It's the greatest game, the greatest thrill in the world! I used to
think that driving a motor car 100 miles an hour was fun. I was in that
game in Canada for a while. Then I thought that just riding in a slow
old biplane 'bus was a pretty keen proposition. But a chap never knows
what real sport is until he's driving his own fast machine, with a pal
working a machine gun, and going after the other fellow hell-bent for
election. That's the life!
It makes me laugh now to think of the old biplane "pushers"--with the
propellers at the rear--that I used to fool with. Old Farnams and
Curtises and Wrights. Why, a chap was lucky to get 65 or 70 miles an
hour out of some of them.
It was the proudest day of my life when they gave me my flying ticket
and a speedy little Nieuport biplane and said: "Here she is, Boydie.
Take her over the Channel. Beat it for Dunkirk. Some of the others are
going across this afternoon, so you won't get lost if you follow them.
Top o' the luck to you, old Toronto." Half a dozen other machines went
sailing over the water, 5,000 feet high, that spring morning doing
a leisurely eighty miles an hour and spaced as evenly as a squadron
of battleships in parade formation. The leaders were circling about
and descending toward an immense open space in front of a long row of
hangars at Dunkirk.
It wasn't long after that before I got into my first scrap. I never
will forget that, for I made a bally fool out of myself and was mighty
glad to get back alive to the station. I had a pretty good machine, a
Moran monoplane equipped with a machine gun, and an old chap called
Gott, a sergeant, went up with me and sat in the gun seat. I was wild
to see the German lines.
"Go and take a look at them," the C. O. said, "but don't cross or
you'll probably get jolly well peppered. Those 'Archies' [anti-aircraft
guns] can shoot pretty far and pretty straight, you know."