CHAPTER VIII.

THE DAILY ROUND.

During a bout of active service one happens upon experiences that,

though they make no immediate impression, become more prominent than the

most dramatic events, when the period is past and can be viewed in

retrospect. Sub-consciousness, wiser than the surface brain, penetrates

to the inner sanctuary of true values, photographs something typical of

war's many aspects, places the negative in the dark room of memory, and

fades into inertia until again called upon to act as arbiter of

significance for everyday instinct. Not till long later, when released

from the tension of danger and abnormal endeavour, is one's mind free to

develop the negative and produce a clear photograph. The sensitive

freshness of the print then obtained is likely to last a lifetime. I

leave a detailed explanation of this process to the comic people who

claim acquaintance with the psychology of the immortal soul; for my

part, I am content to remain a collector of such mental photographs.

A few examples of the sub-conscious impressions gathered during my last

year's term at the Front are the curious smile of a dead observer as we

lifted his body from a bullet-plugged machine; the shrieking of the

wires whenever we dived on Hun aircraft; a tree trunk falling on a

howitzer; a line of narrow-nosed buses, with heavy bombs fitted under

the lower planes, ready to leave for their objective; the ghostliness of

Ypres as we hovered seven thousand feet above its ruins; a certain

riotous evening when eight of the party of fourteen ate their last

dinner on earth; a severe reprimand delivered to me by a meticulous

colonel, after I returned from a long reconnaissance that included four

air flights, for the crime of not having fastened my collar before

arrival on the aerodrome at 5 A.M.; a broken Boche aeroplane

falling in two segments at a height of ten thousand feet; the breathless

moments at a Base hospital when the surgeon-in-charge examined new

casualties to decide which of them were to be sent across the Channel;

and clearest of all, the brown-faced infantry marching back to the

trenches from our village.

A muddy, unkempt battalion would arrive in search of rest and

recuperation. It distributed itself among houses, cottages, and barns,

while the Frenchwomen looked sweet or sour according to their diverse

tempers, and whether they kept estaminets, sold farm produce, had

husbands _labas_, or merely feared for their poultry and the cleanliness

of their homes. Next day the exhausted men would reappear as beaux

sabreurs with bright buttons, clean if discoloured tunics, and a jaunty,

untired walk. The drum and fife band practised in the tiny square before

an enthusiastic audience of gamins. Late every afternoon the aerodrome

was certain to be crowded by inquisitive Tommies, whose peculiar joy it

was to watch a homing party land and examine the machines for bullet

marks. The officers made overtures on the subject of joy-rides, or

discussed transfers to the Flying Corps. Interchange of mess courtesies

took place, attended by a brisk business in yarns and a mutual

appreciation of the work done by R.F.C. and infantry.

Then, one fine day, the drum and fife rhythm of "A Long, Long Trail"

would draw us to the roadside, while our friends marched away to Mouquet

Farm, or Beaumont Hamel, or Hohenzollern Redoubt, or some other point of

the changing front that the Hun was about to lose. And as they left, the

men were mostly silent; though they looked debonair enough with their

swinging quickstep and easy carriage, and their frying-pan hats set at

all sorts of rakish angles. Their officers would nod, glance enviously

at the apple-trees and tents in our pleasant little orchard, and pass on

to the front of the Front, and all that this implied in the way of mud,

vermin, sudden death, suspense, and damnable discomfort. And returning

to the orchard we offered selfish thanks to Providence in that we were

not as the millions who hold and take trenches.

The flying officer in France has, indeed, matter for self-congratulation

when compared with the infantry officer, as any one who has served in

both capacities will bear witness. Flying over enemy country is

admittedly a strain, but each separate job only lasts from two to four

hours. The infantryman in the front line is trailed by risk for the

greater part of twenty-four hours daily. His work done, the airman

returns to fixed quarters, good messing, a bath, plenty of leisure, and

a real bed. The infantry officer lives mostly on army rations, and as

often as not he sleeps in his muddy clothes, amid the noise of war,

after a long shift crammed with uncongenial duties. As regards actual

fighting the airman again has the advantage. For those with a suitable

temperament there is tense joy in an air scrap; there is none in

trudging along a mile of narrow communication trench, and then, arrived

at one's unlovely destination, being perpetually ennuied by crumps and

other devilries. And in the game of poker played with life, death, and

the will to destroy, the airman has but to reckon with two marked

cards--the Ace of Clubs, representing Boche aircraft, and the Knave

Archibald; whereas, when the infantryman stakes his existence, he must

remember that each sleeve of the old cheat Death contains half a dozen

cards.

All this by way of prelude to a protest against the exaggerative

ecstasies indulged in by many civilians when discussing the air

services. The British pilots are competent and daring, but they would be

the last to claim an undue share of war's glory. Many of them deserve

the highest praise; but then so do many in all other fighting branches

of Army and Navy. An example of what I mean is the reference to R.F.C.

officers, during a Parliamentary debate, as "the super-heroes of the

war,"--a term which, for ungainly absurdity, would be hard to beat. To

those who perpetrate such far-fetched phrases I would humbly say: "Good

gentlemen, we are proud to have won your approval, but for the Lord's

sake don't make us ridiculous in the eyes of other soldiers."

Yet another asset of the airman is that his work provides plenty of

scope for the individual, who in most sections of the Army is held on

the leash of system and co-operation. The war pilot, though subject to

the exigencies of formation flying, can attack and manoeuvre as he

pleases. Most of the star performers are individualists who concentrate

on whatever methods of destroying an enemy best suit them.

Albert Ball, probably the most brilliant air fighter of the war, was the

individualist _in excelsis_. His deeds were the outcome partly of

pluck--certainly not of luck--but mostly of thought, insight,

experiment, and constant practice. His knowledge of how to use sun,

wind, and clouds, coupled with an instinct for the "blind side" of

whatever Hun machine he had in view, made him a master in the art of

approaching unobserved. Arrived at close quarters, he usually took up

his favourite position under the German's tail before opening fire. His

experience then taught him to anticipate any move that an unprepared

enemy might make, and his quick wits how to take advantage of it. Last

autumn, whenever the weather kept scout machines from their patrols but

was not too bad for joy-flying, he would fly near the aerodrome and

practise his pet manoeuvres for hours at a time. In the early days of

Ball's dazzling exploits his patrol leader once complained, after an

uneventful trip, that he left the formation immediately it crossed the

lines, and stayed away until the return journey. Ball's explanation was

that throughout the show he remained less than two hundred feet below

the leader's machine, "practising concealment."

The outstanding pilots of my old squadron were all individualists in

attack, and it was one of my hobbies to contrast their tactics. C., with

his blind fatalism and utter disregard of risk, would dive a machine

among any number of Huns, so that he usually opened a fight with an

advantage of startling audacity. S., another very successful leader,

worked more in co-operation with the machines behind him, and took care

to give his observer every chance for effective fire. His close watch on

the remainder of the formation saved many a machine in difficulties from

disaster. V., my pilot and flight-commander, was given to a quick dive

at the enemy, a swerve aside, a recul pour mieux sauter, a vertical turn

or two, and another dash to close grips from an unexpected direction,

while I guarded the tail-end.

But writing reminiscences of Umpty Squadron's early days is a melancholy

business. When it was first formed all the pilots were picked men, for

the machines were the best British two-seaters then in existence, and

their work throughout the autumn push was to be more dangerous than that

of any squadron along the British front. The price we paid was that nine

weeks from our arrival on the Somme only nine of the original thirty-six

pilots and observers remained. Twelve officers flew to France with the

flight to which I belonged. Six weeks after their first job over the

lines I was one of the only two survivors. Three of the twenty-five who

dropped out returned to England with wounds or other disabilities; the

rest, closely followed by twenty of those who replaced them, went to

Valhalla, which is half-way to heaven; or to Karlsruhe, which is between

hell and Freiburg-im-Brisgau.

And the reward? One day, in a letter written by a captured Boche airman,

was found the sentence: "The most-to-be-feared of British machines is

the S----." The umptieth squadron then had the only machines of this

type in France.

During the short period of their stay with us, the crowd of boys thus

rudely snatched away were the gayest company imaginable; and, indeed,

they were boys in everything but achievement. As a patriarch of

twenty-four I had two more years to my discredit than the next oldest

among the twelve members of our flight-mess. The youngest was seventeen

and a half. Our Squadron Commander, one of the finest men I have met in

or out of the army, became a lieutenant-colonel at twenty-five. Even he

was not spared, being killed in a flying accident some months later.

Though we were all such good friends, the high percentage of machines

"missing" from our hangars made us take the abnormal casualties almost

as a matter of course at the time. One said a few words in praise of the

latest to go, and passed on to the next job. Not till the survivors

returned home did they have time, away from the stress of war, to feel

keen sorrow for the brave and jolly company. For some strange reason, my

own hurt at the loss was toned down by a mental farewell to each of the

fallen, in words borrowed from the song sung by an old-time maker of

ballads when youth left him: "Adieu, la tres gente compagne."

The crowded months of the umptieth squadron from June to November were

worth while for the pilots who survived. The only two of our then

flight-commanders still on the active list are now commanding squadrons,

while all the subaltern pilots have become flight-commanders. The

observers, members of a tribe akin to Kipling's Sergeant Whatsisname,

are as they were in the matter of rank, needless to say.

For my part, on reaching Blighty by the grace of God and an injured

knee, I decided that if my unworthy neck were doomed to be broken, I

would rather break it myself than let some one else have the

responsibility. It is as a pilot, therefore, that I am about to serve

another sentence overseas. A renewal of Archie's acquaintance is hardly

an inviting prospect, but with a vivid recollection of great days with

the old umptieth squadron, I shall not be altogether sorry to leave the

hierarchy of home instructordom for the good-fellowship of active

service. In a few months' time, after a further period of aerial

outings, I hope to fill some more pages of Blackwood,[2] subject always

to the sanction of their editor, the bon Dieu, and the mauvais diable

who will act as censor. Meanwhile, I will try to sketch the daily round

of the squadron in which I am proud to have been an observer.

* * * * *

"Quarter to five, sir, and a fine morning. You're wanted on the

aerodrome at a quarter past."

