Читать книгу The Way of the Air: A Description of Modern Aviation - Edgar Charles Middleton - Страница 8

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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.