how we grinned over it. Wonder 
 if I could find the paper? It would tickle you 
 diving balloonatics especially. I'll see," and he 
 
THRILLS 211 
 
 disappeared into the mess-room and began to 
 hunt round with an electric torch. 
 
 He found the paper and brought it out and 
 read the paragraph by the light of his torch. 
 It was headed "60,000 Thrills," and it ran: 1 
 "A Blanktown cable, received by the Chief 
 Representative for Blancountry, states: At an 
 aquatic carnival, held by the Big Stone Swim- 
 ming Club at Light Falls, there was an attend- 
 ance of 60,000. The proceeds go to the Soldier's 
 Fund. Prince Walkiyick — known as Alec 
 Walker the Middle Seas sprint champion — 
 dived from a height of 200 feet into the water. 
 He was two seconds in the air and thrilled the 
 spectators with his exploit." 
 
 "Good Lord!" said the Boy helplessly. 
 
 "Thrilled the spectators," repeated Dixie. 
 "Thrilled . . . well, if that doesn't take it." 
 
 The young pilot was laughing again, long and 
 immoderately, and some of the others, looking 
 at the two observers' faces, had to join him. 
 
 "Sixty thousand, you said," the Boy was be- 
 ginning, when he was interrupted by a distant 
 boom — boom — boom. 
 
 " Huns bombing Blanqueville again," said the 
 young pilot. "More women and kid casualties, 
 I suppose." 
 
 Dixie was cursing, low but very intensely. 
 
 "If those spectators are out for thrills " he 
 
 said, and looked to where a red glow was begin- 
 ning to rise in the sky over Blanqueville. 
 
 1 Except that names are altered, the paragraph is reprinted 
 here word for word as it appeared in a daily paper and was 
 read by thousands of men in the line at the time of the first 
 retreat in the spring of 1918. I have the cutting now. — B. C 
 
XVII 
 
 THE SEQUEL 
 
 There was a strike in one of the aircraft 
 factories; in fact, there were simultaneous 
 strikes in many, if not most, of the factories, 
 although for the moment this story is con- 
 cerned only with one of them — or rather with 
 its sequel. At the front they knew little or 
 nothing of the strike, although, unfortunately, 
 they knew a good deal of the result. On the 
 other hand, the workers probably know nothing 
 of what their strikes may mean to the front, 
 and this is what I want to tell them. They 
 have, it is true, been publicly told by a member 
 of the Government that the strikes resulted in 
 a waste of so many hours' work, a shortage 
 or reduction of output of some hundreds of 
 machines, and so on; but these things are a 
 matter of cold figures. If they are told the 
 result in flesh and blood, they may look at a 
 strike in rather a different light. 
 
 One Squadron in France first "felt the breeze" 
 of the strike in a drying up of the stream of 
 "spares" and parts that are constantly required 
 for repair, and the mechanics having to make 
 
 212 
 
THE SEQUEL 213 
 
 good this shortage by many night hours' sheer 
 hard labour, by working long shifts when they 
 ought to have been sleeping, by hacking out 
 with cold chisel and hammer, and turning upon 
 overworked lorry-shop lathes, and generally 
 making by hand what the idle machines in the 
 factories should have been punching out in 
 dozens on a stamping machine, or turning com- 
 fortably on automatic lathes. 
 
 That was a minor item of the strike's sequel. 
 Another and more serious item in the same 
 Squadron was that one or two machines, which 
 had been marked off for return to the depots 
 and complete overhaul and setting up, had to 
 be kept in commission and hard at work. This 
 was unpleasantly risky, because at this time 
 the Squadron was very actively engaged in the 
 preparation for a coming Push, and the machines 
 were putting in even more than a fair average 
 of flying hours. The life of a machine is strictly 
 limited and countable in these "flying hours," 
 and after a certain life machine and engine, 
 with constant wear, and despite regular and 
 careful looking after by the Squadron mechanics, 
 come to be so strained and shaky that for safe 
 flying they must have such a thorough overhaul 
 and tuning up that it almost amounts to a 
 rebuilding. 
 
 One particular machine in the Squadron — 
 the old "Gamecock" — had for some time back 
 been getting rather rickety and was to have 
 been replaced before the anticipated heavy 
 operations of the air activity that would open 
 
/- 
 
 214 THE SEQUEL 
 
 the way for the Push. One out of those hun- 
 dreds of the strike's lost machines should have 
 come to the Squadron to release the "Game- 
 cock," but, of course, when it did not come 
 there was nothing for it but to keep the "Game- 
 cock" flying. She managed to get through 
 her share in the work without any further 
 trouble than a still further straining, and an 
 engine which for all the labour lavished on it 
 grew more and more unreliable. She carried 
 on up to the actual morning of the Push, and 
 her pilot and observer, the Flight and Squadron 
 Commanders alike heaved sighs of relief to 
 think that the rush was nearly over, that there 
 would be no further urgent need to risk her in 
 the air. But as it happened their relief was 
 premature, and there was still a "show" and 
 a serious one for the "Gamecock" to take a 
 part in. 
 
 The Squadron was an artillery observing one, 
 whose work it was to fly over the enemy's 
 lines and observe the fire of our batteries on 
 selected targets, and, "spotting" where their 
 shells fell, wireless back to our guns the necessary 
 corrections of aim to bring them on the target. 
 The night before the Push a reconnoitring 
 Squadron had discovered a fresh group of 
 enemy batteries, and Headquarters allotted the 
 destruction of these to various batteries in con- 
 junction with certain artillery flying Squadrons. 
 The "Gamecock's" Squadron was included, 
 and since there was already a heavy morning's 
 work portioned out to the Squadron, there was 
 
THE SEQUEL 215 
 
 nothing for it but to detail the "Gamecock" 
 to help handle the fresh job. 
 
 "Do it?" said her pilot scornfully in answer 
 to a doubting question from the observer. 
 "Course she can do it, and a dozen jobs on top 
 of it. There's nothing wrong with her." 
 
 "Oh no, nothing whatever," said the observer 
 sarcastically. "You'd claim there was nothing 
 wrong with her if her engine turned round once 
 a week, or if her planes were warped like a letter 
 S. How many times did her engine cut out 
 to-day? And she was rattling like a bag of 
 old bones when you were stunting her to dodge 
 those 'Archies,' till I thought she was going 
 to shake herself into the scrap-heap right away." 
 
 "Rats," said the pilot stoutly. "She's strong 
 as a house." 
 