I sit up. A shiver, and a return beneath the blankets for five minutes'

rumination. Dressing will be dashed unpleasant in the cold of dawn. The

canvas is wet with the night's rain. The reconnaissance is a long one,

and will take fully three hours. The air at 10,000 feet will bite hard.

Must send a field post-card before we start. Not too much time, so out

and on with your clothes. Life is wrotten.

While dressing we analyse the weather, that pivot of our day-to-day

existence. On the weather depends our work and leisure, our comparative

risks and comparative safety. Last thing at night, first thing in the

morning, and throughout the day we search the sky for a sign. And I

cannot deny that on occasions a sea of low clouds, making impossible the

next job, is a pleasant sight.

The pale rose of sunrise is smudging over the last flickerings of the

grey night. Only a few wisps of cloud are about, and they are too high

to bother us. The wind is slight and from the east, for which many

thanks, as it will make easier the return half of the circuit.

We wrap ourselves in flying kit and cross the road to the aerodrome.

There the band of leather-coated officers shiver while discussing their

respective places in the formation. A bus lands and taxies to a shed.

From it descends the Squadron Commander, who, with gum-boots and a warm

coat over his pyjamas, has been "trying the air." "Get into your

machines," he calls. As we obey he enters his hut-office and phones the

wing headquarters.

The major reappears, and the command "Start up!" is passed along the

line of machines. Ten minutes later we head for the trenches, climbing

as we travel.

It was cold on the ground. It was bitter at 5000 feet. It is damnable at

10,000 feet. I lean over the side to look at Arras, but draw back

quickly as the frozen hand of the atmosphere slaps my face. My gloved

hands grow numb, then ache profoundly when the warm blood brings back

their power to feel. I test my gun, and the trigger-pressure is painful.

Life is worse than rotten, it is beastly.

But the cold soon does its worst, and a healthy circulation expels the

numbness from my fingers. Besides, once we are beyond the lines, the

work on hand allows small opportunity to waste time on physical

sensations. On this trip there is little interruption, thank goodness.

Archie falls short of his average shooting, and we are able to outpace a

group of some twelve Hun two-seaters that try to intercept us. The

movement below is noted, the round is completed according to programme,

and we turn westward and homeward.

Have you ever sucked bull's-eyes, respected sir or madame? If not, take

it from me that the best time to try them is towards the end of a

three-hour flight over enemy country. Five bull's-eyes are then far more

enjoyable than a five-course meal at the Grand Babylon Hotel. One of

these striped vulgarities both soothes and warms me as we re-cross the

trenches.

Down go the noses of our craft, and we lose height as the leader, with

an uneven, tree-bordered road as guide, makes for Doulens. From this

town our aerodrome shows up plainly towards the south-west. Soon we

shall be in the mess marquee, behind us a completed job, before us a hot

breakfast. Life is good.

Arrived on land we are met by mechanics, each of whom asks anxiously if

his particular bus or engine has behaved well. The observers write their

reports, which I take to the Brass Hats at headquarters. This done, I

enter the orchard, splash about in a canvas bath, and so to a contented

breakfast.

Next you will find most of the squadron officers at the aerodrome,

seated in deck-chairs and warmed by an early autumn sun. It is the most

important moment of the day--the post has just arrived. All letters

except the one from His Majesty's impatient Surveyor of Taxes, who

threatens to take proceedings "in the district in which you reside," are

read and re-read, from "My dearest Bill" to "Yours as ever." Every scrap

of news from home has tremendous value. Winkle, the dinky Persian with a

penchant for night life, has presented the family with five kittens.

Splendid! Lady X., who is, you know, the bosom friend of a certain

Minister's wife, says the war will be over by next summer at the

_latest_. Splendid again! Life is better than good, it is amusing.

Yesterday's London papers have been delivered with the letters. These

also are devoured, from light leaders on electoral reform to the serious

legends underneath photographs of the Lady Helen Toutechose, Mrs.

Alexander Innit, and Miss Margot Rheingold as part-time nurses,

canteeners, munitioners, flag-sellers, charity matinee programme

sellers, tableaux vivants, and patronesses of the undying arts. Before

turning to the latest number of the 'Aeroplane,' our own particular

weekly, one wonders idly how the Lady Helen Toutechose and her

emulators, amid their strenuous quick-change war-work, find time to be

photographed so constantly, assiduously, and distractingly.

We pocket our correspondence and tackle the morning's work. Each pilot

makes sure that his machine is overhauled, and if necessary, he runs the

engine or puts a re-rigged bus through its paces. I am told off to

instruct half a dozen officers newly arrived from the trenches on how to

become a reliable reconnaissance observer in one week. Several of us

perform mysteriously in the workshops, for we are a squadron of many

inventors.

Every other officer has a pet mechanical originality. Marmaduke is

preparing a small gravity tank for his machine, to be used when the

pressure tank is ventilated by a bullet. The Tripehound has a scheme

whereby all the control wires can be duplicated. Some one else has

produced the latest thing in connections between the pilot's joystick

and the Vickers gun. I am making a spade-grip trigger for the Lewis gun,

so that the observer can always have one hand free to manipulate the

movable back-sight. When one of these deathless inventions is completed

the real hard work begins. The new gadget is adopted unanimously by the

inventor himself, but he has a tremendous task in making the rest of the

squadron see its merits.

After lunch we scribble letters, for the post leaves at five. As we

write the peaceful afternoon is disturbed by the roar of five engines. B

Flight is starting up in readiness for an offensive patrol. Ten minutes

later more engines break into song, as three machines of C Flight leave

to photograph some new lines of defence before Bapaume. The overhead hum

dies away, and I allow myself a sleep in payment of the early morning

reconnaissance.

Wearing a dress suit I am seated on the steps of a church. On my knee is

a Lewis gun. An old gentleman, very respectable in dark spats, a black

tie, and shiny top-hat, looks down at me reproachfully.

"Very sad," he murmurs.

"Don't you think this trigger's a damned good idea?" I ask.

"Young man, this is an outrage. As you are not ashamed enough to leave

the churchyard of your own accord, I shall have you turned out."

I laugh and proceed to pass some wire through the pistol-grip. The old

man disappears, but he returns with three grave-diggers, who brandish

their spades in terrifying manner. "Ha!" I think, "I must fly away." I

fly my wings (did I tell you I had wings?) and rise above the church

tower. Archie has evidently opened fire, for I hear a near-by _wouff_. I

try to dodge, but it is too late. A shell fragment strikes my nose. Much

to my surprise I find I can open my eyes. My nose is sore, one side of

the tent waves gently, and a small apple reposes on my chest.

Having run into the open I discover that the disengaged members of C

Flight are raiding our corner with the sour little apples of the

orchard. We collect ammunition from a tree and drive off the attackers.

A diversion is created by the return of the three photography machines.

We troop across to meet them.

The next scene is the aerodrome once again. We sit in a group and

censor letters. The countryside is quiet, the sun radiates cheerfulness,

and the war seems very remote. But the mechanics of B Flight stand

outside their sheds and look east. It is time the offensive patrol party

were back.

"There they are," says a watcher. Three far-away specks grow larger and

larger. As they draw near, we are able to recognise them as our buses,

by the position of their struts and the distinctive drone of their

engines.

Four machines crossed the lines on the expedition; where is the fourth?

The crew of the other three do not know. They last saw the missing craft

ten miles behind the Boche trenches, where it turned west after sending

up a Very's light to signal the necessity of an immediate return. There

were no Huns in sight, so the cause must have been engine trouble.

The shadows of the lost pilot and observer darken the first ten minutes

at the dinner-table. However, since cheerfulness is beyond godliness, we

will take this to be an anxious occasion with a happy ending. Comes a

welcome message from the orderly officer, saying that the pilot has

phoned. His reason for leaving the patrol was that his engine went dud.

Later it petered out altogether, so that he was forced to glide down and

land near a battery of our howitzers.

The conversational atmosphere now lightens. Some people from another

squadron are our guests, and with them we exchange the latest flying

gossip. The other day, X rammed a machine after his gun had jambed. Y

has been given the Military Cross. Archie has sent west two machines of

the eleventeenth squadron. While on his way home, with no more

ammunition, Z was attacked by a fast scout. He grabbed a Very's pistol

and fired at the Boche a succession of lights, red, white, and green.

The Boche, taking the rockets for a signal from a decoy machine, or from

some new form of British frightfulness, promptly retired.

Dinner over, the usual crowd settle around the card-table, and the

gramophone churns out the same old tunes. There is some dissension

between a man who likes music and another who prefers rag-time. Number

one leads off with the Peer Gynt Suite, and number two counters with

the record that choruses: "Hello, how are you?" From the babel of

yarning emerges the voice of our licensed liar--

"So I told the General he was the sort of bloke who ate tripe and

gargled with his beer."

"Flush," calls a poker player.

"Give us a kiss, give us a kiss, by wireless," pleads the gramophone.

"Good-night, chaps. See you over Cambrai." This from a departing guest.

Chorus--"Good-night, old bean."

A somewhat wild evening ends with a sing-song, of which the star number

is a ballad to the tune of "Tarpaulin Jacket," handed down from the

pre-war days of the Flying Corps, and beginning--

"The young aviator was dying,

And as 'neath the wreckage he lay (he lay),

To the A.M.'s assembled around him

These last parting words he did say:

'Take the cylinders out of my kidneys,

The connecting-rod out of my brain (my brain),

From the small of my back take the crank-shaft.

And assemble the engine again.'"

On turning in we give the sky a final scour. It is non-committal on the

subject of to-morrow's weather. The night is dark, the moon is at her

last quarter, only a few stars glimmer.

I feel sure the land needs rain. If it be fine to-morrow we shall sit

over Archie for three hours. If it be conveniently wet we shall charter

a light tender and pay a long-deferred visit to the city of Arriere.

There I shall visit a real barber; pass the time of day with my friend

Henriette, whose black eyes and ready tongue grace a book shop of the

Rue des Trois Cailloux; dine greatly at a little restaurant in the Rue

du Corps Nu Sans Tete; and return with reinforcements of Anatole France,

collar-studs, and French slang.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] This narrative first appeared in 'Blackwood's Magazine.'

