Both this gallant airman and his companion were most careful to do no harm to private or public buildings in the towns through which they flew. In fact, they could have destroyed another Zeppelin shed had they not thought it wrong to run the risk of injuring innocent women and children in the misty weather which then prevailed.
I cannot help contrasting this behaviour with the conduct of German airmen, who killed or mutilated with their bombs numbers of women and children in open towns like Paris and Ostend.
Some of the most gallant deeds of this great war have been done some way from the fields of battle, and in what may be called cold blood. A fine story of Irish heroism was told by a trooper of the Irish Dragoons:
“There was a man of ours who carried a chum to a farmhouse under fire, and when the retreat came got left behind. A German patrol called and found them. There were only the two, one wounded, against a dozen Uhlans. Behind a barrier of furniture they kept the Germans at bay. At last the Germans made off and brought a machine gun to the house and threatened to destroy it.
“The two soldiers were not unmindful of the kindness shown them by the owners of the farm, and rather than bring loss on them or the village they made a rush out with some mad idea of taking the gun. Just over the threshold of the door they both fell dead.”
Among the most moving and beautiful stories of this great struggle is one that also has as hero a nameless Irish private. What happened was perfectly told by a wounded corporal of the West Yorkshire Regiment:
“The regiment was approaching a little village near Rheims. We went on through the long narrow street, and just as we were in sight of the end the figure of a man dashed out from a farmhouse on the right. Immediately the rifles began to crack in front, and the poor chap fell dead before he reached us.
“We learned that he had been captured the previous day by a marauding party of German cavalry, and had been held a prisoner at the farm where the Germans were in ambush for us. He tumbled to their game, and though he knew that if he made the slightest sound they would kill him, he decided to make a dash to warn us of what was in store.
“He had more than a dozen bullets in him, and there was not the slightest hope for him, so we carried him into a house until the fight was over. We buried him the next day with military honours, but as his identification disc and everything else was missing, we could only put over his grave the tribute that was paid to a greater: ‘He saved others; himself he could not save.’”