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Aviation History
1913
1913 - 0494.PDF
f/TiGHT Mr. Amery asked the Secretary for War what provision there was for officers of His Majesty's Forces stationed in Ireland who might wish to learn to fly. Col. Seely ; No difference has hitherto been made between officers stationed in various parts of the Kingdom who desire to join the Royal Flying Corps. If it is found that there are special difficulties in the case of any command the matter shall be rectified. Col. Seely added that the question of establishing a station for a unit of the Flying Corps in Ireland was now under consideration. Mr. Amery also asked the Secretary for War, in view of the exceptional opportunities for flying afforded by India and South Africa, if he would state what provision was being made for the training in airmanship of I In Majesty's Forces in those countries ; MAY IO, 1913. whether in view of the importance of securing rapid transmission of information to Government headquarters in case of native risings, he would state what provision was being made for the supply of aero planes and for securing facilities for training in airmanship for his Majesty's Forces stationed in British East Africa, Nigeria, and other Crown Colonies; and whether he would state how many aeroplanes in the possession of the Imperial military authorities there were at present in India, South Africa, East Africa, West Africa, Egypt, the Sudan, Gibraltar, Malta, Cyprus, Aden, and the West Indies respec tively ; how many garages ; and what staff for construction or repairs. Col. Seely : The Royal Flying Corps has been in existence for only one year, and it has not been found possible, even supposing it to be desirable, to extend it to the places named in these questions. ® ® ® ® AIRMCHAIIR fS. By THE DREAMER. Appreciation. DURING the short time I have been writing these reflec tions, it has been my honour and pleasure to receive several letters of appreciation of what I have written. To be able to bring pleasure to others is, perhaps, one of the greatest gifts one can have in this world. If I have been able in my humble way to give pleasure to my readers, that pleasure has been returned with interest by each and every letter I have received. There is one thing, however, that I never forget, which I want my readers also to try not to forget, and which I want to assure the friends and relatives of those that are gone is not forgotten, and that is that these notes could not be written at all were it not for those, past and present, who have made aviation what it is to-day. The moon is not luminous in itself, but reflects only the light of the sun, and so any credit that is appar ently due to myself, is but the reflection of a greater light from those who, sinking the individual, risk every thing they hold dear, including life itself, for the better ment of a great science. Not a single one of the many valuable lives that have been sacrificed has been lost or wasted. Not lost—because their names are inscribed on a roll of honour that will live for ever. Not wasted— because not a pilot has gone from us but who has left behind a lesson fully appreciated and taken heed of by his brother aviators, and one more hitherto unknown element of danger has been removed. So, phcenix-like, we rise from the ashes of the past, that glorious though solemn past, by which, and by which only, has it been possible to learn the lesson. To those that are gone, all honour. To those still with us, all honour. To those that have given of their best, and mourn a dear son, all honour. " Lives there a man with soul so dead." To anyone possessed of that almost unde- finable something, called a soul, even of sorts, it is almost impossible to believe that any one could possibly watch flying without becoming filled with the glorious magnifi cence of it. It is this glorious magnificence, this all- absorbing poetic sense of power, this ability to, at will, remove oneself entirely outside this world, to be able to pass for the time being to a seeming other existence, to live here, and yet not be here, but able to, as it were, look on oneself and existence, and life and world from a distance, as a separate and exalted being—this, I say, is the glorious and exquisite magnificence of flying. I am afraid there are those who visit our aero dromes to watch the flying to whom it is a wonderful thing to see a man take up a machine and fly in the air. If he should also be able to do a certain amount of work, they are still more pleased, and return 516 home with the determination to come again and be amused. They have been entertained and will come again, but they have no more imagination than a frog, and when they have been a few times they will get sick of it and go to a cricket or football match instead, it is all one to them, so that they are amused. I would ask people if I could to try and see this wonderful thing with other eyes. To try and see some thing below the surface. If, as we are told, there is poetry in motion, what poetry must there be in motion when that motion is the passage through the air of a man-built machine, carrying its human freight, obedient to every wish and whim of its master. Is it possible that any one having seen a flight at sunset, has not felt some wonderful influence at work for the betterment of our natures, some new and wonderful influence that has the power to lift us up out of ourselves. Picture a late evening in the summertime. It has been a hot day, and we have gone through our various duties to the best of our ability, but it has been a trying day, and we are tired, and inclined to be quarrelsome. We have been hot and uncomfortable, and we have wished we were somewhere else, but we are chained to our life, and on this one spot of the world only. The sun is setting in the west, sending out lovely shafts of golden light through the breaks in the banked up, heavy, black clouds, promising a storm for which we should be only too grateful to cool our parched earth. It is almost dark, yet the breeze which we had hoped for has not arrived, and we are sweltering in the aftermath of a sultry day. Suddenly in the distance is heard the familiar whirr of a Gnome engine, and passing under the clouds, the shafts of gold glinting on its white wings as it passes through them, comes a monoplane. Here is some one who is not of us. Reader, I ask you, could you look on this and see only a man flying ? Does not the glorious poetry of the incident seize you in entrancing joy? Are you so blase that even this, surely the most lovely picture ever conceived by artist, does not appeal to something in your nature, something, perhaps, that, unknown to you, has been slumbering, and is now awakened, and, being awakened, has caused you to see the world with new eyes; can you, I say, see all this, and yet see only an ordinary man flying an everyday machine and nothing more ? Then, reader, I am sorry for you— you have no soul, and all our brave pilots that are gone have, so far as you are concerned, died in vain, but, thank Heaven, you are but as a grain of sand on the shore, and although you will never understand, there are those of us that do, and we also know, understand, and honour the feelings of those left to mourn, yet not to regret.
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