LETTERS FROM THE SOMME

_ACKNOWLEDGMENT IS DUE

TO THE

OWNER OF THESE LETTERS, WHO HAS ALLOWED

ME TO REVISE FOR PUBLICATION WHAT

WAS WRITTEN FOR HER ALONE_

I.

LOOKING FOR TROUBLE.

... You have asked me, mon amie, to tell you, from personal experience,

all about aeroplanes on active service. With the best will in the world

I can do no such thing, any more than a medical student could tell you,

from personal experience, all about midwifery.

The Flying Corps has in France hundreds of aeroplanes, scores of

squadrons, and a dozen varying duties. Earlier in the war, when army

aircraft were few and their function belonged to the pioneer stage,

every pilot and observer dabbled in many things--reconnaissance,

artillery observation, bomb raids, photography, and fighting. But the

service has since expanded so much, both in size and importance, that

each squadron is made to specialise in one or two branches of work,

while other specialists look after the remainder. The daily round of an

artillery squadron, for example, is very different from the daily round

of a reconnaissance squadron, which is quite as different from that of

a scout squadron. Alors, my experience only covers the duties of my own

squadron. These I will do my best to picture for you, but please don't

look upon my letters as dealing with the Flying Corps as a whole.

Perhaps you will see better what I mean if you know something of our

organisation and of the different kinds of machines. There are slow,

stable two-seaters that observe around the lines; fighting two-seaters

that operate over an area extending some thirty miles beyond the lines;

faster fighting two-seaters that spy upon enemy country still farther

afield; the bombing craft, single-seaters or two-seaters used as

single-seaters; photography machines; and single-seater scouts,

quick-climbing and quick-manoeuvring, that protect and escort the

observation buses and pounce on enemy aeroplanes at sight. All these

confine themselves to their specialised jobs, though their outgoings are

planned to fit the general scheme of aerial tactics. The one diversion

shared by every type is scrapping the air Hun whenever possible--and the

ground Hun too for that matter, if he appear in the open and one can

dive at him.

Our organisation is much the same as the organisation of the older--and

junior--arms of the Service (oh yes! the Gazette gives us precedence over

the Guards, the Household Cavalry, and suchlike people). Three or more

squadrons are directed by a wing-commander, whom one treats with deep

respect as he speeds a formation from the aerodrome; a number of wings,

with an aircraft depot, are directed by a brigadier, whom one treats with

still deeper respect when he pays a visit of inspection; the whole is

directed by the General-Officer-Commanding-the-Flying-Corps-in-the-Field,

one-of-the-best, who treats us like brothers.

We, in umpty squadron, are of the G.H.Q. wing, our work being long

reconnaissance and offensive patrols over that part of the Somme basin

where bands of Hun aircraft rove thickest. Our home is a wide aerodrome,

flanked by a village that comprises about thirty decrepit cottages and a

beautiful little old church. Our tents are pitched in a pleasant

orchard, which is strewn with sour apples and field kitchens. For the

rest, we are a happy family, and the sole blot on our arcadian existence

is the daily journey east to meet Brother Boche and his hired bully

Archibald.

After which explanatory stuff I will proceed to what will interest you

more,--the excitements and tediousness of flights over enemy country.

Three hours ago I returned from a patrol round Mossy-Face Wood, where

one seldom fails to meet black-crossed birds of prey, so I will begin

with the subject of a hunt for the Flying Deutschman.

There are two kinds of fighting air patrol, the defensive and the

offensive, the pleasantly exciting and the excitingly unpleasant. The

two species of patrol have of late kept the great majority of German

craft away from our lines.

Airmen who look for trouble over enemy country seldom fail to find it,

for nothing enrages the Boche more than the overhead drone of allied

aircraft. Here, then, are some average happenings on an offensive

patrol, as I have known them.

We cross the lines at our maximum height, for it is of great advantage

to be above an enemy when attacking. Our high altitude is also useful

in that it makes us a small target for Herr Archie, which is distinctly

important, as we are going to sit over him for the next few hours.

Archie only takes a few seconds to make up his mind about our height and

range. He is not far wrong either, as witness the ugly black bursts

slightly ahead, creeping nearer and nearer. Now there are two bursts

uncomfortably close to the leader's machine, and its pilot and observer

hear that ominous _wouff!_ The pilot dips and swerves. Another _wouff!_

and he is watching a burst that might have got him, had he kept a

straight course.

Again the Archies try for the leader. This time their shells are well

away, in fact so far back that they are near our bus. The German battery

notices this, and we are forthwith bracketed in front and behind. We

swoop away in a second, and escape with nothing worse than a violent

stagger, and we are thrown upward as a shell bursts close underneath.

But we soon shake off the Archie group immediately behind the lines.

Freed from the immediate necessity of shell-dodging, the

flight-commander leads his covey around the particular hostile preserve

marked out for his attention. Each pilot and each observer twists his

neck as if it were made of rubber, looking above, below, and all around.

Only thus can one guard against surprise and yet surprise strangers, and

avoid being surprised oneself. An airman new to active service often

finds difficulty in acquiring the necessary intuitive vision which

attracts his eyes instinctively to hostile craft. If his machine

straggles, and he has not this sixth sense, he will sometimes hear the

rattle of a mysterious machine-gun, or even the phut of a bullet, before

he sees the swift scout that has swooped down from nowhere.

There is a moment of excitement when the flight-commander spots three

machines two thousand feet below. Are they Huns? His observer uses

field-glasses, and sees black crosses on the wings. The signal to attack

is fired, and we follow the leader into a steep dive.

With nerves taut and every faculty concentrated on getting near enough

to shoot, and then shooting quickly but calmly, we have no time to

analyse the sensations of that dive. We may feel the tremendous pressure

hemming us in when we try to lean over the side, but otherwise all we

realise is that the wind is whistling past the strained wires, that our

guns must be ready for instant use, and that down below are some

enemies.

The flight-commander, his machine aimed dead at the leading German,

follows the enemy trio down, down, as they apparently seek to escape by

going ever lower. He is almost near enough for some shooting, when the

Huns dive steeply, with the evident intention of landing on a near-by

aerodrome. One of them fires a light as he goes, and--enter the villain

Archibald to loud music. A ter-rap!

Our old friend Archie has been lying in wait with guns set for a certain

height, to which his three decoy birds have led us. There crashes a

discord of shell-bursts as we pull our machines out of the dive and

swerve away. The last machine to leave the unhealthy patch of air is

pursued for some seconds by flaming rockets.

The patrol re-forms, and we climb to our original height. One machine

has left for home, with part of a control wire dangling helplessly

beneath it, and a chunk of tail-plane left as a tribute to Archie.

We complete the course and go over it again, with nothing more exciting

than further anti-aircraft fire, a few Huns too low for another dive,

and a sick observer.

Even intrepid birdmen (war correspondentese for flying officers) tire of

trying to be offensive on a patrol, and by now we are varying our

rubber-neck searchings with furtive glances at the time, in the hopes

that the watch-hands may be in the home-to-roost position. At length the

leader heads for the lines, and the lords of the air (more war

correspondentese) forget their high estate and think of tea.

Not yet. Coming south towards Bapaume is a beautiful flock of

black-crossed birds. As often happens, the German biplanes are ranged

one above the other, like the tiers of a dress-circle.

Again the signal to attack, and the flight-commander sweeps at what

seems to be the highest enemy. We are ranging ourselves round him, when

two enemy scouts sweep down from heaven-knows-where, firing as they

come. Several of their bullets enter the engine of our rearmost

rearguard. Finding that the engine is on strike, the pilot detaches his

machine from the confusion and glides across the lines, which are quite

close.

For five minutes there is a medley of swift darts, dives, and cart-wheel

turns, amid the continuous _ta-ta-ta-ta-ta_ of machine-guns. Then a

German machine sways, staggers, noses downward vertically, and rushes

earthward, spinning rhythmically. The other Boches put their noses down

and turn east. We follow until we find it impossible to catch them up,

whereupon we make for home.

The trenches are now passed, and our aerodrome is quite near. The

strained nerve-tension snaps, the air seems intoxicatingly light. Pilots

and observers munch chocolate contentedly or lift up their voices in

songs of Blighty. I tackle "The Right Side of Bond Street," and think of

pleasant places and beings, such as Henley during regatta week, the

Babylon Theatre, and your delightful self.

We land, piece together our report, and count the bullet-holes on the

machine. In ten minutes' time you will find us around the mess-table,

reconstructing the fight over late afternoon tea. In the intervals of

eating cake I shall write you, and the gramophone will be shrilling

"Chalk Farm to Camberwell Green."

FRANCE, _July_, 1916

II.

"ONE OF OUR MACHINES IS MISSING."

--_Official Report._

... Much may be read into the ambiguous word "missing." Applied to a

wife or an actress's jewellery it can mean anything. Applied to a man on

active service it can mean one of three things. He may be dead, he may

be a prisoner, he may be wounded and a prisoner. If he be dead he enters

Valhalla. If he be a prisoner and a wise man he enters a small cheque

for the German Red Cross, as being the quickest way of letting his

bankers and relations know he is alive.

A missing aeroplane no longer exists, in nine cases out of ten. Either

it is lying in pieces on enemy ground, smashed by an uncontrolled fall,

or it was burned by its former tenants when they landed, after finding

it impossible to reach safety. Quite recently my pilot and I nearly had

to do this, but were just able to glide across a small salient. I am

thus qualified to describe a typical series of incidents preceding the

announcement, "one of our machines is missing," and I do so in the hope

that this may interest you, madam, as you flit from town to country,

country to town, and so to bed.

A group of British machines are carrying out a long reconnaissance. So

far nothing has happened to divert the observers from their notes and

sketches, and a pilot congratulates himself that he is on a joy-ride.

Next instant his sixth sense tells him there is something in the air

quite foreign to a joy-ride. And there is. A thousand yards ahead some

eight to twelve machines have appeared. The reconnaissance birds keep to

their course, but all eyes are strained towards the newcomers. Within

ten seconds it is established that they are foes. The observers put

aside note-books and pencils, and finger their machine-guns expectantly.

On come the Germans to dispute the right of way. On go the British, not

seeking a fight, but fully prepared to force a way through. Their job is

to complete the reconnaissance, and not to indulge in superfluous air

duels, but it will take a very great deal to turn them from their path.

