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Aviation History
1916
1916 - 1169.PDF
DECEMBER 28, 1916. I/JIOHTJ WHEN the history of the war comes to be written— I have an idea I've seen that phrase before—I hope somebody, or a syndicate of somebodies, one from each of the numerous flying bases in France, Egypt, Salonica and the various other places where bases are established, will write the history of the war from the flying-man's point of view, for I am sure there is material there for one—or half a dozen—of the most interesting and instructive books ever written for those concerned with the riding of the wind. The history of the war will, as a matter of course, be compiled in the usual way, and the deeds of our heroes of the air will be included; but it is poor stuff, that which is written by the professional history writer. I have some of those history books on my bookshelf, they are on the topmost shelf, and I do not possess a pair of library steps, by which you shall guess that the dust lies thick upon their upper edges. I can see some of them as I write. There are among others The Thirty Years' War, The Siege of Paris and With the Flag to Pretoria, all good enough books in their way, but of little interest to the man who was not a soldier either by birth or inclination. They miss the human note, these weighty tomes, and they miss the humorous. Full enough they are, what I remember of them, of the inhuman. If you want to read of regiments becoming ambushed and swept away, if you want to know about men laden like pack-mules marching at the dead of night over strange country led by a guide in the employ of the enemy, with the inevitable result, if you have a taste for knowing of the thousand and one manners in which men can be swept away to eternity like chaff before the wind, I commend you to my top shelf. The Thirty Years' War shall find you reading for a year, with another added in making up your tables of killed and wounded if you are fond of that sort of thing. Or you shall read of Paris during, if I remember rightly, the five months or so, from September to January, with the iron hand of Germany gripping it tightly ; of the nine days of bombardment, during which less damage was done than on any one of our little bombing raids. Spion Cop may interest you if you have the right appetite, but not one word of humour shall you find between the covers of the books on that high shelf. The book that I want is in the writing by men who have an eye for life, and not for death. Just how our boys live out there, and the schemes they get up to in their endeavours to make themselves comfortable under trying circumstances. The story of their little concerts and theatrical efforts, the story of all that which has happened to them, and the stories, those wonderful stories, of all that which never happened, but which are jolly good yarns nevertheless, although born of the imagination. 114 I wish it were my lot to write that book; I have enough yarns in stock at the present moment to half till it. These yarns get told around at times, but only the very few ever hear them. Here is one, as a sample, showing what strange things even the bravest of the brave will do under stress of circum stances, and when caught unawares. I will give it in sequence as told to me by the pilot, whom I will call Mr. A. :—It was in the early days, and he and an observer had to take a machine from to for delivery. Darkness found them at , where they decided to stay the night. Here Mr. A. will take the helm. " We were mooching about with nothing to do, when the doctor asked if we would like to go up and see his hospital. This was early in the war, and I had never heard a gun fire or a bomb drop, having only just got out there. I was sitting on the side of a cot talking to one of the fellows, when, crash ! Of course the Germans had selected that very place and night for a firework display. I rushed out to find all lights extinguished except one large electric light in the yard, for which nobody could find the switch. I got a pair of steps with the idea of taking the lamp out. Halfway up, bang! crash ! I fell off, I don't mind telling you. Up again. I would not be frightened like that. Near the top I missed a step. 1 missed it several times. Bang! (much nearer). I would NOT funk, I would go slowly. I went slowly and missed the step again, for the simple reason that it was not there. I got the lamp out and got down. Crash! not far from where I was standing. Mind, I'd never heard anything like it before. That last one did it, I was in a blue funk. My observer, Mr. B.( had been through the mill before. I could not see him in the dark, but I guessed he was calmly looking on somewhere. There was a locomotive standing on a siding. I gave a look round lest I should be seen. A bang not 50 yards away knocked what little pluck I had left in me to smithereens. I dived head first under that locomotive whack on top of somebody else. ' Helloa, A.,' said a voice I knew, ' you here ? ' It was my observer." Now, are not the thousands and thousands of yarns of that description that are going about worth writing up, together with life as it is lived out there ? I think they are. Just think of the " mud stories " that are being told.' The one that follows is evidently rather "stretched," but it is illustrative. A man home on leave was asked whether it was true about the amount of mud. " One day," he replied, " I dropped my cap, which disappeared in the mud. I was walking about looking for it when a voice cried, 'Hi, look out, you're standing on my hand.' ' What the devil do you want to lie about down there for ? ' I asked. ' Lie about be ,' was the reply, ' I'm driving a transport.' "
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