The Way of the Air 5
The decision of the committee of the Royal Aero Club in all matters
connected with the test is final, and without appeal.
The certificate itself, which is a handsome, leather-bound affair,
in the shape of a pocket-book, can be obtained by sending along the
certificate of the flights accomplished, together with £1 1_s._, a
photograph of the applicant, particulars as to birth, etc., to the
Secretary, Royal Aero Club, 166 Piccadilly, London, W.
His “ticket” having been obtained, the “quirk”--who, incidentally, is
now a “quirk” no longer--is given a little more practice in flying slow
machines, in order to gain confidence, and is then sent on to his first
war station to learn to fly the faster battle-planes and war machines,
and at the same time is confirmed in his rank.
Even now his flying education is by no means finished. After learning
to fly the faster machines, he will be put through a course of
bomb-dropping. After that a spell of cross-country work will occupy his
time; learning to fly from above by the position of landmarks, roads,
rivers, railways, etc.
After this he learns to steer a course by compass, gets practice in
machine-gun firing and dissembling while in mid-air, and then he is
ready at last for the great adventure across the water. One fine
morning he will set out on a brand-new war-machine for somewhere in the
north of France.
CHAPTER V
THE SPIRIT OF THE AIR
The great war has brought in its trail horrors innumerable, but, as if
in compensation, has brought to light all that is best in our men.
The heroism and courage of the airmen were without precedent, but
none the less admirable. Those stripling pilots of the air that flew
undaunted over shell-fire in all weathers and at all times have opened
up a chapter in our history that nothing can rival.
Who can define the psychology of these young men who can meet death as
an old acquaintance and pass him, mocking, by--who laugh at fear, and
make a jest of danger? Is it that they are without nerve entirely, or
is it rather a pose, a lovable bravado that hides their true feelings?
Is it that they are rather less devoid of fear than their brothers
in the trenches? Hardly. We have known them, you and I, reader, in
the last few years, but under a different guise--as happy, laughing
schoolboys, as young men plunging into life, the “flanneled fools and
muddied oafs” of Britain, and suddenly they have become men, ready
and eager to share a man’s burdens and responsibilities, yet no whit
altered; but deadly in earnest when there is work to be done on the
other side.
Undoubtedly the air does affect a man to a degree, and endows him with
that strange malady, flying temperament, that makes him reckless, and,
to a certain extent, headstrong; occasionally to get out of hand, and
to find rules and discipline chafing and irksome. But then the air
has a call of its own that few can resist; that runs through a man’s
veins like flame, and whispers courage and defiance into his ear, that
invites his sympathy, his love, his esteem. But the air is a fickle
mistress, and woe betide he who dares to slight her or make free at her
expense; he must pay the penalty, and that penalty is--death.
Every known sensation is experienced in flying: joy--the joy of youth
astride the dull old world, accomplishing what previous generations
dared not to attempt; excitement, to feel the cool air brushing one’s
cheek, and whistling past one’s ears; fear, danger, hope and despair;
all are crowded into this one brief hour of life.
Day after day, in all kinds of weather, the airman must go up, for the
battle seldom slackens and never pauses on the earth beneath. One day
reconnoitering--that is, making a long flight over the enemy’s country
under a continual bombardment from the Hun anti-aircraft guns, noting
any fresh movements of enemy troops, gun emplacements, headquarters,
supply depots, ammunition columns, or any unusual activity on his roads
or railways. Another day taking part in a bombing raid on some distant
military center, or perhaps out fighting enemy aircraft; but always
taking his life in his hands, and never knowing each morning as he sets
out whether he will return again.
It is the proud and honest boast of the British Air Services that they
never advertise; and what we lack in that respect, our enemy make up
for. We have our Immelmanns and our Boelkes, but their identities are
hidden under the simple pseudonyms of Lieutenant X---- and Lieutenant
Y----. They perform their daring feats, not for their own vainglory,
not for the sake of decorations, but from keen sense of duty, love of
their work, and for the further honor of the famous corps of which they
are units. It is this policy of eternal silence that has so completely
shattered the moral of the German airmen in Flanders, and driven them
almost entirely from the air.
In many ways the air is own cousin to the sea, for there is a chivalry
of the sea which has been a tradition for tens of centuries: a
freemasonry of good feeling and sportsmanship among those who have
their business in great waters.
