nearly up, petrol's low, and there are nine Hun scouts who will drop on
you if you dive on the two-seater."
"Forget it, you poor weak-kneed boob!" answers number two heatedly.
"Dive on that Hun and be quick about it!"
So I dived on him, obeying automatically and almost reluctantly the
imperious little voice. With an eye to the machine-gunner in the rear, I
drove down on him almost vertically, getting in a burst point-blank at
his port bow, so to speak. Pushing still farther forward on the stick, I
saw his wheels pass over me like a flash, ten yards up. Pulled the
throttle wide open, but the motor was a second late in catching, so that
when I did an Immelman turn to come up under his tail, I was too far
back and to one side. As I pulled out of the upside-down position,
luminous sparks began to drive past me, and a second later I caught a
glimpse of the goggled Hun observer leaning intently over his cockpit
as he trained his gun on me.
But beside old Slapping Sally his machine was as a buzzard to a falcon;
in a breath I was under his tail, had reared almost vertically, and was
pouring bullets into his underbody. "You will shoot me up, will you?" I
yelled ferociously--just like a bad boy in a back-yard fight. "Take
that, then--" at which dramatic instant a quart of scalding oil struck
me in the face, half in the eyes, and half in my open mouth. I never saw
the Boche again, and five minutes later, when I had cleaned my eyes out
enough to see dimly, I was totally lost. Keeping just above the clouds
to watch for holes, I was ten long minutes at one hundred and thirty
miles per hour in getting to the lines, at a place I had never seen
before.
Landed at a strange aerodrome, filled Sally up, and flew home
seventy-five miles by map. As usual, every one had begun the old story
of how I was not a bad chap at bottom, and had many noble qualities
safely hidden away--when I strolled into the bar. Slight sensation as
usual, tinged with a suspicion of mild disappointment.
Almost with regret, I have turned faithful old Slapping Sally over to a
newly arrived young pilot, and taken a new machine, the last lingering
echo of the dernier cri in fighting single-seaters. I had hoped for one
for some time, and now the captain has allotted me a brand-new one,
fresh from the factory. It is a formidable little monster, squat and
broad-winged, armed to the teeth, with the power of two hundred and
fifty wild horses bellowing out through its exhausts.
With slight inward trepidations I took it up for a spin after lunch. The
thing is terrific--it fairly hurtles its way up through the air, roaring
and snorting and trembling with its enormous excess of power. Not half
so pleasant as Sally, but a grimly practical little dragon of immense
speed and potential destructiveness. At a couple of thousand feet over
the field, I shut off the motor and dived to try it out. It fairly took
my breath away--behind my goggles my eyes filled with tears; my body
rose up in the safety-belt, refusing to keep pace with the machine's
formidable speed. In a wink, I was close to the ground, straightened
out, and rushing low over the blurred grass at a criminal gait--never
made a faster landing. It is a tribute to man's war-time ingenuity, but,
for pleasure, give me my old machine.
The psychology of flying would be a curious study, were it not so
difficult to get frankly stated data--uninfluenced by pride,
self-respect, or sense of morale. I only know my own feelings in so far
as they represent the average single-seater pilot. Once in the air, I
am perfectly contented and at home, somewhat bored at times on dull
days, or when very high and cold. On the other hand, I have never been
strapped in a machine to leave the ground, without an underlying slight
nervousness and reluctance; no great matter, and only an instant's
mental struggle to overcome, but enough perhaps to prevent me from
flying the very small and powerful machines, for pleasure, after the
war. I often wonder if other pilots have the same feeling--it's nothing
to be ashamed of, because it does not, in the slightest, prevent one's
doing one's duty, and disappears the moment one is in the air. I can
give you its measure in the fact that I always prefer, when possible, to
make a long journey in my machine, to doing it in the deadly slow
war-time trains. Still, it's a choice of evils. It is hard to give
reasons, but certainly flying is not an enjoyable sport, like riding or
motoring, once the wonder of it has worn off; simply a slightly
disagreeable but marvelously fast means of transport. The wind, the
noise, the impossibility of conversation, the excessive speed--are all
unpleasant features. These are partially redeemed by the never-ceasing
wonder of what one sees. One's other senses are useless in the air, but
what a feast for the eyes! Whole fruitful domains spread out beneath
one, silvery rivers, smoking cities, perhaps a glimpse of the far-off
ragged Alps. And when, at eighteen or twenty thousand feet, above a
white endless sea of clouds, one floats almost unconscious of time and
space in the unearthly sunshine of the Universe, there are moments when
infinite things are very close.
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U . S . A