Now the aggressors are within 300 yards, and firing opens. When the

fight gets to uncomfortably close quarters the Boches move aside and

follow the reconnaissance party, waiting for an opportunity to surround

stragglers. Finally, some lucky shots by a British observer cause one of

them to land in a damaged condition, whereupon the rest retire. The

British machines finish their job and return with useful information.

But the party is no longer complete. The pilot who thought of joy-rides

was in the rear machine, and the rear machine has disappeared. Two Huns

cut him off when the rest began to follow the British formation.

His observer takes careful aim at the nearest enemy, and rattles through

a whole drum as the German sweeps down and past, until he is out of

range. The pilot vertical-turns the machine, and makes for the second

Boche. But this gentleman, refusing to continue the fight alone, dives

to join his companion. The pair of them hover about for a few minutes,

and then disappear eastward.

The lonely pilot and observer look round and take their bearings.

"Where are the others?" shouts the pilot down the speaking-tube.

"Right away to the north; we are alone in the wicked world." Thus the

observer's reply, handed across on a slip of paper.

Hoping to catch sight of the reconnaissance party, my friend the pilot

opens his engine full out and begins to follow the course that remained

to be covered. For ten minutes he continues the attempt to catch up, but

as the only aeroplanes to be seen are coming up from an enemy aerodrome

he decides to get back alone as quickly as possible. He turns due west.

The homing bird must fly in the teeth of a strong west wind. It

struggles along gamely, and the pilot calculates that he may reach the

lines within twenty-five minutes. But he has a queer feeling that

trouble is ahead, and, like his observer, he turns his head around the

horizon, so as not to be caught unprepared.

All goes well for five minutes, except for some nasty Archie shells.

Then the two men see a flock of aircraft at a great height, coming from

the north. Although black crosses cannot be spotted at this range, the

shape and peculiar whiteness of the wings make it probable that the

strangers are hostile. Possibly they are the very people who attacked

and followed the reconnaissance formation.

Our pilot puts down the nose of his machine, and races westward. The

strangers, making good use of their extra height, turn south-west and

try to head him off. They gain quickly, and pilot and observer brace

themselves for a fight against odds.

The Germans are now about 700 feet higher than my friends, and directly

above them. Four enemies dive, at an average speed of 150 miles an hour,

and from all directions the Britishers hear the rattle of machine-guns.

The observer engages one of the Huns, and evidently gets in some good

shooting, for it swerves away and lets another take its place. Meanwhile

enemy bullets have crashed through two spars, shot away a

rudder-control, and ripped several parts of the fuselage.

The black-crossed hawks cluster all around. There are two on the left,

one on the right, one underneath the tail, and two above. A seventh Hun

sweeps past in front, about eighty yards ahead. The pilot's gun rakes it

from stem to stern as it crosses, and he gives a great shout as its

petrol-tank begins to blaze and the enemy craft flings itself down, with

a stream of smoke and another flame shooting out behind.

But his own petrol-tank has been plugged from the side, and his observer

has a bullet in the left arm. The petrol supply is regulated by

pressure, and, the pressure having gone when German bullets opened the

tank, the engine gets less and less petrol, and finally ceases work.

To glide fifteen miles to the lines is clearly impossible. There is

nothing for it but to accept the inevitable and choose a good

landing-ground. The pilot pushes the joystick slowly forward and

prepares to land.

The Germans follow their prey down, ready to destroy if by any chance

its engine comes back to life, and it stops losing height. The observer

tears up papers and maps, performs certain other duties whereby the

enemy is cheated of booty, and stuffs all personal possessions into his

pocket.

A medley of thoughts race across the observer's mind as the pilot

S-turns the machine over the field he has chosen. A prisoner!--damnable

luck--all papers destroyed--arm hurting--useless till end of war--how

long will it last?--chances of escape--relieve parents' suspense--must

write--due for leave--Marjorie--Piccadilly in the sunshine--rotten

luck--was to be--make best of it--Kismet!

One duty remains. The observer digs into the petrol tank as they touch

earth, and then runs round the machine. In a second the petrol is ablaze

and the fuselage and wings are burning merrily. Germans rush up and make

vain attempts to put out the fire. Soon nothing remains but charred

debris, a discoloured engine, bits of metal and twisted wires.

My friends are seized, searched, and disarmed. They then shake hands

with the German pilots, now heatedly discussing who was chiefly

responsible for their success. The captive couple are lunched by the

enemy airmen, who see that the wounded observer receives proper

attention. At the risk of incensing some of your eat-'em-alive civilian

friends, I may say we have plenty of evidence that the German Flying

Corps includes many gentlemen.

Later my friends are questioned, searched again from head to toe, and

packed off to Germany. Just now they are affected with deadly

heart-sickness, due to the wearisome inaction of confinement in a

hostile land, while we, their friends and brothers, continue to play our

tiny parts in Armageddon.

I enclose their names, and that of the prison camp where they are

lodged. Perhaps you will find time to send them some of your

fast-dwindling luxuries, as you flit from town to country, country to

town, and so to bed.

FRANCE, _July, 1916_

III.

A BOMB RAID.

... What are your feelings, dear lady, as you watch the airships that

pass in the night and hear the explosion of their bombs? At such a time

the sensations of most people, I imagine, are a mixture of deep

interest, deep anger, excitement, nervousness, and desire for revenge.

Certainly they do not include speculation about the men who man the

raiders.

And for their part, the men who man the raiders certainly do not

speculate about you and your state of mind. When back home, some of them

may wonder what feelings they have inspired in the people below, but at

the time the job's the thing and nothing else matters.

Out here we bomb only places of military value, and do it mostly in the

daytime, but I should think our experiences must have much in common

with those of Zeppelin crews. I can assure you they are far more

strenuous than yours on the ground.

Our bombing machines in France visit all sorts of places--forts,

garrison towns, railway junctions and railheads, bivouac grounds, staff

headquarters, factories, ammunition depots, aerodromes, Zeppelin sheds,

and naval harbours. Some objectives are just behind the lines, some are

100 miles away. There are also free-lance exploits, as when a pilot with

some eggs to spare dives down to a low altitude and drops them on a

train or a column of troops.

A daylight bomb raid is seldom a complete failure, but the results are

sometimes hard to record. If an ammunition store blows up, or a railway

station bursts into flames, or a train is swept off the rails and the

lines cut, an airman can see enough to know he has succeeded. But if the

bombs fall on something that does not explode or catch fire, it is

almost impossible to note exactly what has been hit. Even a fire is hard

to locate while one is running away from Archie and perhaps a few

flaming onions.

Fighting machines often accompany the bombing parties as escort. The

fighters guard the bombers until the eggs are dropped, and seize any

chances of a scrap on the way back. It is only thus that I have played a

part in raids, for our squadron does not add bombs to its other

troubles. I will now tell you, my very dear friend, about one such trip.

The morning is clear and filled with sunshine, but a strong westerly

wind is blowing. This will increase our speed on the outward journey,

and so help to make the attack a surprise. Those low-lying banks of

thick white clouds are also favourable to the factor of surprise.

It is just before midday, and we are gathered in a group near the

machines, listening to the flight-commander's final directions.

Punctually at noon the bombers leave the ground, climb to the rendezvous

height, and arrange themselves in formation. The scout machines

constituting the escort proper follow, and rise to a few hundred feet

above the bombers. The whole party circles round the aerodrome until the

signal strips for "Carry on" are laid out on the ground, when it heads

for the lines.

At this point we, the fighting two-seaters, start up and climb to our

allotted height. We are to follow the bombing party and act as a

rearguard until the eggs have fallen. Afterwards, when the others have

finished their little bit and get home to their tea, it will be our

pleasant task to hang about between the lines and the scene of the raid,

and deal with such infuriated Boche pilots as may take the air with some

idea of revenge.

We travel eastwards, keeping well in sight of the bombers. The ridges of

clouds become more numerous, and only through gaps can we see the

trenches and other landmarks. Archie, also, can only see through the

gaps, and, disconcerted by the low clouds, his performance is not so

good as usual. But for a few shells, very wide of the mark, we are not

interrupted, for there are no German craft in sight.

With the powerful wind behind us we are soon over the objective, a large

wood some few miles behind the lines. The wood is reported to be a

favourite bivouac ground, and it is surrounded by Boche aerodromes.

Now the bombers drop below the clouds to a height convenient for their

job. As the wood covers an area of several square miles and almost any

part of it may contain troops, there is no need to descend far before

taking aim. Each pilot chooses a spot for his particular attention, for

preference somewhere near the road that bisects the wood. He aligns his

sights on the target, releases the bombs, and watches for signs of an

interrupted lunch below.

It is quite impossible to tell the extent of the damage, for the raid is

directed not against some definite object, but against an area

containing troops, guns, and stores. The damage will be as much moral as

material since nothing unnerves war-weary men more than to realise that

they are never safe from aircraft.

The guns get busy at once, for the wood contains a nest of Archies. Ugly

black bursts surround the bombers, who swerve and zig-zag as they run.

When well away from the wood they climb back to us through the clouds.

We turn west and battle our way against the wind, now our foe. Half-way

to the lines we wave an envious good-bye to the bombers and scouts, and

begin our solitary patrol above the clouds.

We cruise all round the compass, hunting for Huns. Twice we see enemy

machines through rifts in the clouds, but each time we dive towards them

they refuse battle and remain at a height of some thousand feet, ready

to drop even lower, if they can lure us down through the barrage of

A.-A. shells. Nothing else of importance happens, and things get

monotonous. I look at my watch and think it the slowest thing on earth,

slower than the leave train. The minute-hand creeps round, and

homing-time arrives.

We have one more flutter on the way to the trenches. Two Huns come to

sniff at us, and we dive below the clouds once more.

But it is the old, old dodge of trying to salt the bird's tail. The Hun

decoys make themselves scarce--and H.E. bursts make themselves

plentiful. Archie has got the range of those clouds to a few feet, and,

since we are a little beneath them, he has got our range too. We dodge

with difficulty, for Archie revels in a background of low clouds.

Nobody is hit, however, and our party crosses the lines; and so home.