 The Flight Commander evidently did not 
 agree with him, to judge by the conversation 
 he had that night with the CO. "I hate send- 
 ing the 'Gamecock,'" he said. "But I suppose 
 there's no help for it." 
 
 "Afraid not," said the Major. "Every 
 machine had enough to do before, and this 
 new job will give them all their hands full. 
 We just must send every machine we've got." 
 
 The Flight Commander sighed. "All right. 
 I do wish they'd replaced her though, as they 
 promised to do a week ago. Wonder why they 
 haven't." i 
 
 "Well, a machine isn't made as easy as 
 knitting a sock, you know," said the Major. 
 "I dare say it's a hard job to keep up to the 
 
.216 THE SEQUEL 
 
 wastage. Four machines we've had crashed 
 and replaced ourselves in this last week. I 
 suppose those people in the factories can't keep 
 up the pace, even working night and day." 
 (The Squadrons knew little or nothing of the 
 strikes then. What they and the Major would 
 have said if they had known, what they did 
 say when they came to know, is a different 
 story — quite a different story.) \ 
 
 There was just one hour of light before the 
 time set for the attack, the "zero hour" when 
 the infantry would go over the top, and that 
 hour was filled with a final intensive bombard- 
 ment that set the earth and air quivering like 
 a beaten drum. The " Gamecock" and the 
 rest of the Squadron were up and over the 
 lines with the first glint of light, and the fighting 
 scouts were out with them and busily scrapping 
 with any Hun machines that came near or tried 
 to interfere with the artillery and reconnoitring 
 machines. 
 
 The "Gamecock" waddled off to her ap- 
 pointed place, and after picking up the targets 
 with a good deal of difficulty, owing to the 
 billowing clouds of shell smoke and dust, and 
 getting in wireless touch with the first battery, 
 the observer waited till the machine was in a 
 favourable position to let him see the shot and 
 signalled the battery to fire. For half an 
 hour the "Gamecock" circled steadily with a 
 fairly heavy "Archie" fire breaking about her, 
 and the observer picking up one target after 
 another and putting the guns on to it. As 
 
THE SEQUEL 217 
 
 fast as he signalled back that a direct hit had 
 been obtained he went on to the next target 
 and observed for another battery, while the 
 battery he had just finished with proceeded to 
 pour a hurricane of high explosive on the spot 
 it had "registered," and to blot the enemy 
 battery there out of active existence. 
 
 Then the "Gamecock's" work was inter- 
 rupted. A couple of Hun scouts dropped like 
 plummets out of the clouds and dived straight 
 for the "Gamecock," their machine-guns rattling 
 rapidly as they came. The observer at the 
 first sound of their shots whipped round from 
 where he was hanging overside watching his 
 target below, glanced up and grabbed for his 
 machine-gun. He hastily jerked the muzzle 
 in the direction of the coming Huns and ripped 
 off a burst of fire, and at the same moment 
 heard the sharp hiss of their passing bullets, 
 saw the streaking flashes of fire from their 
 tracers flame by. One hostile finished his dive 
 in a sharp upward "zoom" just before he 
 came down to the level of the "Gamecock," 
 whirled round in a climbing turn, plunged 
 straight down again at the "Gamecock," open- 
 ing fire as he came, and before reaching her 
 level repeated his tactics of zooming up and 
 turning. The other Hun hurtled down past 
 the "Gamecock's" tail, turned under her, and 
 whirled upward, firing at her underbody. The 
 observer ceased fire a moment and tapped 
 back a message on his wireless to the battery 
 saying the last round was "unobserved," He 
 
218 THE SEQUEL 
 
 used the code of course which condenses messages 
 into one or two Morse letters, and knowing that 
 the battery would not fire until he passed the 
 word that he was ready again, he turned his 
 attention to driving off the two machines that 
 plunged firing at them. The underneath one 
 was practically concealed from him, so he 
 first directed a carefully aimed burst of fire on 
 the top one as once more it dived on them and 
 its bullets whipped flaming past. He put in 
 another burst as the Hun spun up and away 
 again, then leaned out over the side and just 
 caught a glimpse of the lower machine driving 
 up at them. He swung his machine-gun round 
 on its turret mounting a'nd, thrusting the 
 muzzle down, rattled off a score of rounds. At 
 the same moment he heard the crack and rip 
 of bullets tearing through their wings, and heard 
 also the sharp rat-tat-tat of the overhead enemy's 
 gun reopening fire. The observer swung his 
 gun upward again, took a long breath, and 
 directed careful aim on the body whirling down 
 on them. He realised that the game was too 
 one-sided, that with two fast enemies attacking 
 in concert from above and below, it was merely 
 a matter of minutes for the "Gamecock" to 
 be sunk, unless he could down one of the two 
 hostiles first. He opened fire carefully and 
 steadily. 
 
 Up to now the pilot had been unable to take 
 any part in the fight, because his gun only fired 
 directly forward and the Huns had taken care 
 to keep astern of him. But now he suddenly 
 
THE SEQUEL 219 
 
 throttled down and checked the speed of the 
 "Gamecock" by thrusting her nose up and 
 "stalling" her. The move answered, and next 
 instant the upper machine swept forward and 
 up and ahead of them. The pilot opened his 
 engine full out and drove for his enemy, pelt- 
 ing fire upon her. His bullets went straight 
 and true to their mark, and the Hun, hearing 
 them tear through his fabrics, dipped over and 
 plunged hastily down a full thousand feet. The 
 "Gamecock" heaved herself over and dived 
 after him with the pilot's gun still going. Al- 
 most immediately he heard the observer's gun 
 firing, and, stopping his own, glanced over 
 his shoulder and saw the full width of the other 
 Hun's wings wheeling close astern of them. 
 Immediately he checked his dive and flattened 
 out to give his observer a fair shot, and knew 
 instantly from the long-sustained rattle of the 
 observer's gun that the chance had been seen 
 and taken. 
 
