So much for past accomplishment. The future of war flying, like all futures, is problematical; but having regard to our present unquestionable superiority in the air, and to the blend of sane imagination and practical ability now noticeable as an asset of the flying services directorate, one can hazard the statement that in the extended aerial war which is coming the R.F.C. and R.N.A.S. will nearly satisfy the most exacting of critics.
The tendency is toward a rapid development of aircraft even more startling than that of the past. Some of the modern scout machines have a level speed of 130-150 miles an hour, and can climb more than 1000 feet a minute until an abnormal height is reached. It is certain that within a year later machines will travel 160, 180, and 200 miles an hour level. Quantity as well as quality is on the up-grade, so that the power to strike hard and far will increase enormously, helped by heavier armament, highly destructive bombs, and more accurate bomb-sights.
And, above all, we shall see a great extension of ground attacks by air cavalry. The production of a machine specially adapted for this purpose, armoured underneath, perhaps, and carrying guns that fire downward through the fuselage, is worth the careful attention of aeroplane designers. It is probable that with the reappearance of extended military movement on the western front, as must happen sooner or later, continuous guerilla tactics by hundreds of low-flying aeroplanes may well turn an orderly retirement into a disorderly rout.
When and if a push of pushes really breaks the German line, I fully expect that we of the air service will lead the armies of pursuit and make ourselves a pluperfect nuisance to the armies of retreat. Temporary second lieutenants may yet be given the chance to drive a Boche general or two into the woods, or even—who can limit the freaks of Providence?—plug down shots at the Limelight Kaiser himself, as he tours behind the front in his favourite rôle of Bombastes Furioso.
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.