From the point of view of our fighting machines, the afternoon has been

uneventful. Nevertheless, the job has been done, so much so that the

dwellers in the wood where we left our cards are still regretting their

disturbed luncheon, while airmen and A.-A. gunners around the wood tell

each other what they will do to the next lot of raiders. We shall

probably call on them again next week, when I will let you know whether

their bloodthirsty intentions mature.

FRANCE, _September_, 1916

IV.

SPYING BY SNAPSHOT.

... Since daybreak a great wind has raged from the east, and even as I

write you, my best of friends, it whines past the mess-tent. This,

together with low clouds, had kept aircraft inactive--a state of things

in which we had revelled for nearly a week, owing to rain and mist.

However, towards late afternoon the clouds were blown from the trench

region, and artillery machines snatched a few hours' work from the

fag-end of daylight. The wind was too strong for offensive patrols or

long reconnaissance, so that we of Umpty Squadron did not expect a call

to flight.

But the powers that control our outgoings and incomings thought

otherwise. In view of the morrow's operations they wanted urgently a

plan of some new defences on which the Hun had been busy during the

spell of dud weather. They selected Umpty Squadron for the job,

probably because the Sopwith would be likely to complete it more quickly

than any other type, under the adverse conditions and the time-limit set

by the sinking sun. The Squadron Commander detailed two buses--ours and

another.

As it was late, we had little leisure for preparation; the cameras were

brought in a hurry from the photographic lorry, examined hastily by the

observers who were to use them, and fitted into the conical recesses

through the fuselage floor. We rose from the aerodrome within fifteen

minutes of the deliverance of flying orders.

Because of doubtful light the photographs were to be taken from the

comparatively low altitude of 7000 feet. We were able, therefore, to

complete our climb while on the way to Albert, after meeting the second

machine at 2000 feet.

All went well until we reached the neighbourhood of Albert, but there we

ran into a thick ridge of cloud and became separated. We dropped below

into the clear air, and hovered about in a search for the companion bus.

Five minutes brought no sign of its whereabouts, so we continued alone

towards the trenches. Three minutes later, when about one mile west of

Pozieres, we sighted, some 900 yards to north of us, a solitary machine

that looked like a Sopwith, though one could not be certain at such a

range. If it was indeed our second bus, its pilot, who was new to

France, must have misjudged his bearings, for it nosed across to the

German air country and merged into the nothingness, miles away from our

objective. What became of the lost craft is a mystery which may be

cleared up to-morrow, or more probably in a month's time by

communication from the German Prisoners' Bureau, or maybe never. Thus

far we have heard nothing, so a forced landing on British ground is

unlikely. For the rest, the pilot and observer may be killed, wounded,

injured, or prisoners. All we know is that they flew into the Ewigkeit

and are "missing."

For these many weeks Pozieres has been but a name and a waste brick

pile; yet the site of the powdered village cannot be mistaken from the

air, for, slightly to the east, two huge mine-craters sentinel it, left

and right. From here to Le Sars, which straddles the road four miles

beyond, was our photographic objective. We were to cover either side of

the road twice, so I had arranged to use half the number of plates

during each there-and-back journey.

The R.F.C. camera used by us is so simple as to be called foolproof.

Eighteen plates are stacked in a changing-box over the shutter. You

slide the loading handle forward and backward, and the first plate falls

into position. Arrived over the spot to be spied upon, you take careful

sight and pull a string--and the camera has reproduced whatever is 9000

feet below it. Again you operate the loading handle; the exposed plate

is pushed into an empty changing-box underneath an extension, and plate

the second falls into readiness for exposure, while the indicator shows

2. And so on until the changing-box for bare plates is emptied and the

changing-box for used ones is filled. Whatever skill attaches to the

taking of aerial snapshots is in judging when the machine is flying dead

level and above the exact objective, and in repeating the process after

a properly timed interval.

A.-A. guns by the dozen hit out immediately we crossed the lines, for we

were their one target. No other craft were in sight, except a lone B.E.,

which was drifted by the wind as it spotted for artillery from the

British side of the trenches. Scores of black puffs, attended by

cavernous coughs, did their best to put the wind up us. They succeeded

to a certain extent, though not enough to hinder the work on hand.

Everything was in Archie's favour. We were at 7000 feet--an easy height

for A.-A. sighting--we were silhouetted against a cover of high clouds,

our ground speed was only some thirty miles an hour against the raging

wind, and we dared not dodge the bursts, however close, as area

photography from anything but an even line of flight is useless. Yet,

though the bursts kept us on edge, we were not touched by so much as a

splinter. In this we were lucky under the conditions. The luck could

scarcely have held had the job lasted much longer than a quarter of an

hour--which is a consoling thought when one is safe back and writing to

a dear friend in England, not?

Northward, along the left-hand side of the road, was my first subject;

and a damned unpleasant subject it was--a dirty-soiled, shell-scarred

wilderness. I looked overboard to make certain of the map square,

withdrew back into the office, pulled the shutter-string, and loaded the

next plate for exposure.

"_Wouff!_ _Ouff!_ _Ouff!_" barked Archie, many times and loud. An

instinct to swerve assaulted the pilot, but after a slight deviation he

controlled his impulse and held the bus above the roadside. He had a

difficult task to maintain a level course. Whereas we wanted to make

east-north-east, the wind was due east, so that it cut across and

drifted us in a transverse direction. To keep straight it was necessary

to steer crooked--that is to say, head three-quarters into the wind to

counteract the drift, the line of flight thus forming an angle of about

12 deg. with the longitudinal axis of the aeroplane.

"_Wouff!_ _ouff!_" Archibald continued, as I counted in seconds the

interval to the scene of the next snapshot, which, as assurance that the

whole ground would be covered, was to overlap slightly the first. A

quick glance below, another tug at the string, and plate the second was

etched with information. The third, fourth, and fifth followed; and

finally, to our great relief, we reach Le Sars.

Here the pilot was able to dodge for a few seconds while we turned to

retrace the course, this time along the southern edge of the road. He

side-slipped the bus, pulled it around in an Immelmann turn, and then

felt the rudder-controls until we were in the required direction. The

interval between successive exposures was now shorter, as the east wind

brought our ground speed to 120 miles an hour, even with the engine

throttled back. There was scarcely time to sight the objective before

the photograph must be taken and the next plate loaded into place.

Within two minutes we were again over Pozieres.

V. took us across the lines, so as to deceive the Archie merchants into

a belief that we were going home. We then climbed a little, turned

sharply, and began to repeat our outward trip to north of the road.

Evidently Archie had allowed his leg to be pulled by the feint, and for

two minutes he only molested the machine with a few wild shots. But soon

he recovered his old form, so that when we had reached Le Sars the bus

was again wreathed by black puffs. We vertical-turned across the road

and headed for the trenches once more, with the last few plates waiting

for exposure.

Archie now seemed to treat the deliberation of the solitary machine's

movements as a challenge to his ability, and he determined to make us

pay for our seeming contempt. An ugly barrage of A.-A. shell-bursts

separated us from friendly air, the discs of black smoke expanding as

they hung in little clusters. Into this barrier of hate we went

unwillingly, like children sent to church as a duty.

Scores of staccato war-whoops reminded us that the Boche gunners wanted

our scalp. I don't know how V. felt about it, but I well know that I was

in a state of acute fear. Half-way to Pozieres I abandoned checking the

ground by the map, and judged the final photographs by counting the

seconds between each--"one, two, three, four (_wouff!_ _wouff!_

_wouff!_ _wouff!_)"; pull the string, press forward the loading-handle,

bring it back; "one, two, three, four (_wouff!_ _wouff!_ _wouff!_

_wouff!_)," et-cetera. Just as the final plate-number showed on the

indicator a mighty report from underneath startled us, and the machine

was pressed upward, left wing down.

This was terrifying enough but not harmful, for not one of the fragments

from the near burst touched us, strange to say. The pilot righted the

bus, and I made the last exposure, without, I am afraid, caring what

patch of earth was shuttered on to the plate.

Nose down and engine full out, we hared over the trenches. Archie's hate

followed for some distance, but to no purpose; and at last we were at

liberty to fly home, at peace with the wind and the world. We landed

less than three-quarters of an hour after we had left the aerodrome in a

hurry.

"Good boys," said the Squadron Commander; "now see that lightning is

used in developing your prints."

The camera was rushed to the photographic lorry, the plates were

unloaded in the dark hut, the negatives were developed. Half an hour

later I received the first proofs, and, with them, some degree of

disappointment. Those covering the first outward and return journey

between Pozieres and Le Sars were good, as were the next three, at the

beginning of the second journey. Then came a confused blur of

superimposed ground-patterns, and at the last five results blank as the

brain of a flapper. A jamb in the upper changing-box had led to five

exposures on the one plate.

As you know, mon amie, I am a fool. But I do not like to be reminded of

the self-evident fact. The photographic officer said I must have made

some silly mistake with the loading handle, and he remarked sadly that

the camera was supposed to be foolproof. I said he must have made some

silly mistake when inspecting the camera before it left his workshop,

and I remarked viciously that the camera was foolproof against a

careless operator, but by no means foolproof against the careless

expert. There we left the subject and the spoiled plates, as the evening

was too far advanced for the trip to be repeated. As the photoman has a

pleasant job at wing headquarters, whereas I am but an observer--that is

to say, an R.F.C. doormat--the blame was laid on me as a matter of

course. However, the information supplied by the successful exposures

pleased the staff people at whose instigation the deed was done, and

this was all that really mattered.

I have already told you that our main work in umpty squadron is long

reconnaissance for G.H.Q. and offensive patrol. Special photographic

stunts such as happened to-day are rare, thank the Lord. But our cameras

often prepare the way for a bombing expedition. An observer returns from

a reconnaissance flight with snapshots of a railhead, a busy factory, or

an army headquarters. Prints are sent to the "I" people, who, at their

leisure, map out in detail the point of interest. No fear of doubtful

reports from the glossed surface of geometrical reproduction, for the

camera, our most trusted spy, cannot distort the truth. Next a complete

plan of the chosen objective, with its surroundings, is given to a

bombing squadron; and finally, the pilots concerned, well primed with

knowledge of exactly where to align their bomb-sights, fly off to

destroy.