 He leaned out and peered down for sight 
 of the other machine, and then — his heart 
 jumped at the unmistakable sound and throb 
 — his engine missed, picked up, missed again, 
 cut out, and stopped completely. The "Game- 
 cock's" speed, held as she was at the moment 
 on a slightly upward slant, began to fall 
 away, and the pilot hurriedly thrust her nose 
 down and went off in a long glide, while he 
 tried desperately every device he knew to get 
 his engine started again. There was no sign 
 of the petrol leaking, so he knew the tanks were 
 
220 THE SEQUEL 
 
 not hit, but on the off-chance he switched 
 on to the emergency tank — without result. 
 Oil pressure was all right, and — he broke off 
 to glance round as the rattle of fire came again 
 to his ear. His observer was standing up 
 blazing at one machine which swooped after 
 them closing in on the one side, while the other 
 climbed and swung in from the other. The 
 pilot groaned. There was just a last faint 
 chance that they might manage to glide with- 
 out engine back over the line, provided the 
 observer could stand off the two attackers 
 and prevent the " Gamecock" being shot to 
 pieces. The chance was so small that it was 
 hardly worth taking, but since it was the last 
 and only chance the pilot swept round until 
 his nose was for home, gave the " Gamecock" 
 a good downward plunge to get her speed up, 
 eased into a glide, and turned his attention to 
 the engine again. The two hostiles, supposing 
 his engine hit or at least seeing it out of action, 
 leaped after and past the "Gamecock," and, 
 whirling inward, each poured a burst of fire 
 upon her. They were repeating the tactic, 
 which shielded them from the observer's fire, 
 and the "Gamecock's" chances began to 
 fade to nothingness, when the game took a 
 fresh turn. A scarlet-nosed grey shape flashed 
 up out of nowhere apparently, past the "Game- 
 cock" — as swiftly past her as if she were stand- 
 ing still — and hurtled straight at the nearest 
 Hun, spitting a stream of fire upon him. The 
 Hun, with the bullets hailing and cracking 
 
THE SEQUEL 221 
 
 about him, checked and wheeled; but without 
 a break the stream of drumming bullets beat 
 and tore in under his fuselage, and just as the 
 red and grey scout zoomed up and over him he 
 dived, a spurt of fire flashed out from him, and 
 he whirled down out of the fight with black 
 smoke pouring from him in clouds. The other 
 hostile spun round and streaked off, with our 
 victorious scout tearing after him. And at 
 that moment the "Gamecock's" engine sput- 
 tered, stopped, spat and sputtered again, picked 
 up and droned out in full song. 
 
 The observer seized the communicating 'phone 
 and shouted into it. "Are we damaged, d'you 
 know?" 
 
 "Lord knows," the pilot shouted back. "She 
 seems to be running all right though. What 
 next?" 
 
 "Back where we broke off the shoot," yelled 
 the observer. "Three batteries to put 'em on 
 yet; and look at the time." 
 
 The pilot glanced at his clock. It was nearing 
 the "zero hour," the moment when the infantry 
 would be swarming out into the open No Man's 
 Land — and into the fire of those enemy batteries 
 upon which the "Gamecock" had not yet 
 directed our guns. Both pilot and observer 
 knew how much it meant to have those hostile 
 batteries silenced. The word had come from 
 Headquarters and had passed down to the 
 Squadron that it was very certain, from the 
 fact that the batteries had been kept concealed 
 and had not fired up to now, they were meant 
 
222 THE SEQUEL 
 
 to be used for repelling the attack, that they 
 would be reserved and unmasked only when 
 the infantry began their advance, that they 
 would then unloose a tempest of destroying fire 
 on the attackers. 
 
 And because both pilot and observer had 
 served a time in the infantry before they joined 
 the Flying Corps, they knew just what it meant 
 to the infantry to have such a fire to make way 
 against, and both turned anxiously back to 
 complete their job. 
 
 Down below the ground was hidden under a 
 drifting haze of smoke and dust, and the "Game- 
 cock" circled slowly while pilot and observer 
 searched for their objectives. They found the 
 other spots on which they had directed the 
 guns — spots which now were marked by whirling, 
 eddying clouds through which the bursting 
 high-explosive still flamed red at quick inter- 
 vals. From there at last they found the next 
 target, and the observer hastily signalled back 
 to his battery to fire. The engine was giving 
 trouble again, missing every now and then, 
 running slowly and laboriously, while the 
 pilot fiddled and fretted about throttle and 
 spark and petrol feed and tried to coax her into 
 better running. The observer failed to catch 
 the puffing smoke of the battery's first shot and 
 signalled the code to fire again. Before the 
 next shot came, a stutter of machine-gun fire 
 broke out overhead, and pilot and observer 
 glanced quickly up at the clouds that drifted 
 over and hid the fighters. The machine-gun 
 
THE SEQUEL 223 
 
 fire rose and fell in gusts, and then out of the 
 cloud 1,000 feet up a machine whirled and spun 
 down past them, recovered an instant and shot 
 eastward in a steep gliding plunge, fell away 
 suddenly, and crashed amongst the trenches. 
 
 Immediately after her there fell out of the 
 sky a cluster of machines, wheeling and circling 
 and diving at each other like a swarm of fighting 
 jackdaws. The " Gamecock" suddenly found 
 herself involved in a scrimmaging mix-up with- 
 out her crew knowing who or what was in it. 
 A pair of wings, with thick black crosses painted 
 on them, whizzed across the "Gamecock's" 
 bows, and the pilot promptly ripped off a quick 
 burst of fire at her as she passed. " Never 
 mind them," shouted the observer, "get on 
 with the shoot," and leaned out from his cockpit 
 to watch for the fall of the next shell. |The 
 "Gamecock" resumed her steady circling, while 
 the fight raged round and over her and drifted 
 in wheeling rushes clear of her and away quarter, 
 half a mile to the south. 
 
 But they were not to be left unmolested. A 
 Hun two-seater dropped out of the fight and 
 raced at the "Gamecock," putting in a burst of 
 fire from his bow gun as he came, wheeling 
 round the "Gamecock's" stern and pouring 
 bullets on her from the observer's gun. The 
 hostile was tremendously fast, and the "Game- 
 cock" with her crotchety engine was no match 
 for him. The observer, for all his anxiety to 
 finish the shoot, was forced to defend himself, and 
 he turned to his gun with black rage in his heart. 
 
224 THE SEQUEL 
 
 " Brute," he growled, and loosed a stream of 
 bullets at the shape astern. "I'd like to down 
 you just for your beastly interference," and his 
 gun rattled off another jet of bullets. The enemy 
 swooped down and under the ''Gamecock's" 
 tail with his gun hammering viciously. The 
 pilot lifted her nose so as to sink the tail planes 
 and rudder clear of the observer's line of fire 
 and give him a shot, but the "Gamecock" had 
 barely speed enough for the manoeuvre, lost 
 way, stalled badly, slid backward with a rush, 
 and plunged down. 
 