The chivalry of the air is none the less real because it has no
traditions to fall back upon. Nature herself has made the man of the
sea and the man of the air sportsmen alike; has given them an instinct
for “doing the right thing.”
The Air Service has, in addition, a quality exclusively its own; I
mean its youth. It is just like a healthy schoolboy, intensely alive,
active, happy-go-lucky, yet ingenious enough where matters of technic
are concerned, and always eager to be out for adventure.
But it is just these tremendous dangers which are the breath of life to
this splendid schoolboy (even in age he is often little more). There
is a sporting touch in this ceaseless duel with fate, in this juggling
with life and death. That touch is transmitted to the less figurative
duels when there is a tussle in mid-air with a flying Hun, when it is
his life or yours.
On second thought I withdraw that word Hun in relation to the German
airman; I continue to apply it with all the vehemence I can muster to
the crews of a baby-killer Zeppelin, but one’s adversary in Albatross
or Halberstadt is an adversary worthy of the name. Here, almost alone
in all phases of modern warfare, remains the personal touch. Up there
in the awful solitude of space two human beings pit their brains and
courage one against the other, with death each moment before the eyes
of both. It is a strange turn of things that the latest development of
modern science has brought about a revival of medieval chivalry, the
single combat.
I have mentioned the freemasonry of the air. Any airman who has seen
any fighting could give you countless instances of it. Your German
airman treats you as an honorable foe, and you treat him as one. That
constantly recurring phrase, “An aeroplane was forced to descend and
its two occupants taken prisoners,” means that those prisoners, whether
Germans or English, were treated honorably, even ceremoniously. A
wounded aviator landing in the enemy’s lines is lifted from his seat
with every care, and is almost invariably saluted. I have known on
five separate occasions airmen fly over the enemy simply to drop the
personal belongings and effects of the men whom, in a terrific mid-air
struggle, they have succeeded in sending crashing to earth and death.
German airmen have done the same, and seen to it that his comrades
should receive the cigarette case or bundle of personal papers of a
fallen foe.
One of the most dramatic incidents of this drab war was the dropping
of a wreath from an English aeroplane in honor of the dead hero of the
German Air Service, Immelmann.
An airman likes an opponent worthy of his mettle; he likes even chances
and the prospect of a good fight. I shall always remember the disgust
at a certain war aerodrome recently. The approach of a Zepp had been
reported, and all was excitement. Aeroplanes were dragged from their
hangars, and off they went at lightning speed. Soon the return. Disgust
was on every one’s face. “We thought there was going to be some real
fun,” was the general grumble. “Zepp? Not a bit of it; only a sausage
balloon.”
Danger the airman shares with the soldier in the trenches. Many a tale
could be told of the awful deaths, of roasting when the machine catches
fire, of hours of agony with a shattered leg or arm when, at all costs,
the machine must be piloted to safety and a life (that of the observer)
saved. But such things are the lot of most men who fight. It is the
cheery sportsmanship, the good fellowship, the national instinct to
fight and behave like a gentleman, that have become characteristics of
airmen of all nations, which I have tried to emphasize.
Such is “playing the game” in the Air Service. Often it is a cheery
life, but it is always a trying one.
CHAPTER VI
SEAPLANES
The seaplane, as its name implies, is used solely for flying over
tracts of water. It is identical in shape with the aeroplane, but with
minor variations. It is considerably heavier than the aeroplane in
weight, and is more of the formation of the boat, though following the
same “streamline” principles as the aeroplane.
The engine-power varies from 70 to 150 horse-power, but the machine
is much slower in transit and in climbing even than several of the
lesser horse-power land machines. The fuselage, or body, is like
a flat-bottomed boat, in the bows of which are the engine and the
propeller. Immediately in the rear of the engine are the pilot’s and
observer’s seats, side by side, and not, as in the aeroplane, the one
behind the other. Again, in place of the wheels of the landing chassis
of the aeroplane are two boat-shaped floats; these are hollow in
formation, very heavy, and extremely fragile. When landing the seaplane
on a rough sea, the part of the machine most liable to break up is the
float.
With regard to the actual flying of the craft, where a mere touch of
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