For the corps and army squadrons of the R.F.C. photography has a

prominent place in the daily round. To them falls the duty of providing

survey-maps of the complete system of enemy defences. Their all-seeing

lenses penetrate through camouflage to new trenches and emplacements,

while exposing fake fortifications. The broken or unbroken German line

is fully revealed, even to such details as the barbed wire in front and

the approaches in rear.

For clues to battery positions and the like, the gun country behind the

frontier of the trenches is likewise searched by camera. One day a

certain square on the artillery map seems lifeless. The following

afternoon an overhead snapshot reveals a new clump of trees or a curious

mark not to be found on earlier photographs. On the third day the mark

has disappeared, or the trees are clustered in a slightly different

shape. But meanwhile an exact position has been pin-pointed, so that

certain heavy guns busy themselves with concentrated fire. By the fourth

day the new gun-pits, or whatever it was that the Hun tried to smuggle

into place unnoticed, have been demolished and is replaced by a wide

rash of shell-holes.

Wonderful indeed is the record of war as preserved by prints in the

archives of our photographic section. For example, we were shown last

week a pair of striking snapshots taken above Martinpuich, before and

after bombardment. The Before one pictured a neat little village in

compact perspective of squares, rectangles, and triangles. The Aftermath

pictured a tangled heap of sprawling chaos, as little like a village as

is the usual popular novel like literature.

Of all the Flying Corps photographs of war, perhaps the most striking is

that taken before Ypres of the first Hun gas attack. A B.E2.C., well

behind the German lines, caught sight of a strange snowball of a cloud

rolling across open ground, in the wake of an east wind. It flew to

investigate, and the pilot photographed the phenomenon from the rear.

This reproduction of a tenuous mass blown along the discoloured earth

will show coming generations how the Boche introduced to the black art

of warfare its most devilish form of frightfulness.

I would send you a few aerial photographs, as you suggest, if the

private possession of them were not strictly verboten. Possibly you will

have an opportunity of seeing all you want later, for if the authorities

concerned are wise they will form a public collection of a few thousand

representative snapshots, to show the worlds of to-day, to-morrow, and

the day after what the camera did in the great war. Such a permanent

record would be of great value to the military historian; and on a rainy

afternoon, when the more vapid of the revues were not offering matinees,

they might even be of interest to the average Londoner.

I can tell you little of the technical branch of this new science, which

has influenced so largely the changing war of the past two years, and

which will play an even greater part in the decisive war of the next

two. All I know is that hundreds of photos are taken every day over

enemy country, that ninety per cent of them are successful, and that the

trained mechanics sometimes produce finished prints twenty minutes

after we have given them our plates.

Moreover, I am not anxious to discuss the subject further, for it is 10

P.M., and at 5 A.M., unless my good angel sends bad weather, I shall be

starting for an offensive patrol over Mossy-Face. Also you don't deserve

even this much, as I have received no correspondence, books, or

pork-pies from you for over a week. In ten minutes' time I shall be

employed on the nightly slaughter of the spiders, earwigs, and moths

that plague my tent.

Good night.

FRANCE, _September_, 1916

V.

THE ARCHIBALD FAMILY.

... You remark on the familiarity with which I speak of Archie, and you

ask for detailed information about his character and habits. Why should

I not treat him with familiarity? If a man calls on you nearly every day

you are entitled to use his Christian name. And if the intimacy be such

that at each visit he tries to punch your head, he becomes more a

brother than a friend.

How, you continue, did a creature so strenuous as the anti-aircraft gun

come by the flippant name of Archie? Well, once upon a time the Boche

A.-A. guns were very young and had all the impetuous inaccuracy incident

to youth. British airmen scarcely knew they were fired at until they saw

the pretty, white puffs in the distance.

One day a pilot noticed some far-away bursts, presumably meant for him.

He was young enough to remember the good old days (you would doubtless

call them the bad old days) when the music-halls produced hearty, if

vulgar, humour, and he murmured "Archibald, certainly not!" The name

clung, and as Archibald the A.-A. gun will go down to posterity. You can

take it or leave it; any way, I cannot think of a better explanation for

the moment.

Archie has since grown up and become sober, calculating, accurate,

relentless, cunning, and deadly mathematical. John or Ernest would now

fit him better, as being more serious, or Wilhelm, as being more

frightful. For Archie is a true apostle of frightfulness. There is no

greater adept at the gentle art of "putting the wind up" people.

Few airmen get hardened to the villainous noise of a loud _wouff!_

_wouff!_ at 12,000 feet, especially when it is near enough to be

followed by the shriek of shell-fragments. Nothing disconcerts a man

more as he tries to spy out the land, take photographs, direct artillery

fire, or take aim through a bombsight, than to hear this noise and

perhaps be lifted a hundred feet or so when a shell bursts close

underneath. And one is haunted by the knowledge that, unlike the

indirect fire of the more precise guns, Archie keeps his own eyes on the

target and can observe all swerves and dashes for safety.

To anybody who has seen a machine broken up by a direct hit at some

height between 8,000 and 15,000 feet, Archie becomes a prince among the

demons of destruction. Direct hits are fortunately few, but hits by

stray fragments are unfortunately many. Yet, though the damage on such

occasions is regrettable, it is seldom overwhelming. Given a skilful

pilot and a well-rigged bus, miracles can happen, though a machine

stands no technical chance of staggering home. In the air uncommon

escapes are common enough.

On several occasions, after a direct hit, a wounded British pilot has

brought his craft to safety, with wings and fuselage weirdly ventilated

and half the control wires helpless. Archie wounded a pilot from our

aerodrome in the head and leg, and an opening the size of a duck's egg

was ripped into the petrol tank facing him. The pressure went, and so

did the engine-power. The lines were too distant to be reached in a

glide, so the machine planed down towards Hun territory. The pilot was

growing weak from loss of blood, but it occurred to him that if he stuck

his knee into the hole he might be able to pump up pressure. He tried

this, and the engine came back to life 50 feet from the ground. At this

height he flew, in a semi-conscious condition, twelve miles over enemy

country and crossed the lines with his bus scarcely touched by the

dozens of machine-guns trained on it.

One of our pilots lost most of his rudder, but managed to get back by

juggling with his elevator and ailerons. The fuselage of my own machine

was once set on fire by a chunk of burning H.E. The flames died out

under pressure from gloves and hands, just as they had touched the drums

of ammunition and all but eaten through a longeron.

Escapes from personal injuries have been quite as strange. A piece of

high explosive hit a machine sideways, passed right through the

observer's cockpit, and grazed two kneecaps belonging to a friend of

mine. He was left with nothing worse than two cuts and mild shell-shock.

Scottie, another observer (now a prisoner, poor chap), leaned forward to

look at his map while on a reconnaissance. A dainty morsel from an

Archie shell hurtled through the air and grazed the back of his neck. He

finished the reconnaissance, made out his report, and got the scratch

dressed at the hospital. Next day he resumed work; and he was delighted

to find himself in the Roll of Honour, under the heading "Wounded." I

once heard him explain to a new observer that when flying a close study

of the map was a guarantee against losing one's way, one's head--and

one's neck.

The Archibald family tree has several branches. Whenever the founder of

the family went on the burst he broke out in the form of white puffs,

like those thrown from the funnel of a liner when it begins to slow

down. The white bursts still seek us out, but the modern Boche A.-A.

gunner specialises more in the black variety. The white bursts contain

shrapnel, which is cast outwards and upwards; the black ones contain

high explosive, which spreads all around.

H.E. has a lesser radius of solid frightfulness than shrapnel, but if it

does hit a machine the damage is greater. For vocal frightfulness the

black beat the white hollow. If the Titans ever had an epidemic of

whooping-cough, and a score of them chorused the symptoms in unison, I

should imagine the noise was like the bursting of a black Archie shell.

Then there is the green branch of the family. This is something of a

problem. One theory is that the green bursts are for ranging purposes

only, another that they contain a special brand of H.E., and a third

declares them to be gas shells. All three suggestions may be partly

true, for there is certainly more than one brand of green Archie.

First cousin to Archie is the onion, otherwise the flaming rocket. It is

fired in a long stream of what look like short rectangles of compressed

flame at machines that have been enticed down to a height of 4000 to

6000 feet. It is most impressive as a firework display. There are also

colourless phosphorous rockets that describe a wide parabola in their

flight.

Within the past month or two we have been entertained at rare intervals

by the family ghost. This fascinating and mysterious being appears very

suddenly in the form of a pillar of white smoke, stretching to a height

of several thousand feet. It is straight, and apparently rigid as far as

the top, where it sprays round into a knob. Altogether, it suggests a

giant piece of celery. It does not seem to disperse; but if you pass on

and look away for a quarter of an hour, you will find on your return

that it has faded away as suddenly as it came, after the manner of

ghosts. Whether the pillars are intended to distribute gas is uncertain,

but it is a curious fact that on the few occasions when we have seen

them they have appeared to windward of us.

Like babies and lunatics, Archie has his good and bad days. If low

clouds are about and he can only see through the gaps he is not very

troublesome. Mist also helps to keep him quiet. He breaks out badly when

the sky is a cover of unbroken blue, though the sun sometimes dazzles

him, so that he fires amok. From his point of view it is a perfect day

when a film of cloud about 20,000 feet above him screens the sky. The

high clouds forms a perfect background for anything between it and the

ground, and aircraft stand out boldly, like the figures on a Greek vase.

On such a day we would willingly change places with the gunners below.

For my part, Archie has given me a fellow-feeling for the birds of the

air. I have at times tried light-heartedly to shoot partridges and even

pigeons, but if ever again I fire at anything on the wing, sympathy will

spoil my aim.

FRANCE, _October, 1916_

VI.

BATTLES AND BULLETS.

... I am not sure which is the more disquieting, to be under fire in the

air or on the ground.

Although the airman is less likely to be hit than the infantryman, he

has to deal with complications that could not arise on solid earth. Like

the infantryman, a pilot may be killed outright by a questing bullet,

and there's an end of it. But in the case of a wound he has a far worse

time. If an infantryman be plugged he knows he has probably received "a

Blighty one," and as he is taken to the dressing-station he dreams of

spending next week-end in England. A wounded pilot dare think of nothing

but to get back to safety with his machine, and possibly an observer.