 They were dangerously low for such a fall, 
 and the pilot waited heart in mouth for the 
 instant when she would right herself enough 
 for him to resume control. He caught her 
 at last and straightened her out, and at the 
 same instant her enemy following her down 
 dived past and up under her, where he was 
 out of reach of the observer's gun. The pilot 
 wrenched her round in a narrow circle that 
 brought her pivoting on her wing-tip, and 
 allowed the observer to look and point his gun 
 straight overside and directly down on the 
 enemy. He got off one short burst, and this 
 time saw some of his tracer bullets break in 
 sparks of fire about the fuselage and pilot's 
 cockpit. They did damage too, evidently, be- 
 cause the Hun broke off the action, drove off 
 full pelt to the eastward just as the " Game- 
 cock" dropped in a dangerous side-slip. Again 
 her pilot caught and steadied her, and began 
 to climb her slowly and staggeringly to a higher 
 
THE SEQUEL 223 
 
 level. Those last wrenching turns and plunges 
 had been too severe a strain on her shaken 
 frame, and now, as she climbed, both pilot and 
 observer could hear and feel a horrible jarring 
 vibration. They were not more than 3,000 
 feet up, but the engine threatened to refuse to 
 lift them higher, and when it choked and stut- 
 tered and missed again, the " Gamecock" shiv- 
 ered and almost stalled once more. The pilot 
 hurriedly thrust her nose down and swept down 
 in a long rush to pick up flying speed again. 
 "Get on," he yelled back. "Get on with your 
 shoot. I daren't try'n climb her, and there's 
 no stunt left in her if another Hun comes. A 
 brace parted in that last scrap" — and he turned 
 to his engine again, and swung the "Gamecock" 
 in a wide circle. 
 
 Once more the observer signalled his battery 
 to fire. This time there was no difficulty in 
 finding his target, because the "zero hour" 
 had come; there were little dots swarming 
 out over the No Man's Land below, and the 
 hostile batteries the "Gamecock" was looking 
 for were flaming out in rapid sheets of vivid 
 fire, and their shells pounding down amongst 
 our infantry. The "Gamecock" circled slowly 
 over the batteries, losing height steadily, be- 
 cause her pilot had to keep her nose down so 
 that the glide would help out her failing engine 
 and maintain her flying speed. Her observer 
 was picking out shell-burst after shell-burst 
 with greater and greater difficulty in the reek 
 below, signalling back the corrections to the guns. 
 
226 THE SEQUEL 
 
 By now the " Gamecock" was low enough 
 to come within range of the rifles and machine- 
 guns turned up on her. The batteries below 
 her knew that she was "spotting" on them, 
 and did everything possible to knock her out; 
 while their gunners, having at last got the word 
 of the beginning of the attack, opened a furious 
 rate of fire barraging the No Man's Land, The 
 observer above them saw those streaming flashes, 
 and knowing what they meant, stuck doggedly 
 to his task, although now the bullets were hissing 
 close and thick about them, and the windage 
 from the rushing shells of our own heavy guns 
 and the air-eddies from the guns firing below 
 set the " Gamecock" rocking and bumping 
 and rolling like a toy boat in a cross tide. The 
 observer felt a jarring crash under his hand, 
 a stab of pain in his fingers and up his arm. 
 The wireless instrument had been smashed by 
 a bullet as he tapped a signal. He shouted to 
 the pilot, and the pilot slowly turned a white, 
 set face to him and called feebly into the 'phone. 
 "Hit" was the only word the observer caught; 
 and "Get her back as far as you can and shove 
 her down anywhere," he shouted instantly in 
 answer* The "Gamecock" swung slowly round 
 and lurched drunkenly back towards their own 
 lines. The observer looked at his clock. It 
 was already past the "zero hour." 
 
 Down below in the front line the battalions 
 had waited for that moment, crouched in the 
 bottom of their trenches, listening to the rolling 
 thunder of the guns, glancing at watches, examin- 
 
THE SEQUEL 227 
 
 ing and re-examining rifles and bombs and equip- 
 ment. One battalion in the Elbow Trench had 
 been shelled rather heavily about dawn, but 
 the fire had died away before the moment for 
 the attack, smothered probably by the greater 
 volume of our artillery fire. At last a word 
 passed down the trench, and the men began to 
 clamber out and form into line beyond their 
 own wire. They could see nothing of the enemy 
 trench, although it was only little more than 
 150 yards away. Its outline was hidden in 
 a thick haze of smoke, although its position 
 was still marked by spouting columns of smoke 
 and flying earth and debris from our bursting 
 shells. But exactly on the "zero hour" these 
 shell-bursts ceased and over the heads of the 
 infantry the lighter shrapnel began to rip and 
 crash, pouring a torrent of bullets along the 
 earth in front of the line as it started to move 
 forward. 
 
 There was little rifle or machine-gun fire to 
 oppose the advance, and although many shells 
 were passing over, only odd and ill-directed 
 ones were dropping in the open No Man's 
 Land. It began to look as if the steadily- 
 moving line was going to reach the first trench 
 with very little loss. But suddenly, with sharp 
 whooping rushes, a string of shells fell in a precise 
 line exactly across the path of the advancing 
 battalion; and before their springing smoke- 
 clouds had fairly risen, came another crashing 
 and crackling burst of shells along the same 
 line; and then there fell a thick curtain of 
 
.228 THE SEQUEL 
 
 smoke and fire along the battalion's front, a 
 curtain out of which the rapidly falling shells 
 flamed and winked in red and orange glares, 
 and the flying splinters screeched and whined 
 and whirred. 
 
 The left half of the battalion came through 
 fairly lightly, for the barrage was mainly across 
 the path of the right half, but that right half 
 was simply shot to pieces. The bursting 
 shells caught the men in clumps, the ragged 
 splinters cut others down one by one in rapid 
 succession. The line pressed on doggedly, stum- 
 bling and fumbling through the acrid smoke and 
 fumes, stunned and dazed by the noise, the 
 crashing shock of the detonations, the quick- 
 following splashes of blinding light that flamed 
 amongst them. The line pressed on and came 
 at last — what was left of it — through the wall 
 of fire. Behind it the torn ground was lit- 
 tered thick with huddled khaki forms, with 
 dead lying still and curiously indifferent to 
 the turmoil about them, with wounded crawl- 
 ing and dragging themselves into shell-craters 
 in desperate but vain attempts to escape the 
 shells and shrieking fragments that still deluged 
 down from the sky amongst them. The 
 remains of the line staggered on, the men pant- 
 ing and gasping and straining their eyes eagerly 
 for sight of the parapet ahead that marked 
 their first objective, that would give them 
 cover from the raging shell-fire, that would 
 need nothing more than a few minutes' bomb 
 and bayonet work to make their own. 
 
