When you have travelled far; when you think of Botha and his Boers fighting for England; when you have found justice and fair play and open markets under the British flag; when you compare the vociferations of von Tirpitz glorying in the torpedoing of a Lusitania with the quiet manner of Sir John Jellicoe, you need only a little spark of conscience to prefer the way that the British have used their sea-power to the way that the men who send out Zeppelins to war on women and children would use that power if they had it.
XXXIV
MANY PICTURES
The aviation grounds—Arabian Nights’ heroes and their magic carpets—Corps’ spirit—A chivalric custom—Billeting in French houses—Well-disciplined guests—Teaching the art of war—Picturesque tribesmen from India—Their loyalty—British justice—Matins and Angelus—Farming without men—The peasants win—Greeting the French troops—Sir John French on duty—“Inspecting and disinfecting”—The new “shilling a day” men—Albert Edward, the “willing prince”—Care of the wounded.
A single incident, an impression photographic in its swiftness, a chance remark, may be more illuminating than a day’s experiences. One does not need to go to the front for them. Sometimes they come to the gateway of our château. They are pages at random out of a library of overwhelming information.
* * * * *
One of the aviation grounds is not far away. Look skyward at almost any hour of the day and you will see a plane, its propeller a roar or a hum according to its altitude. Sometimes it is circling in practice; again, it is off to the front. At break of day the planes appear; in the gloaming they return to roost.
If an aviator has leave for two or three days in summer he starts in the late afternoon, flashing over that streak of Channel in half an hour and may be at home for dinner without getting any dust on his clothes or having to bother with military red tape at steamer gangways or customs houses.
The airmen are a type, with certain marked characteristics. No nervous man is wanted, and it is time for an aviator to take a rest at the first sign of nerves. They seem shy and diffident, men of the kind given to observation rather than to talking; men accustomed to using their eyes and hands. It is difficult to realise that some quiet young fellow, who is pointed out, has had so many hairbreadth escapes. What tales, worthy of Arabian Nights’ heroes who are borne away on magic carpets, they bring home, relating them as matter-of-factly as if they had broken a shoelace.