That ‘T.E. couldn’t resist a race’ seems to me a misinterpretation of motive. He is not of a competitive nature, but dislikes other people’s dust. And he never took the machine out on a dry road without letting it out, all out, at least once for every hundred miles that he rode. Just to keep the two of them from getting sluggish.
In August 1925, through the intercession of a highly-placed friend with the Prime Minister, he was re-transferred to the R.A.F., his ambition for the last two years, and in December 1926 was sent overseas to the Indian frontier, where he now is. He wrote to me some months ago:
‘If old P— asks you again why I am in the R.A.F., tell him that it is simply because I like the R.A.F. The being cared for, the rails of conduct, the impossibility of doing irregular things, are easements. The companionship of “shop,” the enforced routine of simple labour, the occasional leisures are actively pleasant. While my health lasts I’ll keep in it. I did not like the Army much, but the R.A.F. is as different from the Army as the air is from the earth. In the Army the person is at a discount: the combined movement, the body of men, is the ideal. In the R.A.F. there are no combined movements: its drill is a joke except when some selected squad is specially trained for a tattoo or a ceremony. The airman is brought up to despise the army. “Soldier” is our chief insult and word of derision.’
I hope that these quotations will not be considered tactless; but will take the risk. He wrote to me a year or two ago in the same strain:
‘You were in the regular infantry, so the chances are that you have rather a cock-eyed view of the life we lead in the R.A.F. Our ideal is the skilled mechanic at his bench or machine. Our job is the conquest of the air, our element. That’s a more than large enough effort to comprehend all our intelligence. We grudge every routine duty, such as are invented for soldiers to keep them out of mischief, and perform our parades deliberately ill, lest we lose our edges and become degraded into parts of a machine. In the Army the men belong to the machine. In the R.A.F. the machines, upon earth, belong to the men; as in the air they belong to the officers. So the men have the more of them. Drill in the Air Force is punitive, in the eyes of men and officers alike. Whenever the public see a detachment of airmen on a “B-S” (ceremonial) parade, they should realize that these, their very expensive servants, are being temporarily misemployed—as though Cabinet ministers should hump coal in office-hours.’
Sergeant Pugh, of his Flight at Cranwell, in Lincolnshire, has written me a letter about Shaw in the R.A.F., which I print as it stands:
‘ARRIVAL AT CRANWELL
‘As far as my mind takes me back, it was in the first week of Sept. 1925 that he came to the camp, and although many had heard of his “carryings-on”, few had seen him. He was met with all kinds of looks (suspicious): was he finding out who’s who and what’s what of the R.A.F.? Is that why he was discharged previously? (amazement): we had heard he was a man with a terrible scowl of harshness, etc., etc. (wrath): he is some ex-service guy pulling our legs; and yet! you know his carriage, slight, mild, unassuming, why did he set the camp alive in excitement just to see him?
FIRST FATIGUE. (I was taking names.)
‘Perhaps a dozen men were to have a “go” at cleaning the camp fire-buckets. Taking names (you know why) he happened to be the first on the roll and, asked his name, promptly sprang to attention, giving his particulars. The second and third names were taken before the S.M. snapped at those two for not doing likewise and commented on the fact that S. had shown them his military training, by saying “take an example of Shaw, you are letting yourselves down” and possibly stronger words were used. (His start at once told.) Having occasion to call and view the work in progress (and between you and me to get a good “close-up” of this man nobody could weigh up), there he was with bathbrick, polishing and rubbing as though his life depended on the result (eagerness personified) and laughing his heart out in some crude joke of his work-mate; an aircraftman of, to say the best, poor intellect who stood by while our friend grinned and worked.