THE SEQUEL 229 
 
 They were just taking vague comfort, such 
 of them as had thought for anything but the 
 trench ahead and the hope of clearing the deadly 
 No Man's Land, at finding themselves through 
 that barraging wall of flame and rending steel, 
 when the yelling rushes of the overhead shells 
 paused a moment, to burst out again with 
 full renewed violence next instant as the enemy 
 guns shortened their range. The barrage had 
 dropped back, the curtain of fire was again 
 rolling down, spouting and splashing and flaming 
 across the path of the shattered battalion. 
 The broken line pushed on and into the barrage 
 again . . . and from it this time emerged no 
 more than a scattered handful of dazed and 
 shaken men. But the parapet was close ahead 
 now, and the handful took fresh grip of their 
 rifles and ran at it. Some fifty men perhaps 
 reached it; the rest of a full 500 were left lying 
 on the open behind them, waiting for the stretcher 
 bearers — or the burying parties. 
 
 The "Gamecock's" pilot managed to bring 
 her back into the lines of our old trenches and 
 pancaked her, dropped her flat and neatly into 
 a thicket of barbed wire that clutched and rent 
 her to ribbons, but held her from turning over. 
 
 The observer clambered, and the pilot was 
 lifted down from the cockpits and taken to a 
 dug-out where a First Aid Post had been estab- 
 lished. The Post and the trenches round it 
 were crowded with wounded men. The pilot 
 was attended to — he was already far spent 
 with two bad body wounds — and the observer 
 
230 THE SEQUEL 
 
 while he had his hand dressed asked for news of 
 the attack. " Don't know much," said the 
 doctor, " except that my own battalion had a 
 bad doing. Left half got over with little loss 
 but the right half had to go through a barrage 
 and was just about wiped out. These" — with 
 a jerk of his head to the casualties — "are some 
 of 'em. But most are out there — killed." 
 
 "I saw the barrage as we came back," said 
 the observer bitterly. "Across the Elbow 
 Trench? Yes, and about the only bit of the 
 whole line they managed to barrage properly. 
 And they could only do that because we couldn't 
 out the guns that laid it down. Couldn't do 
 our job properly and counter-battery them 
 because we were up on a crock of a 'bus that the 
 Huns could fly rings round, and that let us down 
 into rifle range and got him" — nodding his 
 head at the recumbent pilot — "his dose. All 
 just for want of a good machine under us." 
 
 "Chuck it, old man," said the pilot faintly. 
 "The old 'Gamecock' did her best . . . and 
 stood to it pretty well considering." 
 
 "Mighty well," said the observer hastily, 
 suddenly aware that he had spoken louder than 
 he meant. "I'm not grousing. It's a sheer 
 matter of luck after all. How d'you feel now? 
 Any easier?" 
 
 But he was wrong. It was not luck. It was 
 the Sequel. The doubtfully efficient machine 
 sent on dangerous work, the unsilenced batteries 
 and high-explosive barrage, the hundreds of 
 dead men lying out in the open, the "Game- 
 
THE SEQUEL 231 
 
 cock's" pilot dying slowly there in the trampled 
 mud of the dug-out under the flickering candles' 
 light were all part of the Sequel — a sequel, of 
 which the aircraft strikers had never thought, 
 to a strike of which the dead and dying men had 
 never even heard. 
 
 "We were battered all round the ring at first, 
 
 We were hammered to hell and back, 
 But we stood to old Frightful Fritz's worst 
 
 And we came for another whack. 
 Now the fight's swung round; now we're winning fast, 
 
 And we'll make it a knock-out too, 
 If Home doesn't let us down at the last, 
 
 If our backers will see it through." 
 
XVIII 
 
 THE RAID-KILLERS 
 
 The stout man in the corner of the First Smoker 
 put down his paper as the train ran through the 
 thinning outskirts of the town and into patches 
 of suburban greenery. It was still daylight, 
 but already the pale circle of an almost full moon 
 was plain to be seen. "Ha," said the stout man, 
 "perfect night!" An elderly little man in the 
 opposite corner also glanced out of the window. 
 "Perfect," he agreed, "bit too perfect. Full 
 moon, no wind, clear sky, no clouds. All means 
 another raid to-night, I suppose." The full 
 compartment for the next few minutes bubbled 
 with talk of raids, and Gothas, and cellars, and 
 the last raid casualties, and many miraculous 
 escapes. | There were many diverse opinions on 
 all these points, but none on the vital one.— .lit 
 iWas accepted by all that it was a perfect night 
 for a raid and that the Gothas would be over — 
 certain — some time before morning. 
 
 Dusk was just beginning to fall on an aero- 
 drome in the British lines when the big black 
 machines were rolled out of the hangars and lined 
 up in a long row on the grass. Pilots and 
 
 232 
 
THE RAID-KILLERS 233 
 
 Observers, already in flying kit, were moving 
 about amongst the machines and watching the 
 final touches put to the preparations for the 
 trip. The Squadron Commander stood talking 
 to the Pilot and Observer of the machine which 
 was to lead the way. He glanced at his watch 
 for the tenth time in as many minutes. "You've 
 got a perfect night for it, anyhow," he said. 
 "Topping," agreed the Pilot. "And just as 
 perfect for the Huns' trip to England," said 
 the Observer. "Wonder how H.Q. are so sure 
 about them starting on a raid from Blanken- 
 querke 'drome to-night," remarked the Pilot. 
 The Squadron Commander grinned. "They're 
 certain about a heap of things," he said. "They 
 don't always come off, maybe, but they get on 
 the mark wonderfully well as a rule. Anyhow, 
 they were dead positive about the reliability of 
 the information to-night." 
 
 "Wouldn't take a witch or an Old Moore to 
 make a prophecy on it to-night," said the Ob- 
 server with a laugh. "Knowing how full out 
 the old Hun has been lately to strafe London, 
 an;L seeing what a gorgeous night it is, I'd have 
 made a prophecy just as easy as H.Q. I'd even 
 have made a bet, and that's better evidence." 
 
 "Ought to' be getting ready," said the 
 Squadron Commander, with another look at his 
 watch. "Plenty of time, but we can't afford 
 to risk any hitch. You want to be off at the 
 tick of the clock." 
 
 "Be an awful swindle, certainly, if we got there 
 and found the birds flown," said the Observer. 
 