He may lose blood and be attacked by a paralysing faintness. He must

then make his unwilling body continue to carry out the commands of his

unwilling brain, for if he gives way to unconsciousness the machine,

freed from reasoned control, will perform circus tricks and twist itself

into a spinning nose-dive. Even when he has brought the bus to friendly

country he must keep clear-headed; otherwise he will be unable to

exercise the judgment necessary for landing.

Another unpleasant thought is that though he himself escape unhurt, an

incendiary bullet may set his petrol tank ablaze, or some stray shots

may cut his most vital control wires. And a headlong dive under these

conditions is rather too exciting, even for the most confirmed seeker

after sensation.

Yet with all these extra possibilities of what a bullet may mean, the

chances of being plugged in the air are decidedly less than on the

ground. While travelling at anything from 70 to 140 miles an hour it is

decidedly more difficult to hit another object tearing along at a like

speed and swerving in all directions, than from a machine-gun

emplacement to rake a line of men advancing "over the top." Another

point favourable to the airman is that he scarcely realises the presence

of bullets around him, for the roar of his engine drowns that sinister

hiss which makes a man automatically close his eyes and duck.

Given a certain temperament and a certain, mood, an air fight is the

greatest form of sport on earth. Every atom of personality, mental and

physical, is conscripted into the task. The brain must be instinctive

with insight into the enemy's moves, and with plans to check and outwit

him. The eye must cover every direction and co-operate with the brain in

perfect judgments of time and distance. Hands, fingers, and feet must be

instantaneous in seizing an opportunity to swoop and fire, swerve and

avoid, retire and return.

In an isolated fight between two single machines the primary aim of each

pilot is to attack by surprise at close quarters. If this be impossible,

he plays for position and tries to get above his opponent. He opens fire

first if he can, as this may disconcert the enemy, but he must be

careful not to waste ammunition at long range. A machine with little

ammunition is at a tremendous disadvantage against a machine with

plenty.

If an isolated British aeroplane sees a formation of Germans crossing to

our side it has no hesitation in sweeping forward to break up the party.

You will remember our old friend Marmaduke, dear lady? Only last week he

attacked ten German machines, chased them back to their own place in the

air, and drove two down.

Even from the purely selfish point of view much depends on the area.

When an airman destroys a Boche over German country he may have no

witnesses, in which case his report is attended by an elusive shadow of

polite doubt. But if the deed be done near the trenches, his success is

seen by plenty of people only too willing to support his claim.

Sometimes a pilot may even force a damaged Boche machine to land among

the British. He then follows his captive down, receives the surrender,

and wonders if he deserves the Military Cross or merely congratulations.

The tactics of an air battle on a larger scale are much more complicated

than those for single combats. A pilot must be prepared at every instant

to change from the offensive to the defensive and back again, to take

lightning decisions, and to extricate himself from one part of the fight

and sweep away to another, if by so doing he can save a friend or

destroy an enemy.

To help you realise some of the experiences of an air battle, my very

dear madam, let us suppose you have changed your sex and surroundings,

and are one of us, flying in a bunch over the back of the German front,

seeking whom we may devour.

A moment ago the sky was clear of everything but those dainty

cloud-banks to the east. Very suddenly a party of enemies appear out of

nowhere, and we rush to meet them. Like the rest of us, you concentrate

your whole being on the part you must play, and tune yourself up to the

strain attendant on the first shock of encounter. What happens in the

first few seconds often decides the fight.

The opposing forces close up and perfect their order of battle. The

usual German method, during the past few weeks, has been to fly very

high and range the machines one above the other. If the higher craft are

in trouble they dive and join the others. If one of the lower ones be

surrounded those above can swoop down to its help. Our own tactics vary

according to circumstances.

At the start it is a case of follow-my-leader. The flight-commander

selects a Boche and dives straight at him. You follow until you are

within range, then swerve away and around, so as to attack from the

side. Then, with a clear field, you pour in a raking fire by short

bursts--_ta-ta-ta-ta_, _ta-ta-ta-ta-ta_, _ta-ta-ta-ta_, aiming to hit

the Boche pilot and allowing for deflection. From all directions you

hear the rattle of other guns, muffled by the louder noise of the

engine.

A third British machine is under the Boche's tail, and the observer in

it is firing upwards. The three of you draw nearer and nearer to your

prey. The Hun puts his nose down to sweep away; but it is too late. His

petrol tank bursts into flames, and the machine dives steeply, a

streamer of flame running away behind it. The fire spreads to the

fuselage and planes. After rushing earthwards for two or three thousand

feet, the whole aeroplane crumbles up and you see the main portion

falling like a stone. And you (who have shed the skin of sentiment and

calm restraint and become for the duration of the fight a bold bad pilot

with the lust of battle in your blood) are filled with joy.

Meanwhile, your observer's gun has been grinding away behind you,

showing that you in your turn are attacked. You twist the machine round.

Almost instinctively your feet push the rudder-control just sufficiently

to let you aim dead at the nearest enemy. You press the trigger. Two

shots are fired, and--your gun jambs.

You bank and turn sideways, so as to let your observer get in some

shooting while you examine your gun. From the position of the

check-lever you realise that there has been a misfire. Quickly but

calmly--feverish haste might make a temporary stoppage chronic--you lean

over and remedy the fault. Again you press the trigger, and never was

sound more welcome than the _ta-ta-ta-ta-ta_ which shows you are ready

for all comers.

Once more you turn to meet the attacking Germans. As you do so your

observer points to a black-crossed bird which is gliding down after he

has crippled it. But three more are closing round you. Something sings

loudly a yard away. You turn your head and see that a landing wire has

been shot through; and you thank the gods that it was not a flying wire.

The flight-commander and another companion have just arrived to help

you. They dash at a Boche, and evidently some of their shots reach him,

for he also separates himself and glides down. The two other Huns,

finding themselves outnumbered, retire.

All this while the two rear machines have been having a bad time. They

were surrounded by five enemies at the very beginning of the fight. One

of the Boches has since disappeared, but the other four are very much

there.

You sweep round and go to the rescue, accompanied by the

flight-commander and the remaining British machine. Just as you arrive

old X's bus drops forward and down, spinning as it goes. It falls slowly

at first, but seems to gather momentum; the spin becomes wilder and

wilder, the drop faster and faster.

"Poor old X," you think, "how damnable to lose him. Now the poor beggar

won't get the leave he has been talking about for the last two months."

Then your thoughts turn to Y, the observer in the lost machine. You know

his fiancee, you remember he owes you 30 francs from last night's game

of bridge.

You burn to avenge poor X and Y, but all the Huns have dived and are now

too low for pursuit. You recover your place in the formation and the

fight ends as suddenly as it began. One German machine has been

destroyed and two driven down, but--"one of ours has failed to return."

When you return and land, you are not so contented as usual to be back.

There will be two vacant places at dinner, and there is a nasty job to

be done. You will have to write rather a painful letter to Y's fiancee.

Madam, you are now at liberty to give up the temporary role of a bold,

bad pilot and become once more your charming self.

FRANCE, _November_, 1916

VII.

BACK IN BLIGHTY.

... You last heard of my continued existence, I believe, from a field

post-card with but one of the printed lines uncrossed: "I have been

admitted to hospital." When this was sent I had no more expectation of a

return to Blighty than has a rich Bishop of not entering the Kingdom of

Heaven. Nevertheless, here we are again, after a three days' tour along

the Red Cross lines of communication.

Again I have been admitted to hospital. This one is more sumptuous but

less satisfying than the casualty clearing station at Gezaincourt,

whence the card was posted. There, in a small chateau converted into an

R.A.M.C. half-way house, one was not over-anxious to be up and about,

for that would have meant a further dose of war at close quarters. Here,

in a huge military hospital at Westminster, one is very anxious to be up

and about, for that would mean a long-delayed taste of the joys of

London. At Gezaincourt rumbling gunfire punctuated the countryside

stillness; aeroplanes hummed past on their way to the lines, and

engendered gratitude for a respite from encounters with Archie; from the

ward window I could see the star-shells as they streaked up through the

dim night. At Westminster rumbling buses punctuate the back-street

stillness; taxis hum past on their way to the West End, and engender a

longing for renewed acquaintance with the normal world and the normal

devil; from the ward window I can see the towers of Parliament as they

stretch up through the London greyness. For an Englishman just returned

from a foreign battlefield to his own capital it should be an inspiring

view, that of the Home of Government, wherein the Snowdens, Outhwaites,

Ponsonbys, and Sir Vested Interests, talk their hardest for the winning

of the war by one side or the other, I am not sure which. But somehow it

isn't.

I have mentioned the hospital's position, because it will help you on

the day after to-morrow, if the herewith forecast is correct.

You will read this letter, hang me for my customary disturbing

suddenness, and search a time-table. This will tell you that a train

from your part of the country arrives in town at 11.45 A.M.

(_e_), which bracketed letter means Saturdays excepted. By it you will

travel on Tuesday morning. Then, in the afternoon, you will seek a taxi,

but either the drivers will have as fares middle-aged contractors, good

for a fat tip, or they will claim a lack of petrol, lady. You will

therefore fight for place in a bus, which must be left at the corner of

Whitehall and Queen Victoria Street. Next you will walk towards the

river, past Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Talk, and so to Chelsea

Embankment. Turn off by the Tate Gallery, enter the large building on

your right, and you will have arrived. Visiting hours are from two to

four, but as the Sister is one of the best and my very kind friend, you

will not be turned out until five.

But I can hear you ask leading questions. No, I am not badly wounded nor

seriously ill. Neither am I suffering from shell-shock, nor even from

cold feet. A Blighty injury of the cushiest is the spring actuating

this Jack-in-the-Box appearance. Have patience. To-day's inactivity has

bred a pleasant boredom, which I shall work off by writing you a history

of the reasons why I am back from the big war. They include a Hun

aeroplane, a crash, a lobster, and two doctors.

You will remember how, months ago, our machine landed on an abandoned

trench, after being damaged in a scrap? A bullet through the petrol-pipe

having put the carburettor out of action, the engine ceased its revs.,

so that we glided several miles, crossed the then lines at a low height,

and touched earth among the network of last June's lines. We pancaked on

to the far edge of a trench, and the wheels slid backward into the

cavity, causing the lower wings and fuselage to be crumpled and broken.

