The risks are the same for all airmen at the front. Every airman that fares forth over the German lines takes his life in his hand. The authorities who decide these things hold—and rightly hold, in my opinion—that the “writing-up” of the feats of individuals on duty might introduce into the Corps a spirit of rivalry which is not consonant with our high military traditions, and would also be unfair to those airmen who weekly fly hundreds of miles in accomplishment of difficult and dangerous missions, but who, by chance or by their own skill and judgment, avoid adventures that savour of the sensational. Therefore, “no names, no courts-martial.”
This rule has often rankled in my journalistic heart, for the Royal Flying Corps accomplishes almost daily feats which appeal to all that is daring and adventurous in Englishmen. Let us hope that after the war the war diary of the Royal Flying Corps will be made public. It should prove as inspiring a record of gallantry as the story of the Scott Expedition.
Let me remind you, as a foretaste of the deeds of epic heroism this diary contains, of the achievements of three young men of the Royal Flying Corps, all of whom have made the sacrifice of their lives—Rhodes-Moorhouse, V.C., Mapplebeck, D.S.O., and Aidan Liddell, V.C.
England was thrilled to the depths when it read the plain, unvarnished tale told by “Eyewitness” of the last flight and death of Rhodes-Moorhouse. You remember how, landing at the flying-ground with a mortal wound, he had but one thought, not of himself, but of his mission—to make his report before they bore him away to die. Those who were present when he returned from his last flight repeated to me the grim jest he made about the horrifying wound he had received. Though his body was hurt beyond repair, the courage in that brave soul burned so brightly that it gave him strength to fulfil his duty to the last. And so his epitaph ran: “He made his report.”
I have heard nothing more extraordinary or more gallant than the Odyssey of young Lieutenant Mapplebeck, who, after emerging safe and sound from one of the most adventurous episodes of the war, met his death in a banal flying accident in England. Young Mapplebeck’s adventure began when, in the course of a reconnaissance over the enemy lines, he was shot down over a town in German occupation. He managed to land in a field, and, finding to his amazement that his enforced descent had not been observed, promptly concealed himself.
Mapplebeck spoke French, Flemish, and German, with equal fluency, and this gift of tongues, coupled with a nice mixture of resourcefulness and audacity, helped him to a suit of civilian clothes, in which he proceeded to take a look round the town. The walls were covered with placards announcing that his abandoned aeroplane had been found, and threatening dire reprisals against whomsoever should contumaciously venture to harbour him. This did not deter the adventurous young man from mixing freely with the German soldiers. He drank beer with them, and listened—with what silent amusement may be divined—to their bewildered speculations as to the whereabouts of the vanished Engländer.
He actually managed to change some money, bringing home in proof of his feat German banknotes stamped with that historic phrase, “Gott strafe England!” and probably circulated, in the territories occupied by Germany, with a view to producing a “moral effect” on the unfortunate civilian population.
As the result of an accident the hero of my tale had one foot shorter than the other. But he did not allow this physical deformity to interfere with his subsequent course of action. He concluded his extraordinary adventure by walking right through the German lines, through Belgium into Holland, doing an average of thirty miles on foot a day. To prevent his passage being traced, he took the precaution of changing his nationality, speech, and story, with everybody with whom he came in contact. He, too, “made his report.” Though it was late by several weeks, it was a good deal more ample and informative than had ever been anticipated when he set out. Within a month of his adventure, Mapplebeck was flying at the front again.
Captain Aidan Liddell died in hospital in August, after a magnificent feat of endurance which was described to me by his comrades of the R.F.C. at the time. While he was reconnoitring over the German lines in Belgium one day at the beginning of August, his leg was almost severed by a German shell which burst right above his machine. Liddell, who was driving, immediately lost consciousness, and the machine, with pilot and observer, dived nose foremost towards the earth.
The aeroplane was flying at a very great height when the accident happened. It turned right over on itself as it hurtled down, but, owing to its great altitude from the ground, had time to right itself. On being wounded, Liddell had collapsed over the steering-wheel, with his arms round the pillar. This position kept him in his seat when the machine turned turtle. The observer was jammed hard between the machine-gun and the struts, and was thus likewise prevented from falling out.