234 THE RAID-KILLERS 
 
 "Don't fret," said the CO. "The Lord ha' 
 mercy on 'em if they try to take off while old 
 Jimmy's lot are keeping tab on 'em, or before 
 it's too dark for him to see them move." 
 
 There were a few more not-for-publication 
 remarks on the usefulness of "Jimmy's lot," and 
 the effectiveness of the plans for "keeping tab" 
 on the German 'drome, and Pilot and Observer 
 turned to climb to their places. "All things 
 considered," said the Observer, "I'm dashed if 
 I'd fancy those Huns' job these times. We 
 give 'em rather a harrying one way and another. 
 Must be wearin' to the nerves." 
 
 The Pilot grunted. "What about ours?" he 
 said. 
 
 The Observer laughed. "Ours," he said, and, 
 as the joke sank in, laughed again more loudly, 
 and climbed to his place still chuckling. 
 
 For the next ten minutes the air vibrated to 
 the booming roar of the engines as they ran up, 
 were found in good order, and eased off. The 
 dusk was creeping across the sky and blurring 
 the trees beyond the aerodrome, and overhead 
 the moon was growing a deeper and clearer 
 yellow. The Squadron Commander walked 
 along the line and spoke a few words to the 
 different Pilots sitting ready and waiting. He 
 walked back to the Leader's machine and 
 nodded his head. "All ready," he shouted; 
 "just on time. Push off soon as you like now 
 — and good luck." 
 
 The quiet "ticking over" of the propeller 
 speeded up and up until the blades dissolved 
 
THE RAID-KILLERS 235 
 
 into quivering rays of faint light; the throaty- 
 hum deepened, grew louder and louder, stayed 
 a moment on the fullest note, sank again, and 
 as the Pilot signalled and the chocks were jerked 
 clear rose roaring again, while the machine 
 rolled lumbering and lurching heavily out into 
 the open, its navigation lights jerking and jump- 
 ing as it merged into the darkness. The lights 
 swung in a wide curve, slowed and steadied, 
 began to move off at increasing speed to where a 
 pin-point of light on the ground gave the pilot a 
 course to steer, lifted smoothly and on a long 
 slant, and went climbing off into the dark. 
 
 The moonlight was clear and strong enough 
 for men on the ground to see all sorts of details 
 of the machines still waiting, the mechanics about 
 them, the hangars and huts round the 'drome. 
 But no more than seconds after it had left the 
 ground the rising machine was gone from sight, 
 could only be followed when and as its lights 
 gleamed back. Once it swept droning overhead, 
 and then circled out and boomed off straight for 
 the lines. 
 
 Pilot and Observer were both long-trained 
 and skilled night-fliers. They crossed the line 
 at the selected point and at a good height, look- 
 ing down on the quivering patchwork ribbon 
 of light and shadow that showed the No Man's 
 Land and the tossing flare lights from the 
 trenches, the spurting flashes of shell-bursts, 
 the jumping pin-prick lights from the rifles. 
 The engine roar drowned all sound, until sud- 
 denly a yowl and a rending ar-r-r-gh close astern 
 
236 THE RAID-KILLERS 
 
 told them that Archie was after them. Faintly 
 they heard too the quick wisp-wisp of passing 
 machine-gun or rifle bullets, the sharp crack of 
 one or two close ones, and then silence again 
 except for the steady roar of the engine and the 
 wind by their ears. 
 
 Ahead of them a beam of light stabbed up 
 into the sky, swept slowly in widening circles, 
 jerked back across and across. The big machine 
 barely swung a point off her course, held steadily 
 to a line that must take her almost over the spot 
 from which the groping finger of light waved. A 
 spit of flame licked upward, followed quickly by 
 another and another, and next instant three 
 quick glares leaped and vanished in the darkness 
 ahead. A second search-light flamed up, and 
 then a third, and all three began swinging their 
 beams up and down to cover the path the bomber 
 must cross. The bomber held straight on, but 
 a quarter of a mile from the waving lights the 
 roar of her engine ceased and she began to glide 
 gently towards them. The lights kept their 
 steady to-and-fro swinging for a moment; the 
 Night-Flier swam smoothly towards them, swung 
 sharply as one beam swept across just clear of 
 her nose, dodged behind it, and on past the 
 moving line of light. One moment Pilot and 
 Observer were holding their breath and staring 
 into a vivid white radiance; the next the radi- 
 ance was gone and they were straining their 
 eyes into a darkness that by contrast was black 
 as pitch. The engine spluttered, boomed, and 
 roared out again; the lights astern flicked round 
 
 \ 
 
THE RAID-KILLERS 237 
 
 and began groping wildly after them, and spurt 
 after spurt of fire from the ground, glare after 
 glare in the darkness round and before them, told 
 that Archie was hard at it again. The Observer 
 leaned over to the Pilot's ear and shouted 
 " Dodged 'em nicely." 
 
 "Jacky's turn next," answered the Pilot, and 
 began glancing back over his shoulder. " There 
 he comes," he shouted, and looking back both 
 could see a furious sputter of shell-bursts in the 
 sky, the quick searching sweeps of the lights 
 where the second Night-Flier was running the 
 gauntlet. The leader went on climbing steadily 
 in a long slant, and at the next barrier of lights 
 and guns held straight on and over without 
 paying heed to the rush and whistle of shells, 
 the glare and bump of their bursts. 
 
 Mile after mile of shadowy landscape unrolled 
 and reeled off below them. 
 
 The Observer was leaning forward looking 
 straight down over the nose of the machine, un- 
 erringly picking up landmark after mark, signal- 
 ling the course to the Pilot behind him. At 
 last he stood erect and waved his arms to the 
 Pilot, and instantly the roar of the engine sank 
 and died. " Steady as you go," shouted the 
 Observer, " nearly there. I can see the Diamond 
 Wood." 
 
 "Carry on," the Pilot shouted back, and set 
 himself to nursing his machine down without 
 the engine on as gentle a glide as would keep 
 her on her course and lose as little height as 
 possible. The Observer, peering down at the 
 
238 THE RAID-KILLERS 
 
 marks below, gave the course with a series of 
 arm signals, but presently he whipped round 
 with a yell of joyful excitement. " Gottem! We 
 fairly gottem this trip. Look — dead ahead." 
 The Pilot swung the machine's nose a shade 
 to the left and leaning out to the right looked 
 forward and down. "The 'drome?" he shouted. 
 " 'Drome," yelled the Observer, scrambled 
 back to get his head close to the Pilot's and 
 whooped again. "' Drome — and the whole 
 bunch of 'em lined up ready to take off. See 
 their lights? Wow! This isn't pie, what!" 
 He was moving hastily to get to his place by 
 his gun again when the Pilot reached out, 
 grabbed his shoulder, and shouted, " Don't 
 go'n spoil a good thing. We don't want to hog 
 everything. Let's wait and get the crowd in 
 on it." 
 