My left knee, which has always been weak since a far-back accident, was

jerked by contact with the parapet. Next day it seemed none the worse,

so I did not take the accident seriously. During the weeks and months

that followed the knee was painless, but it grew larger and larger for

no noticeable reason, like Alice in Wonderland and the daily cost of

the war.

Then an aggressive lobster, eaten in Amiens one fine evening, revenged

itself by making necessary a visit to the casualty clearing station for

attention to a mildly poisoned tummy. The doctor who examined me noticed

the swollen knee, and looked grave. He pinched, punched, and pressed it,

and finally said: "My dear boy, why the devil didn't you report this?

It's aggravated synovitis, and, if you don't want permanent

water-on-the-knee, you'll have to lie up for at least three weeks. I'll

have you sent to the Base to-morrow."

My ambition did not yet soar beyond a short rest at the Base. Meanwhile

it was pleasant to lie between real sheets and to watch real English

girls making beds, taking temperatures, and looking after the newly

wounded with a blend of tenderness and masterful competence. Their worst

job appeared to be fighting the Somme mud. The casualties from the

trench region were invariably caked with dirt until the nurses had

bathed and cleaned them with comic tact and great success.

It being the day of an advance, scores of cases were sent to Gezaincourt

from the field dressing stations. Each time an ambulance car, loaded

with broken and nerve-shattered men, stopped by the hospital entrance, a

young donkey brayed joyously from a field facing the doorway, as if to

shout "Never say die!" Most of the casualties echoed the sentiment, for

they seemed full of beans and congratulated themselves and each other on

their luck in getting Blighty ones.

But it was otherwise with the cases of shell-shock. I can imagine no

more wretched state of mind than that of a man whose nerves have just

been unbalanced by close shaves from gun fire. There was in the same

lysol-scented ward as myself a New Zealander in this condition. While he

talked with a friend a shell had burst within a few yards of the pair,

wounding him in the thigh and sweeping off the friend's head. He lost

much blood and became a mental wreck. All day and all night he tossed

about in his bed, miserably sleepless and acutely on edge, or lay in a

vacant and despondent quiet. Nothing interested him, nothing comforted

him--not even a promise from the doctor of a long rest in England.

There were also many victims of the prevailing epidemics of trench-fever

and rabid influenza. The clearing station was thus hard put to it to

make room for all newcomers by means of evacuation. For our batch this

happened next evening. A long train drew up on the single-line railway

near the hospital, the stretcher cases were borne to special Pullman

cars, and the walking cases followed, each docketed in his button-hole

by a card descriptive of wound or ailment.

You can have no idea of the comfort of a modern R.A.M.C. train as used

at the Front. During the first few months of war, when the small amount

of available rolling stock was worth its weight in man-power, the

general travel accommodation for the wounded was the French railway

truck, with straw strewn over the floor. In these the suffering sick

were jolted, jerked, and halted for hours at a time, while the scorching

sun danced through the van's open sides and the mosquito-flies bit their

damnedest. But nowadays one travels in luxury and sleeping-berths, with

ever-ready nurses eager to wait upon every whim.

A sling-armed Canadian was one of the party of four in our compartment.

Great was his joy when a conjuring trick of coincidence revealed that

the jolly sister who came to ask what we would like to drink proved to

be not only a Canadian, but actually from his own little township in

Manitoba. While they discussed mutual friends the rest of us felt highly

disappointed that we also were not from the township. As evidence that

they both were of the right stuff, neither of them platitudinised: "It's

a small world, isn't it?"

The smooth-running train sped northward from the Somme battlefield, and

we betted on each man's chances of being sent to Blighty. Before

settling down to sleep, we likewise had a sweepstake on the Base of

destination, for not until arrival were we told whether it was Rouen,

Boulogne, or Etaples. I drew Boulogne and won, as we discovered on being

awoken at early dawn by a nurse, who arrived with tea, a cheery

"Morning, boys," and bread-and-butter thin as ever was poised between

your slim fingers.

The wounded and shell-shocked New Zealander had pegged out during the

journey. May the gods rest his troubled spirit!

From Boulogne station a fleet of ambulance cars distributed the train's

freight of casualties among the various general hospitals. At three of

the starry morning I found myself inside a large one-time hotel on the

sea front, being introduced to a bed by a deft-handed nurse of unusual

beauty.

The Blighty hopes of our party were realised or disappointed at midday,

when the surgeon-in-charge came to decide which of the new arrivals were

to be forwarded across Channel, and which were to be patched up in

France. The world stands still the moment before the Ram Corps major,

his examination concluded, delivers the blessed verdict: "Get him off by

this afternoon's boat, sister." Or an unwelcome reassurance: "We'll soon

get you right here."

For my part I had not the least expectation of Blighty until the surgeon

showed signs of prolonged dissatisfaction with the swollen knee. Like

the doctor at Gezaincourt, he pinched, punched, and pressed it, asked

for its history, and finally pronounced: "I'm afraid it'll have to be

rested for about six weeks." Then, after a pause: "Sorry we haven't room

to keep you here for so long. You'll be fixed up on the other side."

Hastily I remarked that I should be sorry indeed to take up valuable

space at a Base hospital. The major's departure from the ward was the

signal for a demonstration by the Blighty squad. Pillows and

congratulations were thrown about, war-dances were performed on game

legs, the sister was bombarded with inquiries about the next boat.

All places on the afternoon boat having been booked, we were obliged to

wait until the morning. What a day! The last of a long period amid the

myriad ennuies of active service, the herald of a long spell amid the

pleasant things of England. Impatience for the morrow was kept bottled

with difficulty; every now and then the cork flew out, resulting in a

wild rag among those able to run, walk, or hop. When the 'Times' was

delivered, it seemed quite a minor matter that the Gazette should

notify me that I had been presented with another pip.

After dinner some one remarked that "she" would soon come on duty, and

there was an air of conscious expectancy among the veterans of the ward.

"She," the V.A.D. girl who had received us when we were deposited at the

hospital in the small hours of the morning, was--and is--an efficient

nurse, a good comrade, a beautiful woman, and the friend of every

casualty lucky enough to have been in her charge. For a wounded officer

staled by the brutalities of trench life there could be no better mental

tonic than the ministrations and charm of Our Lady of X Ward. I cannot

guess the number and variety of proposals made to her by patients of a

week's or a month's standing, but both must be large. She is also the

possessor of this admirable and remarkable record. For two years she has

been nursing--really nursing--in France, and yet, though she belongs to

a well-known family, her photograph has never appeared in the

illustrated papers that boom war-work patriots. On this particular

evening, in the intervals of handing round medicines and cheerfulness,

our comrade the night nurse made toffee for us over a gas-burner, a

grey-haired colonel and a baby subaltern taking turns to stir the

saucepan.

The next change of scene was to the quays of Boulogne. Ambulance cars

from the several hospitals lined up before a ship side-marked by giant

Red Crosses. The stretcher casualties were carried up the gangway, down

the stairs, and into the boat's wards below. The remainder were made

comfortable on deck. Distribution of life-saving contraptions, business

with medical cards, gleeful hoots from the funnel, chug-chug from the

paddles, and hey for Blighty! across a smooth lake of a sea. Yarns of

attack and bombardment were interrupted by the pleasurable discovery

that Dover's cliffs were still white.

We seemed an unkempt crowd indeed by contrast with dwellers on this side

of the Channel. The ragged raiment of men pipped during a Somme advance

did not harmonise with plush first-class compartments of the Chatham and

Dover railway. Every uniform in our carriage, except mine and another,

was muddied and bloodied, so that I felt almost ashamed of the

comparative cleanliness allowed by life in an R.F.C. camp, miles behind

the lines. The subaltern opposite, however, was immaculate as the

fashion-plate of a Sackville Street tailor. Yet, we thought, he must

have seen some tough times, for he knew all about each phase of the

Somme operations. Beaumont Hamel? He explained exactly how the

Blankshires and Dashshires, behind a dense barrage, converged up the

high ground fronting the stronghold. Stuff Redoubt? He gave us a

complete account of its capture, loss, and recapture. But this seasoned

warrior quietened after the visit of an official who listed us with

particulars of wounds, units, and service. His service overseas? Five

months in the Claims Department at Amiens. Wound or sickness? Scabies.

Charing Cross, gateway of the beloved city! The solid old clock looked

down benignly as if to say: "I am the first landmark of your own London

to greet you. Pass along through that archway and greet the others."

But we could not pass along. The medical watchdogs and mesdemoiselles

the ambulance-drivers saw to that. We were detailed to cars and

forwarded to the various destinations, some to the provinces by way of

another station, some to suburban hospitals, some to London proper. I

was one of the lucky last-named and soon found myself settled in

Westminster. Here the injured knee was again pinched, punched, and

pressed, after which the ward surgeon told me I should probably stay in

bed for a month. For exercise I shall be permitted to walk along the

passage each morning to the department where they dispense massage and

ionisation.

Meanwhile, it is midday and flying weather. Over there a formation of A

flight, Umpty Squadron, will perhaps be droning back from a hundred-mile

reconnaissance. V., my mad friend and sane pilot and flight-commander,

leads it; and in my place, alas! Charlie-the-good-guide is making notes

from the observer's cockpit. The Tripehound and others of the jolly

company man the rear buses, which number four or five, according to

whether the wicked bandit Missing has kidnapped some member of the

family. And here loaf I, uncertain whether I am glad or sorry to be out

of it. The devil of it is that, unlike most of my bed-neighbours, I feel

enormously fit and am anxious to shake hands with life and London. Time

hangs heavy and long, so bring all you can in the way of the latest

books, the latest scandals, and your latest enthusiasms among the modern

poets. Above all, bring yourself.

LONDON, _November_, 1916

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK

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| Transcriber's Note: |

| |

| Typographical errors corrected in the text: |

| |

| Page 87 phosphorus changed to phosphorous |

| Page 137 unnecsary changed to unnecessary |

| Page 159 Klaxton changed to Klaxon |

| Page 226 Immelman changed to Immelsmann |

| Page 249 missfire changed to misfire |

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