 "Right," returned the Observer. "Keep the 
 glide as long as you can." 
 
 They slid noiselessly in to the enemy 'drome, 
 circled over it, losing height steadily, looking 
 down gloatingly on the twinkling row of lights 
 below them, and peering out in a fever of im- 
 patience for sign of the next machine of the 
 flight. But in their anxiety to have a full hand 
 to play against the enemy below they nearly 
 overplayed. A search-light beam suddenly shot 
 up from the ground near the 'drome. Another 
 leaped from a point beyond it. "They're on to 
 us," yelled the Observer. "Open her up and 
 barge down on 'em quick." 
 
 But the Pilot held his engine still. "It's 
 
THE RAID-KILLERS 239 
 
 some of the others they're on," he shouted back, 
 as light after light rose, and, after a moment's 
 groping, slanted down towards the west where a 
 sparkle of shell-bursts showed. "Now for it. 
 Look out." 
 
 The line of lights which marked the machines 
 below had winked out at the first burst of the 
 Archies, but the Night-Flier had marked the 
 spot, her engine roared out, and she went swoop- 
 ing down the last thousand feet straight at her 
 mark. At first sound of her engine half a dozen 
 lights swung hunting for them, spitting streams 
 of fire began to sparkle from the defences' 
 machine-guns. The Night-Flier paid no heed 
 to any of them, dropped to a bare three hundred 
 feet, flattened, and went roaring straight along 
 the line of machines standing on the 'drome 
 below. Crash-crash-crash! her bombs went 
 dropping along the line as fast as hand could 
 pull the lever. Right down the line from one 
 end to the other she went, the bombs crash- 
 crashing and the Observer's gun pouring a stream 
 of fire into the machine below; a quick hard 
 left-hand turn, and she was round and sailing 
 down the line again, letting go the last of her 
 bombs, and with the Observer feverishly pelt- 
 ing bullets down along it. Clear of the long 
 line, the Pilot was on the point of swinging again 
 when a huge black shape roared past them, the 
 wing-tips clearing theirs by no more than bare 
 feet. Pilot and Observer craned out and looked 
 down and back, and next moment they saw the 
 glare and flash, heard the thump-thump of bombs 
 
240 THE RAID:KILLERS 
 
 bursting on the ground. The Observer war 
 stamping his feet and waving his arms and the 
 Pilot yelling a wild "Good shot!" to every 
 burst, when a rush and a crash and the blinding 
 flame of a shell-burst close under their bows 
 recalled them to business. The air by now 
 was alive with tracer bullets, thin streaking lines 
 of flame that hissed up round and past them. 
 The Pilot opened his engine full out and set 
 himself to climb his best. The tracers followed 
 them industriously, and the Archie shells con- 
 tinued to whoop and howl and bump round them 
 as they climbed. The Pilot, craning out and 
 looking over, was aware suddenly of the Observer 
 at his ear again. "I gotta heap of rounds 
 left," he was bawling. " Let's go down and give 
 'em another dose." 
 
 " Bombs are better," returned the Pilot. 
 "Whistle up the pack. Shoot a light or drop a 
 flare." 
 
 Next moment a coloured light leaped from the 
 Night-Flier, and in return a storm of tracers 
 came streaming and pelting about her. Another 
 light, and another storm of bullets, and a couple 
 of search-lights swept round, groped a moment, 
 and caught them. "Your gun!" screamed 
 the Pilot. "I'm goin' for the light." The big 
 machine swerved, ducked, and jerked out in a 
 long side-slip. At first the light held her fast 
 and the bullets came up in a regular tornado of 
 whistling, spitting flame and smoke, most of 
 them hissing venomously past, but many hitting 
 with sharp smacks and cracks and in showers 
 
THE RAID-KILLERS 241 
 
 of breaking sparks on wings and frame. But 
 another wild swoop and dive and upward turn 
 shook the light off for a moment, and then the 
 Night-Flier put her nose down and drove straight 
 at the point from which the sword of light 
 stabbed up. As they steadied and held straight, 
 the Observer swung his gun round, took steady 
 aim, and opened fire. The light fumbled a 
 moment, lit on them again, and poured its 
 blinding glare full in their faces. The Pilot, his 
 eyes closed to narrow slits, went straight at the 
 glare, and the Observer, better equipped and 
 prepared, jerked a pair of smoked glass goggles 
 down off his forehead and reopened fire. The 
 light vanished with a snap, and instantly the 
 Pilot pulled the stick in and hoicked hard up. 
 A thousand feet up, with the darkness criss- 
 crossed by waving search-lights, the air alive 
 with bullets, the ground flaming and spurting 
 with Archie fire, he shut off engine a moment 
 and yelled, "Good shot! Come on — try 
 another." 
 
 They tried another, the tracers flaming about 
 them and ripping through their fabrics, the 
 attacked light glaring savagely at them until 
 they swept with a rush and a roar over and 
 past it. Behind them more of the Flight were 
 arriving, and a fresh series of bomb-bursts was 
 spouting and splashing on the ground about the 
 enemy machines and amongst the hangars round 
 the 'drome. A hangar was hit fairly; a lick of 
 flame ran along its roof, died a moment, rose 
 again in a quivering banner of fire, and in 
 
242 THE RAID-KILLERS 
 
 another moment was a roaring blaze. The 
 whole 'drome was lit with the red glow, and into 
 this and through the rolling smoke clouds that 
 drifted from the fire machine after machine 
 came swooping and circling. The fire made a 
 beacon that marked the spot from miles around, 
 and the Night-Fliers had nothing to do but steer 
 straight for it to find their target. The Leader's 
 machine, with ammunition almost expended, 
 climbed high and circled round watching the 
 performance, Pilot and Observer yelling de- 
 lighted remarks at each other as they watched 
 bomb after bomb smash fairly amongst the 
 hangars or the scattered line of machines stand- 
 ing on the 'drome. It was on these machines 
 that most of the Night-Fliers concentrated. 
 Huge black twin-engined "Gotha" machines, 
 something over a dozen of them in a row, they 
 made a plain and unmistakable target in the 
 red light of the fire, and an irresistible invitation 
 to any of the Night-Fliers that came swooping 
 in. One after another they came booming out 
 of the darkness into the circle of red light, swung 
 ponderously and drove in along over the line, 
 scattering bombs down its length, raking it 
 from end to end with machine-gun fire. The 
 whole place was a pandemonium of smoke, fire, 
 and noise. The search-lights jerked and swept 
 frantically to and fro, the air shook to the ex- 
 plosion of the bombs, the splitting crash of the 
 Archie guns and bang of their shell-bursts, the 
 continuous clatter of machine-guns on the 
 ground and in the air. Several times machines 
 
THE RAID-KILLERS 243 
 
 were caught in the search-lights and swam for the 
 moment bathed in staring light, while Archies 
 and machine-guns pelted them with fire. Most 
 of them stunted and dodged clear very quickly, 
 or had to give in and escape to the outer dark- 
 ness, circle and wait and take another chance 
 to edge in clear of the blinding light and the 
 uprushing streams of tracer bullets. One was 
 turned back time after time by the defences 
 and by another search-light which clung to him 
 persistently, and would not be shaken off for 
 more than a moment by all his dodging and 
 twisting. Suddenly over by the light there 
 sprang a volcano of flame and smoke — and the 
 light was gone. Up above in the Leader's 
 machine the two men were yelling laughter and 
 applause, when they saw another machine swim 
 into the glare of another light. She made no 
 attempt to dodge or evade it, struck a bee-line 
 for the row of Hun machines, droned straightly 
 and steadily in and along the line, her bombs 
 crashing amongst them, a sputter of flashes at 
 her bows telling of the machine-gun hard at 
 work putting the finishing touches to the destruc- 
 tion. The light followed her and held her all 
 the way, and through its beam the streaking 
 smoke of the tracer bullets poured incessantly, 
 the shell-bursts flamed and flung billowing clouds 
 of black smoke, the rocket fires reached and 
 clutched at her. Utterly ignoring them all, 
 she held on to the end of the line, banked and 
 swung sharply round, and began to retrace her 
 path, still held in the glaring light, still pelted 
 
244 THE RAID-KILLERS 
 
 with storming bullets and Archie shells. But 
 halfway back she lurched suddenly and violently, 
 recovered herself, swerved again, reeled, and, in 
 one quick wild swooping plunge, was down, and 
 crashed. A spurt of flame jumped from the 
 wreckage, and in two seconds it was furiously 
 ablaze. 
 
 Up above Pilot and Observer shouted ques- 
 tions at each other — "Who was it . . . What 
 'bus . . . did you see . . . ? " And neither could 
 answer the other. The search-lights rose and 
 began to hunt, apparently, for them, and Archie 
 shells to bump and blaze about them again. 
 Out to the west search-lights and sparkling Archie 
 bursts showed where the other machines were 
 making for home. The Observer waved to his 
 Pilot. "Only us left," he shouted, and the 
 Pilot nodded, swung the machine round, and 
 headed for the lines. 
 
 Back at their 'drome they found the Squadron 
 Commander beside them before they had well 
 taxied to a standstill. "I was getting anxious," 
 he said; "you were first away, but all the others 
 are back — except three. And here some of them 
 come," he added, as they caught the hum of an 
 engine. "One . . . two," he counted quickly. 
 "That will be all," said the Leader. "We saw 
 one crash," and described briefly. 
 
 The two climbed out of their machine and 
 walked slowly over with the CO. to some of 
 the other Fliers. None of them had seen the 
 crash; all had dropped their bombs, loosed off 
 all the rounds they could, and cleared out of the 
 
THE RAID KILLERS 245 
 
 pelting fire as quickly as possible. All were 
 agreed, most emphatically agreed, that the line 
 of Gothas was a " complete write-off," and were 
 jubilant over the night's work — until they heard 
 of the lost machine. 
 
 As the two machines dropped to ground and 
 past the light switched on them a moment all 
 there read their marks and named them. "Bad 
 Girl of the Family" flounced lightly in, and 
 "That leaves The Bantam's bus and old 
 'Latchkey' to come," said the waiting men. 
 "Here she is . . . Latchkey!" There was si- 
 lence for a moment. 
 
 "I might have known," said the Leader 
 slowly — "might have known that was little 
 Bantam's bus, by the way he barged in, regard- 
 less. It was just like him. Poor little Bantam 
 — and good old Happy! Two more of the best 
 gone." 
 
 The CO. knew The Bantam's mother and 
 was thinking of her and the letter he would 
 have to write presently. He roused himself with 
 a j erk. ' ' Come along," he said ; ' ' you've another 
 trip to-night, remember. See you make it help 
 pay for those two." 
 
 "They've gone a goodish way to pay their 
 own score," said the Leader grimly. "And some 
 others. Anyway, that lot will do no raid on 
 London to-night." 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 The Squadron was drowsily swallowing hot 
 cocoa, completing reports and lurching to bed, 
 when the stout man clambered to his usual 
 
246 THE RAID-KILLERS 
 
 corner seat in the First Smoker and gave his 
 usual morning greeting to the others there 
 bound for business. 
 
 "Well," he said jovially, "no Gothas over 
 after all." 
 
 "Never even made a try, apparently," said 
 the little man opposite. "Seems odd. Such a 
 perfect night." 
 
 "Very odd." . . . "Wonder why ..." "I 
 made sure," said the compartment. "I don't 
 understand. ..." 
 
 They didn't understand. Neither did a-many 
 thousands in London who had been equally 
 certain of "Gothas over" on such a perfect 
 night. Neither even did they understand in the 
 homes of "poor little Bantam" and "good old 
 Happy," whither telegrams were already wend- 
 ing, addressed to the next-of-kin. 
 
 But the Huns understood. And so did the 
 Raid-Killers. 
 
 When you pray and hear them say 
 
 Baby prayers to-night, 
 "Guardian angels keep us safe 
 
 Till the morning light," 
 Give a word and give a thought, 
 
 If you've one to spare, 
 To your guardian air men 
 
 Flying "over there." 
 
 W 93 
 

 
 M ^/ : 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 •©■ j, * Treatment Date: 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 <^ .*■ 
 
 Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process 
 Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
 

 
 * ^ 
 
 
 
 
 r ^ 
 
 
 
 l* v .. 
 
 ^. * 
 
 I* %C AV *j- a 
 
 V 
 
 VV * 
 
 
 * V *< 
 
 
 7 ,° ^ °** 
 
 , \, A* i^.% ^ 
 
 
 ^^ 
 
 
 
 
 
 * ^